Deathstalker Rebellion by Simon R. Green
Owen reached out to her, and slowly she responded calmly, inch by inch. Her eyes slowly cleared, and he felt the first faint stirrings of her own feelings before a barrier slammed down between them as Hazel cut off the link and dropped out of boost. She almost collapsed as her legs shook, and Owen held her trembling body close to him, until she had enough strength and control to push him away and stand alone. She took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded to him brusquely. He knew that was the only acknowledgment he'd ever get of what they'd felt and shared for a moment. Hazel's hands were almost steady as she wiped the sweat from her face with the same filthy rag she'd used earlier to clean her sword.
"That… was something else," she said finally. "I've never felt anything like it, and I've tried a lot of things in my time. I was so alive… I would have killed you, if you hadn't stopped me. Is the boost always like that?"
"Mostly," said Owen. "You never really ever get used to it. That's why I only ever use it when I have to. Take it easy for a few minutes. It takes time for your body to replace the energy the boost burns up."
"And you've lived with this most of your life?" Hazel looked at Owen with new respect. "You're a harder man than you look, Deathstalker. I was once a plasma baby, addicted to Wampyr Blood. And the boost is stronger than any drug I've ever known. How do you stand it?"
"By using it only when I absolutely have to," said Owen. "And I have had training you haven't. It gets a little easier in time, but not much. I did try to warn you."
"Yeah, you did." Hazel turned away and looked at the dead bodies scattered and piled across the room. The floor was awash with blood, and she shuddered briefly before she was back in control. "You suppose that's all of them?"
"I very much doubt it. This was just the first wave, sent in to check out the situation. Look at the bodies; they're all wearing short-range sensors. Their superiors know exactly what happened here. Which means not only can we forget about having the advantage of surprise, we can also expect a heavily armed, much larger second wave. The experienced fighters. Things are about to get really interesting."
He broke off, and they both looked at the closed door again. Someone was coming. They could feel it. Owen pulled the door open and stepped out into the corridor, his guns at the ready. Behind him, Hazel was quickly reloading her main projectile weapon. Owen moved slowly toward the stairwell. Someone was coming up the stairs, his unhurried footsteps loud and echoing in the quiet. Hazel moved in beside Owen, nudged him to get his attention, and mouthed One man? Owen shrugged, and they both moved forward to look down the stairs. The newcomer took his time climbing the last flight of stairs, and then came to a halt at the last corner, looking impassively up at Owen and Hazel. He was a tall, blocky man, with thick slabs of muscle and a patient, brooding face. His skin was dark, his close-cropped hair was white, and his cold eyes were a startling green. He wore no armor, only a long green kimono of the Chojiro Clan, decorated with stylized dragons, and he carried a long curving sword in each hand.
"Oh, shit," said Owen.
Hazel looked at him. "You know this guy?"
"Unfortunately, yes. This is ex-Investigator Razor. Used to work for Clan Wolfe as their pet killer and intimidator, but given the Wolfes' downfall and that extremely tacky dress he's wearing, I can only assume he's taken up a similar position with Clan Chojiro. If you know any good religions, now would be a really good time to start praying."
"He doesn't appear to have any guns. Why can't we just shoot him from a safe distance?"
"One, he undoubtably has a personal force shield, and two, it might annoy him."
Hazel put away her guns and drew her sword. "So we get our hands dirty."
"Hazel, Investigators are killing machines; the best there is with any weapon you care to name."
"So what do you suggest we do?"
"Anybody else, I'd suggest surrendering, but Investigators don't take prisoners. So we're going to have to fight him. Oh, shit."
"Will you stop saying that! He's just one man. I'll take first crack at him."
"No you won't. I will. You still haven't recovered from boosting."
"I can take him! Really!"
"Excuse me," said the Investigator.
"You be quiet," said Owen. "We'll get to you in a minute. Hazel, I am taking first crack, and that's all there is to it."
"Since when were you in charge of this mission? If I want to take him, I'll take him!"
