“I didn’t see her! I had my own problems!” McVey pulled his arm away, and Donald was left staring at the burning Blackthorn Inn. He moved toward the hole in the wall, screwing up his face against the blazing heat. The barroom was now a sea of flames, and thick black smoke boiled out of the hole. Donald’s heart contracted painfully as he realized she must still be in there. Probably lost and disoriented in the smoke. He called her name again and again, but there was no answer. Donald’s mouth firmed. He knew what he had to do. He pulled his cloak up to protect his face, and moved toward the hole in the wall.
But he stopped after only a few steps. The heat was just too much for him. He tried again and again, drawing on all his courage and resolution to force him past the flames, but his old body cringed back from the awful heat despite him, and would not go forward. Flames licked up around his cloak as the material caught fire, and sudden hands pulled him back, slapping at his shoulders to put out the flames. Donald fought the hands savagely.
“Let me go, dammit! Madelaine’s still in there!”
“If she is, then she’d dead,” said Gideon Steel, holding him firmly.
Donald stopped struggling. “If she’s dead, then I want to die, too. She was my daughter, in every way that mattered. She’s all I had left.”
“You can’t die here,” said Steel. “You’re needed. You’re a Councillor, an old and respected warrior whose name will still rally people. Don’t you dare give up on me now. You’ve been telling us all what a hero you used to be for years. Now prove it, dammit! Prove it in a way that matters. You can’t get back in there. No one could.”
“I could have, once,” said Donald Royal. “When I was a hero. When I was young.”
And then one of the windows shattered as a body came hurtling through it, in a blazing mass of flames. It hit the cobbled street rolling, and stood up, throwing aside a blazing cloak. Madelaine Skye beat at her smoldering clothes with her hands, blackened and scorched but still very much alive. Donald lurched forward to take her in his arms, and she held him tightly to her.
“I got turned around in the fire and the smoke,” she said breathlessly. “Didn’t know where the hell I was, let alone the hole. Then I heard you calling me. You got me out, Donald. I owe you one.”
“No you don’t,” said Donald. “You’re family.”
Cyder stood off by herself, a bottle of the good brandy still in her hand, and watched the Blackthorn burn. It had been her home and her safe haven and the repository of her dreams, but her face remained calm and cold. Her eyes were dry and her mouth was firm. Cyder didn’t believe in being beaten.
“My lovely tavern,” she said, finally. “You were going to make me rich, rich, rich.”
Jenny Psycho collapsed. Her strength had finally run out. Determination and willpower could carry her no farther, and her mind shut down. The psionic shield disappeared, and the disrupter beams from the hovering gravity barges slammed down into the tavern like God driving nails. The building burst apart, the ceiling crashing down as the walls collapsed, and the flames roared up in triumph. Mary and Topaz’s song protected the small crowd from the fire and the flying debris. In seconds there was nothing left of the Blackthorn but a blackened frame in an inferno of flames. Steel knelt down beside Jenny, checked for a pulse, and raised an eyebrow.
“Amazing. She’s still with us. Chance, get her out of here. Take her and your children to the esper union hall. They’ll look after you. And they’ll save Jenny Psycho if anyone can. Crazy woman. Bravest damned thing I ever saw.” He got to his feet and raised his voice above the din. “All right, everybody scatter! You all know the secondary meeting place; be there in an hour. No excuses. Now move it!”
And so they all went their separate ways, helping those who needed it, carrying a few where necessary. They went in twos and threes, following the routes the Council had worked out earlier, just in case. They disappeared into the dark maze of narrow streets and alleyways, confident no Empire forces could follow them and not be hopelessly lost in moments. There was no talk of surrender. They were not broken, not beaten. And they had always known this was a fight to the death.
