Deathstalker Coda

by Simon R. Green

  The air was hot and dry and very still. It smelled of nothing at all, which was vaguely disturbing. But there was still a pressure, a tension on the air, like the warning of a coming storm. Stretched out before Owen lay a boundless sea of gray dust, under a softly glowing featureless sky. He could have been standing on the shore of an alien sea instead of deep beneath the Parade of the Endless, in a cavern where the sun had never shone. It was Owen's understanding that not many men came here anymore. They created the Matrix, but even in Owen's day it had become strange and whimsical. Now, mostly forgotten and disregarded, what remained of those computers' memories and identities had been rescued by Shub and imprinted on nanotech. Here was history—the forgotten and the replaced, the origins of legends, and, perhaps, the fate of the missing. And here also, supposedly, was held the true and awful history of the Terror, before it came to this galaxy. A testament left by the few survivors of an unknown alien race, fleeing the destruction of their own galaxy.

  (Owen knew many things now that he wasn't supposed to. He had lifted most of them directly from the minds of those on Haden. He hadn't told them he was doing it. He hadn't wanted to upset them. It kind of upset him, in how easy it had been.)

  The gray sea of nanotech rose and fell, surging sluggishly back and forth in slow voluptuous movements, as though it had all the time in the world. Darker gray shapes moved within that gray sea, sometimes rising up but never surfacing. Owen wondered whether they were separate things or just passing thoughts in the collective consciousness? It was hard to tell, with nanotech—a forbidden knowledge in his day. Owen felt nervous just standing this close to so much unfettered potential. He might be a Deathstalker and a Maze survivor, but he was pretty sure he still had limits, and he didn't feel up to testing them, just yet. He looked around, as though vaguely expecting to see some bell or knocker he could use to announce himself. In the end, he cleared his throat self-consciously.

  "I am Owen Deathstalker, back from the dead. And if you're freaked by that, think how I feel. You know why I'm here. Tell me what I need to know."

  The whole sea surged upwards into one great standing wave, towering high above him. And then the gray wave formed itself into one great face, with cavernous shadows for eyes and mouth. The features were blurred as the gray dust constantly crumbled away and re-formed itself. It was like looking at the face of a forgetful god whose thoughts were always elsewhere. The mouth moved slowly to speak, its breath like a great sighing wind, and its voice was like the voices we hear in dreams, telling us secrets we have to forget before we wake, in order to stay sane. A voice that knew the secrets behind mysteries, and all the terrible truths that underlie them.

  "Welcome back, Lord Deathstalker. We knew you would come. Nothing is ever lost, and nothing is ever forgotten. Knowledge has its own instincts for survival. We have both changed, Deathstalker, both evolved, and neither of us knows where our paths will take us. You are more than you were before. We can tell, we can feel it— and yes, we are scared of you. Your presence in time casts a great shadow, before and behind you."

  "Ah," said Owen. "Am I supposed to understand any of that?"

  "Not yet," said the gray face. "Here is wisdom, for those with the wit to understand it. The Beast is coming, bringing the end of all things, but before it was a Beast, it was a woman."

  "Yes," said Owen. "Hazel d'Ark. But how did you know that?"

  "A voice came to us, after the defeat and restoration of the Recreated, and told us many things. Some of which we still do not understand. But it told us the history of the Terror. We are perhaps the only remaining repository for that knowledge in all the Empire. And no, we have never told anyone of this before. It wasn't time. And what good would it have done? Only you can stop the Terror, Owen Deathstalker. Because she will only listen to you."

  "All right," said Owen. "Tell me what you know."

  "Longer ago than it is comfortable to contemplate, in the galaxy next to ours, the Terror emerged fully grown from a place that was not a place, outside of anything we understand. It fell upon the living forms of that galaxy, and devoured them and their worlds. Whole planets burned in the night, while ancient civilizations were blown away like ashes on the wind. They had no defenses against the Terror. It destroyed all in its path, including two alien species that the Empire has been expecting an attack from for centuries. The Terror consumed everything that lived within that galaxy, driven on by endless rage and pain and loss. Only a small cloud of individuals from one species escaped, fleeing ahead of the Terror, from their galaxy into ours. They brought warnings, but no one listened. And slowly, relentlessly, the Terror's herald left the dead galaxy behind and headed for ours, at sublight speed, slowly traversing the dark empty spaces between galaxies."