"Hazel, this is really not a good idea!"
"Excuse me," said the Investigator firmly.
"Shut up!" said Owen and Hazel, glaring at each other.
Investigator Razor shrugged, and surged up the last few stairs impossibly quickly, his two swords swinging in shimmering blurs. Owen and Hazel stood their ground, swords at the ready, and dropped into boost. Blood pounded in their heads, and strength burned in their arms like living flames. Razor hit them like a thunderstorm, his swords like lightning. The air was full of the ring of steel on steel as Owen and Hazel were driven back, step by step, unable to meet the sheer ferocity of his attack.
Razor left the stairwell behind him, moving implacably forward, until Owen and Hazel bumped up against the corridor wall behind them, and there was nowhere else to go. Owen and Hazel separated, and attacked him from two sides at once. Razor held his ground and stood them both off, his blades moving too fast to be seen. Owen ducked at the last moment, and a flashing sword cut a groove right into the wall where his head had been. Hazel lunged forward, hoping to catch Razor momentarily off balance, and then had to hurl herself to one side as a waiting sword leaped out to meet her. She hit the floor rolling and was quickly back on her feet, breathing hard. Blood soaked her left sleeve, but she ignored it, cushioned from pain and shock by the boost.
Owen had already realized they couldn't beat Razor on their own. The Investigator had been trained to the peak of perfection in all the killing arts, and Owen didn't have the expertise to match him. Neither did Hazel. But they did have the boost, and what the Maze had done to them. He reached out to Hazel through the mental link, the undermind they didn't have to understand to use, and their minds touched. They threw themselves at Razor, attacking in perfect synchronization, two swords wielded by one concerted will. Razor fell back a step, and then another, but that was as far as he would go. Even joined, Owen and Hazel could only ever be his equal.
And there was no saying which way the fight might have gone, if Razor's kimono hadn't suddenly burst into roaring flames. He threw himself to one side, rolling on the carpeted floor to try and crush the flames, but they just blazed the brighter. The flames were already licking up around his face as he lurched to his feet and ran off down the corridor, but he never once made a sound. He disappeared around a corner, still burning, and was gone, and all they could hear was the departing echo of his feet.
Owen and Hazel dropped out of the boost and the mental link, and clung to each other as they waited for the reaction to pass. Hazel's cut on her arm had been messy but minor and was already healing itself. It still took a while for the trembling to stop and their breathing to return to something like normal. When they finally let go of each other and looked around, they found themselves facing three women with the same face, smiling sardonically at them from the top of the stairs. Clones, Owen thought immediately. Presumably from the underground. They looked tough enough.
All three women were wearing battered leathers adorned with brightly polished lengths of steel chain, over T-shirts bearing the legend "BORN TO BURN." They looked to be in their mid twenties, but their faces were somehow older, more harshly used. They were all short and stocky, with bare muscular arms, and their long dark hair was full of colorful knotted ribbons. There were splashes of color on their faces, too, perhaps to disguise how pretty they might have been if it weren't for their cold eyes and determined mouths.
"Can we help you?" said Owen politely, not lowering his sword. He had a suspicion he was smelling strongly of sweat, but decided he wouldn't bring it up if they
"The seagulls are flying low tonight," said the woman in the middle, meaningfully.
Owen looked at her and then turned and looked at Hazel, who looked back at him.
"The seagulls are flying low tonight," said the woman in the middle with extra emphasis.
"Sorry," said Owen. "Didn't quite catch that. The seagulls are what?"
"Hold everything," said Hazel. "Seagulls. That was part of the contact phrase, wasn't it?"
"I don't know," said Owen helplessly. "I can't remember. It's gone right out of my head."
"If I don't start hearing an answer sometime soon, I am going to start shooting," said the woman on the left.
"Angels!" Owen said quickly. "Something about angels!"
"Something something angels in the moonlight," said Hazel. "I think."
"Oh, hell," said the woman in the middle. "That's close enough. Be here all day otherwise."