Soon they were all gone, apart from Typhoid Mary and Investigator Topaz. Their song still crackled around them, drowning out Legion’s howl, keeping the troops at bay and covering their friends’ escape. They were the two most powerful Sirens the Empire had ever produced, and they would not yield. And then suddenly, the pressure eased. The gravity barges moved on, their work down, and the troops fell back. Topaz and Mary stopped singing, conserving their strength. The world around them was still a chaos of flames and screams and battle cries, the thunder of gravity engines and the roar of collapsing buildings, but their particular part of the world seemed strangely still and quiet. As though some new force had entered the scene. Topaz and Mary looked at each other. Behind them, someone applauded slowly. They both looked round sharply, to find a tall dark man in an Investigator’s cloak studying them calmly from the other side of the street. Topaz frowned. She should have heard him approach, even in all this noise and chaos. She should have known he was there. His sword and gun were still sheathed on his hips, but in one hand he held a length of steel chain, on the other end of which crouched a cowering naked man. He was painfully thin and smeared with filth, and his bare skin clearly showed the scars and marks of many beatings. The left side of his skull had been surgically cut away, to reveal the brain beneath, protected only by a clear piece of steelglass. Various plugs and jacks studded the brain tissues, and silver wires gleamed in the grey meat.
“Handsome fellow, isn’t he?” said the dark man. “He belongs to me. Investigator Razor, at your service. I’ve been sent to bring you back into the fold of Empire. Teach you to sing the right songs again. Spare me your protestations, please. They don’t matter. You have no say in things anymore. This unpleasant wretch at my side has no name anymore, only a function. He’s a living esp-blocker. One of the Lord High Dram’s special projects, I believe. Being alive, and capable of following orders, he’s much more powerful and versatile than the usual brain in a box esp-blocker. He’s strong enough to function even under Legion’s influence, and subtle enough that you didn’t even notice our approach. I’m afraid you’ll find your songs have quite deserted you now, ladies. So put aside your petty complaints and come with me. Your life in this place is over. You belong to the Empire again.”
Topaz drew her sword. “I’d rather die.”
Razor drew his sword. “That can be arranged. I get a bonus if I bring you both back alive, but money’s never been that important to me. They’ll settle for one live Siren and one dead traitor, if need be. And I always wanted to know which of us is better.” He dropped the length of chain he was holding, but the living esp-blocker stayed where he was. He would not move without orders. Typhoid Mary backed away from the Investigator, shaking her head.
“I can’t help you, Topaz. I’m sorry. I won’t kill again. Not for any reason.”
“That’s all right,” said Topaz, advancing on Razor. “Just keep well back. You don’t want to get any of his blood on you.”
And then Topaz and Razor surged forward and slammed together, sparks flying in the mists and smoke as their swords clashed. They stamped and lunged, swinging their swords with almost inhuman strength and speed, two Investigators trained to the peak of perfection. They circled around each other, hammering home blows that would have swept away a lesser fighter’s defenses, probing for each other’s weaknesses. They were strong and fast and quite magnificent, and neither of them would yield an inch.
But in the end Razor was much the older of the two, and he was not fueled by the raw hatred and need for revenge that burned so fiercely in Topaz’s veins. Slowly, remorselessly, foot by foot she drove him back, forcing him on the defensive, and Razor knew that he was very near to death. His pride kept him in the fight longer than he should have, but the pain and blood of his first few wounds brought him to his senses again. He forced the last of his energ
y into a flurry of blows that turned Topaz around till her back was to Mary, and then he raised his voice in a commanding shout.
“Mary! Code Delta Three! Kill Topaz!”
Mary swayed sickly as the preprogrammed control words hit her. The esper union had done their best to remove all traces of the Empire’s conditioning, but some things had been buried so deeply that only another mind tech could have found them. Mary screamed as the mind techs’ programming took hold again, sweeping aside her mind and wishes in favor of the old conditioned Typhoid Mary. Her face went slack, and someone else peered out of her eyes. And even as Topaz realized what was happening, Typhoid Mary stepped forward and hit her across the back of the neck with trained, professional force. Topaz fell to her knees, her thoughts darkening, her sword slipping from nerveless fingers. Mary leaned over and hit her again, and Topaz fell forward to lie still in the churned-up snow.
