Deathstalker Honor (9 page)

“Yes, my Lord, but . . .”

“I’m not a lord anymore. But I’m still a Deathstalker. Now, tell me everything you know or I’ll show you what that means.”

“This is a processing and refining plant, my . . . sir Deathstalker. We take in the raw material, break it down into its basic chemical components, siphon off the desired residues, and store it for later transport off-planet.”

“But what’s the raw material?” Owen said impatiently.

“And what the hell is the end product?”

“The esper drug,” said Trignent reluctantly. “We’re manufacturing the esper drug.”

Owen and Hazel looked at each other. They’d heard about the esper drug during their time with the esper underground, but its composition was supposed to be a secret. Still, if anyone was going to dig up a new drug, it would be Valentine. And setting up production on Virimonde was a good way to keep it secret. Parliament had discovered his presence only by accident. Owen nodded slowly. He was following the trail so far. But none of it explained why the technician should still be so scared. . . .

“What’s the raw material?” said Owen. “What are you refining the esper drug from?”

“Please,” said Trignent. He started to cry. “Please understand. I just follow orders. They’d kill me if I didn’t.”

“I’ll kill you if you don’t answer me! What’s the raw material?”

“The dead,” said Pierre Trignent. “The dead of Virimonde.”

After that it was very quiet for a long moment. Apart from the slow, steady sounds of the rendering machinery, chewing up the latest batch of raw material.

Owen’s eyes squeezed shut, but he could still see what he now recognized as crushing and pulping machinery. He could still see his dead people, stacked like logs, kept frozen so they’d keep until they were needed. His eyes opened again, and the technician took one look at the cold rage building there and began talking very quickly, almost babbling, as though relieved to finally be able to tell somebody.

“The Lord Wolfe came here because there were so many bodies just waiting to be harvested. The esper drug has always been derived from human tissues, just as the esp-blockers come from dead esper brain tissues, but you need a lot of . . . the basic material to produce just a small amount of the end product. That’s why the esper drug has always been so rare, so secret. The Lord Wolfe saw an opportunity for mass production here and took advantage of it. He’s processed hundreds of thousands of the dead and produced more of the drug, and in a purer form, than was ever possible before. It’s really quite a simple process once it’s been set up. There’s just me, and a handful of others, to keep an eye on things. Please, I’m nobody. I just did as I was told—”

“You have been overseeing the destruction of my people, to produce a drug so addictive it enslaves all who use it,” said Owen, and his voice was very quiet and very dangerous. “I have seen horror in my time, in many wars, on many battlefields. I have waded through blood and offal, killed till my arms ached, and seen the slaughter of the good and the bad, but never have I encountered anything as cold-blooded as this. The destruction of the dead . . . to produce a poison for the living. Turning Humanity itself into a product. Oh, my people . . . my people . . .”

He turned away, his shoulders heaving, and Hazel went after him. Trignent saw his chance and made a run for the door. And Owen Deathstalker looked around, tears in his eyes, and shot the man in the back. The energy beam punched a hole through Trignent’s back and out his chest, slamming him against the door frame. He clung there for a moment, already dead, and then crumpled slowly to the floor. Owen shook his head slowly back and forth, as though trying to deny what he’d been told. Hazel moved in close beside him, but he waved her away. There wasn’t room in him for anything but horror and sorrow and a rage to strike back at the cause of his pain.

“I shouldn’t have shot him,” he said finally.

“He was as guilty as all the others.”

“Yes. But that wasn’t why I killed him. I did it because I needed to hurt someone. Punish someone. Apart from myself. They were my people. I should have been here to protect them.”

“Oh, let it go, Owen! You were outlawed. Banished. Get over it. Everyone here turned their backs on you.”

“It doesn’t make any difference. They were my responsibility. Oz?”

“Yes, Owen?”

“Shut this obscenity down. All of it. Whatever it takes.”

“Yes, Owen.”

“Now,” said Owen Deathstalker. “Let’s go find Valentine and his cronies. And kill them all.”