"We're your contact," said the woman on the left. "Sorry it took us a while to get here, but there are security guards all over the place, and we didn't want to kill them all. It would only have attracted attention."
"Fair enough," said Hazel. "What happened to Stevie Blue?"
"We're right here," said the one in the middle.
"Right," said the one on the right.
"All of you?" said Owen.
"Got it in one," said the Stevie Blue on the left. "I'm Stevie One, this is Two and Three. Don't get us mixed up. We're touchy about it."
"I take it you're also espers," said Owen, putting his sword away. Hazel reluctantly sheathed hers, but kept her hands near her guns. Owen gave the Stevie Blues his best diplomatic smile, and vowed silently to do something really unpleasant to the divot who'd got Stevie Blue's personal details wrong. "Nice work on the Investigator. I think he was prepared for everything except a sudden flash fire. Next time, feel free to reduce him to a pile of smoldering ashes. All right, let's get down to business. The program's in the machine and running. All we have to do is keep the hostile natives at bay until it's finished, and then we can leg it. We've got a ship coming back to pick us up. It's a Hadenman ship, but don't let that panic you. They've been very reasonable. So far."
The three Stevie Blues smiled in unison. "Anyone annoys us, they're toast," said Stevie One. "We're pyros. Elfs; Esper Liberation Front. We kick ass."
"And you're the underground's idea of diplomats," said Hazel. "You're going to be very popular at strategy planning sessions. I might just start attending them again."
"The cyberats are running interference to keep this tower isolated," said Stevie Two. "No one from outside will know anything's happened—till it's all over."
Owen frowned. "Computer hackers aren't exactly noted for their reliability."
"You can trust these," said Stevie One. "If only because they know we'll kick their ass if they screw up."
"Right," said Stevie Three.
Owen and Hazel suddenly turned away and looked thoughtfully at the stairs. Hazel drew her guns, and Owen turned back to the clones.
"Visitors are on their way."
"You espers or something?" said Stevie One.
"Something," said Owen. "The Investigator must have put himself out and alerted his people. Any minute now we're going to be hip deep in security guards."
"That's not all," said Stevie Two. "They've got an esp-blocker with them. I can feel my powers fading as it gets closer."
"Wonderful," said Hazel. "Can anything else go wrong?"
"Quite a lot, if we just stand around here waiting for them," said Owen. "May I suggest we get the hell back to the computer room?"
"Too late," said Stevie Three. "They're here."
The three clones drew their swords with the same quick, professional motion and moved to block the head of the stairwell. Owen and Hazel moved in beside them, guns at the ready, just in time to see a single tall figure step into sight at the final corner of the stairs below. He was dressed in jet-black robes and battle armor, looked to be in his early thirties, and was handsome in an unspectacular way. His dark eyes and slight smile were utterly cold, and just standing there with empty hands, he looked calm and confident and very dangerous. Stevie Two whistled softly.
"The Lord High Dram his own bad self. We should be honored. He normally only murders espers from a safe distance."
"He can't just blast and burn the tower this time," said Stevie One. "The Empress would have his nuts if he let the Tax computers be destroyed."
Owen and Hazel looked at each other thoughtfully. "That man is quite definitely dead," said Owen. "I saw the body."
"So who's this?" said Hazel. "A clone? Does anyone at Court know? Or was the one we saw die a clone?"
"Are we supposed to understand any of that?" said Stevie One.
"I'll explain later," said Owen. "Assuming there is a later. "For the moment, just believe me when I say things just got a lot more complicated. The Widowmaker will be a major rallying point for the Empire that we hadn't counted on. We have to get this information back to Rebel HQ."
"I've got a better idea," said Hazel. She raised her projectile weapon and let Dram have it point-blank. The stairwell echoed to the roar of the gun as bullets hammered into the steel walls over and over, but Dram's cold smile never wavered. His holo image shimmered slightly, but was otherwise unaffected.