Razor stood for a moment, getting his breathing back under control, and then he put away his sword and leaned over Topaz. He checked the pulse in her neck, and frowned. He looked up at Mary.
“She’s still alive. I told you to kill her.”
“I can’t,” said Mary. “Not anymore.”
“Obey me,” said Razor, straightening up to glare at her. “Kill Investigator Topaz.” Mary trembled violently, but made no move toward Topaz. Two absolutes warred in her mind, neither side giving in. Razor sighed, and shook his head. “Don’t worry, Mary. They’ll break you again. And then you’ll kill anyone we want you to, and smile while you do it. As for Topaz, we’ll just say the bitch died in the fight.”
He put his hand to his sword, and that was when the steel ball from Cat’s slingshot hit him right between the eyes. Razor’s head snapped back, his eyes rolling up, and he fell backwards to lie twitching in the snow. Cat dropped silently down out of the darkness and hurried over to Topaz’s side. He shook her shoulder urgently, but she didn’t respond. Cat scowled unhappily. It was obvious she needed more help than he could give her. Someone tugged at his sleeve, and Cat spun round to find the naked man crouching at his side.
“Please,” said the living esp-blocker. “Please. Kill me. Don’t let me live like this.”
Cat drew his knife and thrust it into the man’s heart. The naked man jerked, and tried to smile at Cat. Blood welled from his mouth. Cat pulled the knife free, and the esp-blocker fell forward into the snow and lay still. Cat wiped his knife clean on his trouser leg and put it away. It was getting easier and easier for him to kill. He didn’t think he liked that—what this war was doing to him. He pushed the thought aside for another time, and concentrated on the business at hand. Razor was already stirring. Cat thought about killing him, too, but decided against getting that close to Razor. The man was an Investigator, after all. He looked from Topaz to Mary and back again. He couldn’t save both of them. And whilst Topaz wasn’t exactly his friend, he trusted her a damned sight more than Typhoid Mary. She’d tried to kill him once, when she first came to Mistport, and with her conditioning reawakened, there was no telling what she might do. And so with only the smallest of regrets, Cat turned his back on Mary, hoisted Topaz over his shoulder, and disappeared back into the concealing shadows.
Razor slowly sat up, wincing at the vicious pain between his eyes. He put a hand to his aching head and forced himself to his feet again. He must be getting old. His instincts should have warned him there was someone else there. He almost stumbled over the dead esp-blocker, and cursed briefly when he discovered what it was. The Lord High Dram was not going to be pleased at losing his new prototype on its first assignment. And Topaz was gone. Razor shrugged. He still had Mary. He heard the sound of approaching men, and looked down the street to see a troop of marines emerging from the mists, headed his way. They’d do to escort him back to the Defiant. And then the ship’s mind techs would open Mary’s mind up and scour it clean of anything they needed to know. Mary had been closeted with the city Council in the Blackthorn Inn, and no doubt knew many useful things. Including where the scattered Council would reconvene. He took her by the arm and hustled her away. She went with him unresistingly, and if something trapped and horrified moved behind her staring eyes, no one saw it.
Owen Deathstalker, Hazel d’Ark, and Young Jack Random fought on against impossible and overwhelming odds, and Owen for one was getting pretty damned tired of it. Tired of fighting with no end in sight, of enemies who fell only to be replaced by new enemies, tired of the never-ending ache in his back and sword arm, and of the stench of freshly spilled blood and exposed guts as some other poor fool fell screaming before him. He’d fought in so many battles in so many places, taking hurts that would have killed any other man, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, and all so he could go and do it again somewhere else.
He’d never wanted any of this. To be a hero and a leader and the hope of Humanity. He was a scholar, not a warrior. But still he went where he was needed and threw himself into the bloody heart of battle again and again, because there was no one else. He was a Deathstalker, and he would not turn his face away from the evil of Empire and the suffering of innocents. He’d fight overpowering odds and triumph yet again at the last possible moment . . . or maybe this time he wouldn’t. Either way, he was getting so damned tired of it all.