 

When the head of Valentine Wolfe’s security people appeared, somewhat nervously, on the viewscreen in the great hall to alert Valentine that, in order, two strangers had somehow appeared in the flyer caves under the Standing, been identified as the legendary Owen Deathstalker and the infamous Hazel d’Ark, who then somehow made their way into the castle proper despite all the security safeguards, and could be, well, anywhere right now, you could have heard a pin drop in the hall once he stopped speaking. In fact, you could have heard the pin while it was still in midair. The Silvestri dropped one of his daggers. The Romanov went very pale. And the Kartakis’s last swallow of wine went down entirely the wrong way and half choked him. Valentine Wolfe ignored the unpleasant sounds, and concentrated on the increasingly unhappy security chief on the viewscreen.

“Are you telling me,” he said almost pleasantly, “that all our extensive and incredibly expensive security measures couldn’t stop two people from breaking in?”

“Well, basically, yes, my Lord. After all, the two people are—”

“I know who they are. That’s why I hired you and your people. And just from looking at you, I can tell there’s more bad news. What is it?”

The security chief looked even more unhappy, if that was possible. “Some outside system has penetrated our computers and is shutting down the processing plant.”

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong, and I don’t think I am,” said Valentine. “But I seem to remember you telling me that such a thing was completely and utterly impossible.”

“Yes, my Lord. Strictly speaking, it is impossible. It shouldn’t be happening.”

“But it is.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You’re fired,” said Valentine. “Collect your severance pay and have your second in command nail your head to a chair before you leave. And no, you don’t get a reference.”

He shut down the viewscreen and leaned back in his chair. The Silvestri picked up the dagger he’d dropped. “You should have had him killed, Wolfe.”

“Don’t be silly, Carlos,” said Valentine absently. “Mercenaries have a very strong union.” He chuckled suddenly, a soft, dangerous sound. “Dear Owen, how did you know to find me here? I covered my trail extremely thoroughly. And yet, here you are, turning up like the proverbial bad penny to ruin my day yet again. You always want to spoil my fun. Still, I hope you appreciate my little act of vengeance. After all, every dramatic gesture really needs an audience to appreciate it.”

The Silvestri pulled his other dagger from a portrait’s eye, deliberately ripping the ancient canvas. “I’m not afraid of the big bad Deathstalker. Let him come. Him and his bitch.”

The Romanov shrugged off the priceless tapestry he’d been wearing like a cloak and frowned thoughtfully. “You might not have enough sense to be scared of the Deathstalker, but I have. He’s a dangerous man. He really did do most of the things he’s supposed to have done. Even the ones that sound impossible. But unlike the rest of you, I had a feeling our security forces weren’t up to stopping or even slowing down a living legend, if he did get wind of our operation. So I made my own arrangements. A little surprise, especially for the Deathstalker. Now, if you’ll excuse me, or even if you won’t, I think I’ll go and unpack it.”

He strode out with his head held high. Valentine applauded his exit languidly, and his scarlet smile widened. “Surprises. I do so love surprises. As it happens, I have one or two prepared for dear Owen too.”

“It had better involve sudden death for our enemies, or we’re all in real trouble,” said the Kartakis, his breathing back under control again. He sounded suddenly very sober, and not at all happy about it. “The Deathstalker is really not going to be pleased when he discovers what we’ve made of his old home.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” said the Silvestri defiantly.

“Yes, well, that’s because you’re a complete bloody head case,” said the Kartakis equably. “In our line of work that’s usually an advantage, but we can’t afford indulgences like insanity right now. We have to think. Come up with a plan. We have men and resources. At least the Deathstalker didn’t bring an army with him to back him up.”

“He doesn’t need an army,” Valentine pointed out. “He’s got Hazel d’Ark.”

“You’re being remarkably calm about all this,” snapped the Kartakis. “Do you know something we don’t, or have you been popping a few extra pills today?”

Valentine smiled easily. “I have a plan. A very unpleasant plan, perfectly tailored to take advantages of Owen’s weaknesses. All you have to do is keep the d’Ark woman occupied. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be about setting my plan in motion. Oh, it’s going to be such fun watching him suffer.”

He got up, bowed elegantly, and left, strolling casually away as though he didn’t have a care in the world. The two aristocrats looked after him.