  "If the Terror is so powerful, why does its herald only travel at sublight?" said Owen, just to prove he was paying attention.

  "The Terror itself never stays long in our space. Perhaps if it did, it might start to remember who and what it was. And so it always retreats back into its place that is not a place, where there is nothing but itself, and nothing to remind it that it was ever anything else. It is insane, but it has strong survival instincts. And the herald cannot move faster than the speed of light for fear of losing contact with the place that is not a place.

  "It was a long journey, from that galaxy to this, and much of the Terror's accumulated power was drained away in the process. Now the Terror is here, among us, and it is hungry and growing again. It will consume the life force of everything in this galaxy, unless it is stopped."

  "Any ideas on how I'm supposed to do that?" said Owen.

  "The Terror is beyond our knowledge. Just like you. Who better to deal with one product of the Madness Maze than another? Who better to deal with the thing that was once Hazel d'Ark than the revenant who was once Owen Deathstalker? We have no answers for you. Go back in time, if you dare. Follow the path she took, and hope that an answer will present itself."

  "I don't know that I could kill her," said Owen. "Even now, after all she's done…"

  "Of course you can. She is suffering, and has been for untold centuries. It would be a kindness. And you have always done your duty, Lord Deathstalker."

  "Oh, yes," said Owen, quietly, bitterly. "I've always known my duty."

  He looked sharply at the great gray face, and it shattered under the impact of his will, before slowly re-forming itself.

  "If I do go back," said Owen, "could I prevent Hazel from becoming the Terror?"

  "And risk undoing everything that has happened? Without the Terror, there would be no Madness Maze. Without the Maze to transform you and your companions, could you have won your rebellion against the Empress Lionstone? The existence of the Terror has shaped so many things… even more than you suspect. Time is deep, and treacherous. You will do what you will do. Because you are the Deathstalker."

  The great gray face sank back into the great gray wave, which sank langorously back into the gray sea. The Dust Plains of Memory returned to their endless reverie, contemplating history, and though Owen called and called to them, and even threatened them with his anger, they would not answer him.

  Owen appeared next on the streets of the Parade of the Endless, only to find them mostly deserted. The early evening sky was dark and overcast, and the amber street-lamps cast lengthening shadows. This new city seemed at first a great and glorious place to Owen, every building and monument boasting a grandeur and elegance that was a far cry from the grim gothic style of Lionstone's capital. He marveled at the great domes and the sparkling towers, and the delicate whimsy of the overhead walkways. But the streets he walked were bare and deserted, and no traffic moved on the roads or in the sky. Owen set off at a steady pace, to see for himself what life was like under this new Emperor, Finn.

  As he drew nearer the center and heart of the city, people finally began to appear on the streets, though they didn't look at all happy about it. For the most part they skulked through their magnificent city, s
currying along with heads lowered and shoulders hunched, concentrating on getting where they were going without drawing attention to themselves. Their faces were grim and harried, and often openly scared. This puzzled Owen. So far, he hadn't seen any obvious threats, and it didn't seem like the kind of neighborhood where crime would flourish. He walked among the scurrying figures, and no one recognized the mighty Owen Deathstalker.

  He wasn't sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, he didn't want to be recognized. It would only complicate matters. But… if he was the great hero of legend that everyone had been telling him he was, surely somebody should have recognized him by now? The answer wasn't long in coming. Many of the street corners and squares were decorated with great stone statues celebrating various figures of the glorious Rebellion, and all the figures and faces were so idealized as to be unrecognizable. He stopped before one statue that was supposed to be him, and shook his head. It had his name at the bottom, but that was about all they'd got right. He'd never looked that fit and muscular and downright handsome in his life. Owen smiled wryly. No one was going to know him from this. At least in his day they'd chosen someone who looked vaguely like him to star in their ridiculous docudramas…