"You didn't really think someone of my quality would come in person to deal with rebel trash, did you?" said Dram calmly. "The lower floors of this tower are now blocked off and occupied by my troops. There's no way out, and nowhere for you to go. Surrender, and at least you'll live long enough to stand trial."
The Stevie Blues glared at him fiercely. Stevie One spat on the floor. "What makes you think we'd trust treacherous scum like you? You came to us pretending to be a man called Hood, and we trusted you. In return, you betrayed us to the Empire forces. Hundreds of good men and women died that day, just because they happened to be espers or clones. We'll all die before we surrender to you."
"Suit yourselves," said Dram, and his holo image disappeared like a popping soap bubble. The steel stairs shuddered as a large body of armed men came crashing up them. Owen fired his disrupter down the stairwell, but the energy beam ricocheted away from an advancing force shield wall. The espers concentrated and boiling flames filled the stairwell. The force wall just kept coming, pushing back the flames, which were already beginning to die out as the esp-blocker drew nearer. The Stevie Blues looked at Owen and Hazel.
"Don't look at me," said Hazel. "I'm right out of ideas. How much longer does the program have to run, Owen?"
"Can't be long now. A few minutes at most. But we can't afford to be cornered in the computer room with it."
"And we don't have a few minutes, anyway. How about setting up a barricade?"
"Couldn't hurt," said Owen. "See, you can come up with ideas when you have to. Stevies, if you'd care to lend a hand…"
They dashed back into the computer room, grabbed everything blocky that wasn't actually welded in place, and manhandled it out into the corridor. Between them they maneuvered the heavy equipment over to the top of the stairwell, and launched it down the stairs. The way was immediately blocked, and the enemy advance came to a sudden halt. Force shields were excellent at stopping energy blasts or bullets, but they had real problems coping with three hundred pounds of assorted wedged office equipment. The security guards stopped to discuss the matter, while Dram snarled at them acidly from below. Owen and Hazel grinned at each other, and at the esper clones, and then they all spun around at an unexpected sound behind them. It was the bell that signaled the approach of the elevator.
"That shouldn't be possible," said Stevie One. "The cyberats were supposed to have cut off the elevators."
"Never trust anyone who has an unnatural relationship with his softdrive," said Stevie Two.
"Right," said Stevie Three.
They spread out before the elevator door, guns and blades at the ready. It was very quiet in the corridor. Owen's
"We should have known," said Stevie Two. "If anyone could slip past an entire army of guards and just waltz in here, it would have to be you."
"You know how it is," said the newcomer, in a deep, resonant voice. "I do so love to make an entrance. Now, be a dear and introduce me to your friends. Guns make me nervous."
"This aging reprobate is Alexander Storm," said Stevie One. "Longtime rebel, adventurer, and gadfly by appointment. Hero of the rebellion, professional clotheshorse, and a general pain in the ass. We only put up with him because he's so good at making the Empire forces look like pratts."
"Right," said Stevie Three.
"Couldn't have put it better myself," said Alexander Storm. He stepped out of the elevator and clapped Owen firmly on the shoulder. "I'm an old friend and comrade in arms of Jack Random. I've been semiretired for a while, you know how it is, but once I heard Jack was back in the thick of things, I knew I had to join him. It'll be just like old times, fighting shoulder to shoulder again. I haven't seen the dear fellow since Cold Rock. Not one of our better showings, I'm afraid. Still, it's the thought that counts. Anyway, I contacted the underground, pulled a few strings, and here I am. The Stevie Blues will represent the clones and espers, and I shall speak for the other parts of the underground. Delighted to meet you at last, Deathstalker. Word of your exploits has spread far and wide. Everyone in the rebellion is delighted to see you following in your father's footsteps. He'd be so proud of you. But then, Deathstalker has always been an honorable name. Great things are expected of you, my boy. You are the hope of humanity."
Owen became aware of a dangerously quiet, fuming figure at his side. "This is Hazel d'Ark," he said quickly. "I'm sure you've heard of her, too."