He stood back-to-back with Hazel, cutting down all who came against him, fighting at the peak of his Maze-born abilities, fast and strong and deadly beyond all human hesitations, and began to wonder if this time that would be enough. The Empire forces seemed limitless. Random and the rest of the small rebel force had been swept away in the tide of fighting, leaving Owen and Hazel to fight alone, as they had so many times before. And powerful as they were, they were only two, and the Empire had an army. Marines came charging through the streets from all directions, endless waves of fighting men driven on by orders and duty and officers who’d shoot them if they turned away. They threw themselves at Owen and Hazel like the sea crashing against some stubborn rock on the seashore, and bit by bit they wore the rock down.
Owen and Hazel were burning themselves out, their own inhuman energies devouring them from within. They were too strong, too fast, and they demanded too much of their merely human bodies. Every muscle ached, every nerve screamed, and their lungs burned with the need for more and more air. Human bodies were never meant to take this kind of strain, this much punishment. The changes the Maze had worked in them held them together, healing their wounds and keeping them on their feet and fighting long after they should have fallen to superior odds, but the strain of it was killing them bit by bit, and they both knew it. They weren’t stupid. They would have turned and run, if there’d been any avenue of escape, or anywhere to run to. But the marines were all around them, and nowhere in Mistport was safe anymore. And so they fought on, beyond rage or anger now, reduced to the cold, necessary work of slaughter and survival. Dead bodies piled up around them, penning them in. Owen thought wistfully of the power he’d used against his father’s old network, cleaning out their house by sheer force of will, but he couldn’t feel that power within him anymore. He’d used it all up and more, in the endless fighting.
Even as armed men surged forward, clambering over the bodies of the fallen for a chance at the Deathstalker and his companion, Major Chevron arrived with still more troops. The last defenders of the north side had fallen before him, and he was sweeping toward the center of Mistport and certain victory, when his forces suddenly slowed to a halt, unable to force a way through the bottleneck caused by Owen and Hazel’s defiant stand. Chevron could have pulled his people back and sent them down other streets, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t do that once he saw who the problem was. Everyone had heard of the Deathstalker by now. Great rewards and greater privileges waited for the man who brought him down. Chevron urged his men on and waited patiently for his hounds to pull down the stags at bay. When Owen and his bitch went down, he would then step forward and deliver the coup de grace himself, and that would be that. He would walk through the burning
streets of Mistport in triumph, with the Deathstalker’s head held high on a pike, and there would be no doubt in all eyes who was the real hero of the taking of Mistport.
The sheer numbers forced Owen and Hazel back, step by step, until they had been contained in a back square with only the one exit, carefully blocked off by the advancing marines. High stone walls overshadowed them on every side, and all that was left to Owen and Hazel was to stand and die. The marines pressed forward, drunk on blood and death and stoned to the eyeballs on designer battle drugs, not caring about the dead comrades they had to step over to get at their enemies. Owen Deathstalker and Hazel d’Ark fought side by side with failing strength, not feeling the wounds that soaked their clothes in blood. Chevron watched from the rear, scowling impatiently, and then signaled for Kast and Morgan to bring forward the portable disrupter cannon. It would be messier this way, but more certain.
The two marines pulled the cannon quickly into position, pointed it into the back square, and set about the warm-up sequences. Kast and Morgan had been picked up by Chevron’s troops as they swept inward from the north, and had volunteered to carry the portable cannon. Partly because it meant less actual work for them, and partly because they felt a great deal safer with a disrupter cannon between them and the rest of the rebel city. The taking of the city had been supposed to be a walkover, but apparently the rebels hadn’t read the script, and didn’t know they were beaten. So Kast and Morgan kept their heads down and labored over the cannon, got it primed and ready, and looked inquiringly at Chevron. He yelled for his people to fall back and give the cannon a clear shot, but they didn’t hear him, out of their heads on drugs and the scent of victory. Chevron called again, his voice almost shrill with anger as his men ignored him, and then he turned to Kast and Morgan and nodded sharply. They looked at their fellow marines before them, and then at each other. Morgan shrugged, and Kast hit the firing stud.
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