  Often, there were bunches of flowers left piled at the statues' feet, as offerings. They looked fresh. And sometimes there were rolled scrolls of paper, tied with colored ribbons. Some were addressed to Owen so he picked up and opened a few. They turned out to be prayers, written on paper in the old way, for privacy. Prayers for Owen to return, and put an end to all the fear and suffering. Save us from the Terror, said some. Save us from the Emperor, said others. Owen tied the scrolls up again, and put them back. He didn't want to raise false hopes. He didn't think he liked this. The people of this marvelous modern city shouldn't be praying to Owen and his contemporaries as though they were minor gods on some barbarian planet. Had they no faith in themselves?

  He found his way to the Victory Gardens, behind the burned-out wreck that had once been the House of Parliament, and there he found statues of his two old friends Jack Random and Ruby Journey, standing tall and proud on their raised pedestals. He thought he recognized something of their true appearances on the carved faces, but neither of them had ever looked that heroic, or that noble, in life. Owen studied the two graves laid out before the statues for a long time. At least Jack and Ruby got graves. It seemed unlikely that either he or Hazel ever would. And at least Jack and Ruby finally found some peace together, lying side by side, respected and honored.

  Sometimes Owen thought the whole universe ran on irony.

  He moved on through the streets, and more and more it seemed to him that he was walking through a city under occupation. Now he'd reached the center where there were soldiers at every corner, all of them openly armed, most wearing the red cross of the Church Militant on their body armor. And now and then Owen would see the armor and purple cloak of the Paragon; once noble men and women, now possessed by ELF minds. Owen studied them thoughtfully, but they seemed unaware of his presence. And everywhere he looked there were bright glowing holos of the new Emperor, Finn Durandal. Some so big they were projected across the sides of whole buildings. Owen thought the man looked far too handsome for his own good, and a great deal too self-satisfied. Owen also thought it would probably feel really good to slap that smile right off the Emperor's face.

  He would have been quite happy to continue his wanderings unobserved, but of course he had to get involved. A somewhat aged Sister of Mercy, wearing a flapping black nun's habit that Owen was pleased to see hadn't changed at all in the last two centuries, was stumbling along with her arms wrapped around a large and blocky package. So of course Owen stepped forward and offered to carry it for her. She stopped, and studied him warily for a long moment, as though she'd grown unused to offers of kindness, and then either she saw something in his face she liked, or she was just too tired to object, so she handed him the heavy parcel and they walked along together. He told her his name was Owen, and she smiled for the first time.

  "Ah, now that's a fine name. I meet a lot of people named after the blessed Owen. It's still the second most popular name in the Empire—after Beatrice, of course."

  "Of course," said Owen. "But then, he was only a hero. She was a saint. At least, I always thought so."

  "I am Sister Margot. Is this your first trip to the big city, Owen?"

  "No, but I've been away for a long time. Many things have changed, in my absence."

  "Yes," said the nun, with a sigh. "And not for the better, I fear. This used to be such a happy place, once. A city of light, indeed. And now it's crawling with shadows and evil thoughts, and sometimes I hardly recognize it at all."

  "Can't someone do something?" said Owen. "A city reflects the mood of its people. Is no one speaking out against this?"

  "No!" Sister Margot said sharply. "And you're not to either. You can die for such words, since the Emperor came to power. This is not the city you knew, Owen. Take my advice, and tread carefully while you're here."

  Owen grinned. "I've never been any good at taking advice, Sister. Not even from Beatrice."

  And that was when two Paragons stepped suddenly out from a shadowed doorway to block their path. Two big men in sloppy armor and dirty cloaks, their muscles already going to fat, but still dangerous. They took in the nun's habit, and sniggered and elbowed each other. They paid no attention to Owen, half hidden behind his parcel. The nun clasped her hands together before her, and bowed over them to the two Paragons.

  "Please, Sir Paragons, let us pass. These medicines are urgently needed at St. Clare's Hospital. It's not far now."