“That man is not living in the same reality as the rest of us,” said the Silvestri.

The Kartakis snorted. “His plan probably involves cutting his losses, abandoning us, and heading for the far horizon like a bat with its ass on fire. If we’re going to survive this, we’re going to have to do it ourselves. We can stop them. We just have to prepare . . . something . . . to get them off balance. . . .”

“I’m not afraid of the—”

“Will you stop saying that! You’re not fooling anyone!”

“Least of all me,” said Owen Deathstalker.

The two aristocrats spun around and there he was, standing tall and intimidating in the doorway, a sword in his hand like it belonged there and always had. His face was grave, his eyes were cold and unwavering, and he looked every inch of his legend. Hazel d’Ark was at his side, leaning casually on the door frame, a large projectile gun in her hand. Just looking at the two of them, Athos Kartakis felt his blood run cold. The Kartakis had fought so many duels he’d lost count, stared death in the face and spat in the bony eye socket, but he’d never really felt in terror of his life before now. He had a disrupter under his robes, but knew he’d be dead if he even tried to draw it. Unless he could come up with a distraction . . .

“Well, Silvestri,” he said as casually as he could. “You always said you could take the Deathstalker. Feel free to prove it.”

Owen looked at the Silvestri interestedly. The aristocrat shot a glance of betrayal at the Kartakis, and then faced Owen steadily. “You don’t scare me, Deathstalker,” he said loudly. “I’ve heard about your inhuman powers, but they just sound to me like something a coward could hide behind. How about it, Owen? Have you got the guts to fight me as a man, not a monster? Because I can take you man to man, steel to steel, and deep down you know it.”

“Now he really is full of it,” said Hazel. “Say the word, Owen, and I’ll shoot his eyes out.”

“No,” said Owen. “I could use a little entertainment.” He looked at the Kartakis. “Don’t try and interfere. Hazel wouldn’t like it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said the Kartakis quite sincerely. He backed away, keeping both hands in clear sight, thinking hard.

Owen moved slowly forward into the great hall, taking in the various damage that had been done to the fixtures and fittings of what had once been his home. He didn’t look angry or even upset; he looked just a little colder, and even more dangerous. Carlos Silvestri came forward to meet him, moving lightly on the balls of his feet, a slender knife in each hand. In his own way he looked dangerous too, but it was nothing compared to the cold implacability of the Deathstalker, and everyone there knew it. The two men came together to fight in the middle of the hall, and everyone there knew how it was going to end.

The two men circled each other unhurriedly, blades at the ready for any hint of an opening in the other’s defenses. Theoretically, it was a more or less even fight. Knives were excellent for close-in fighting, but had no reach. Unless you threw them and risked disarming yourself. The sword, on the other hand, had plenty of reach, but when it came to infighting, the long blade could be wielded nowhere near as quickly as a knife.

The Silvestri launched the first attack, his right hand moving almost too quickly for the human eye to follow. Owen parried the blade, and then had to jump back as the left hand came swinging in from nowhere with vicious speed and purpose, heading for Owen’s undefended gut. The flashing blade missed Owen’s stomach by a fraction of an inch. Owen brought his sword around in a swift backhand sweep that clipped the Silvestri’s head as he ducked at the last moment. And then they were circling again, calm and collected and deadly cold.

The Silvestri feinted with his right hand, waited until Owen had committed himself to the counter, and then his left hand snapped forward, throwing the knife at Owen’s right eye. His sword was too low to deflect the knife, and both of them knew it. The Silvestri’s eyes widened in triumph. And then Owen’s golden Hadenmen hand came up out of nowhere to intercept the knife’s flight and slap it to one side. The knife chunked harmlessly into the tabletop, and while the Silvestri was caught momentarily off balance, Owen swung his blade with all his strength behind it and sheared cleanly through his opponent’s neck. The head fell to the ground and rolled away across the floor to bump up against the Kartakis’s feet. He made a silent moue of distaste and moved his feet a little away. The headless body stumbled forward a few steps, blood gouting from the neck, and then it crumpled to the floor.