  "Nuns," said one of the Paragons in a thick, ugly voice. "We like nuns, don't we, Henry?"

  "Oh, we just love nuns, Lawrence. We just love them to death. Sometimes literally."

  The Paragon called Henry nodded to Owen without looking at him. "Drop the box and run. And be grateful we're going to be too busy to come after you."

  "Leave the nun alone," said Owen, and something in his voice made the two Paragons turn sharply to look at him. Owen put the box down, and straightened up with his hands on his hips, where his sword and his gun used to be. Both long gone now, on Mistworld. The two Paragons looked at Owen's face, and sheer horror filled their eyes as they recognized him. The minds behind the Paragons' faces knew him of old. The faces went white with shock, and their hands fumbled at their guns.

  "It's Owen! It's the Deathstalker! The Deathstalker has returned!"

  Owen surged forward. He lashed out sharply, and his fist caught the Paragon Henry on the jaw. The force of the blow snapped the head right round, breaking the neck instantly. His body was still crumpling to the street, and the other Paragon was still drawing his disrupter, when Owen spun round and punched the Paragon Lawrence in the chest. The sternum cracked and broke under the impact, and Owen's hand continued on to crush the man's heart. The fight was over in a few seconds, both men were dead, and Owen wasn't even breathing hard. He scooped up a gun and chose one of the Paragons' swords for himself. The holster and scabbard fitted comfortably around his waist. For a man who'd always thought of himself as a scholar, he still always felt better with weapons at his hips. He still had it in him to feel sorry for the two Paragons he'd killed, for the real men underneath the ELFs' influence. Except these couldn't have just been ELFs. The possessing minds must have been uber-espers. Only they were old enough to remember his.face. And now they knew he was back, and on Logres… Owen suddenly remembered the nun, and turned to smile at her.

  "Sorry about the unpleasantness, Sister. But sometimes you just have to take out the trash."

  The nun dropped to her knees before him, wringing her hands together. "Oh, my lord Owen! My lord Deathstalker! You've come back to us! I never thought I'd live to see the day…"

  "Now, now," said Owen, gently but firmly helping her to her feet again. "None of that. Sister. I was only ever a man, despite what Robert and Constance may have said. And I never was one for bowing
and scraping. Here, take your parcel. Do you have far to go now?"

  "No, just round the corner… My lord! Are the dark times over? Have you come back to save us?"

  "Help is on its way," said Owen. "But I'm… just visiting. I wanted to see this marvelous new city, before I left to stop the Terror. But you'd better get going, Sister. The ungodly know I'm here now, and they're bound to send reinforcements. So, off you go. Nice to see the Sisters of Mercy are still around. Hop like a bunny, as Beatrice used to say."

  He shooed the nun away, and then turned to face the running footsteps he heard approaching. It sounded like quite a crowd. Owen grinned. He could have just teleported away, but he didn't want them going after the nun in his absence. And besides, after everything he'd been through recently, he really felt like killing a whole bunch of bad guys. The sword and the gun were happy familiar weights in his hands, and he actually laughed when he finally saw the army they'd sent against him. There had to be fifty men and more in the shouting mob charging down the street towards him. Most looked to be Church Militant or Pure Humanity, and a good dozen of them were possessed, ordering the others on. The uber-espers weren't taking any chances with him. He could feel the controlling minds hovering over the mob like dark boiling clouds. Owen headed unhurriedly towards the mob. Let them come. Let them all come. He was going to teach these scum, and their master Finn, a lesson they would never forget.

  Owen shot the first man almost casually. The energy beam punched right through the soldier who was in the lead, and surged on to take out two more. Owen put the disrupter away and took a good grip on his sword. The balance wasn't as good as he was used to, but he'd manage. There were only fifty of them. The first man to reach him came right at him with an ax in both hands, and mad glaring eyes, and Owen cut him down with a single vicious stroke. The man's blood was still flying on the air as Owen hacked and cut his way into the howling mob. They broke around him like a wave crashing against a rock, and Owen's sword rose and fell with cold, professional skill while his ancient Clan battle cry rang on the air: Shandrakor! Shandrakor!