Deathstalker War

by Green, Simon R.

  Of course, there were other problems. Ever since the debacle on Technos III, his sister Stephanie and his brother Daniel had been missing. This was both good and bad news. Good, in the sense that they weren’t around to stick knives in his back anymore, and bad, in that he couldn’t be sure what they were up to now. Daniel had apparently gone off in search of their dead father, last seen as a computer-controlled corpse used as an emissary from the AIs of Shub. It seemed Daniel believed their father was still alive and wished to rescue him. Valentine hoped that Daniel was wrong. He didn’t want to have to kill his father again. And after the AIs had killed Daniel, perhaps they could be persuaded to return his body as a Ghost Warrior or a Fury. He’d make a useful ally at Court, without his mind to get in the way.

  Stephanie, on the other hand, had disappeared without trace. No one seemed to know where she was, and Valentine found that disturbing. His sister wasn’t the sort to be quiet and reflective. Particularly after such a setback. She’d want revenge on someone. Wherever she was, Valentine had no doubt she was plotting trouble for him. It ran in the Family. Though rather slowly in her case. Stephanie didn’t have the patience for really intricate plots. For the moment, Valentine had agents out looking for her, with instructions to bring her back to him. Preferably in several small sacks.

  The other fly in his ointment was Professor Ignatious Wax, cybernetics expert from the University of Golgotha. He’d been responsible for designing most of the war machines to be used on Virimonde, so Valentine had been forced to accept his assistance. Even though he knew the Professor was really only there to spy on him, to try and learn the source of the revolutionary new tech Valentine had provided. He posed no real threat. There was no way he’d be able to penetrate the mysteries of Shub technology. Even Valentine, with his chemically expanded mind, could do little more than operate the systems. Still, the man had proved to be very irritating, so Valentine had taken steps to ensure that the good Professor wouldn’t distract him while he was working down on Virimonde. Very . . . amusing steps. Valentine smiled happily. He would lead his machines to victory on Virimonde, falling upon cities and razing them to the ground, and Lionstone would love him again. And then let his enemies beware.

  In his cabin, the man who wasn’t really the Lord High Dram paced up and down, scowling. This would be his first attempt at commanding troops in the field, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He’d studied up on it as best he could without raising suspicions, but no amount of theoretical knowledge could substitute for hands-on experience. The original Dram had led troops on many occasions, to great success, but the original Dram had been killed on Haden, also known as the Wolfline World. Now his clone had to carry on the role, lest anyone suspect the truth. He had to be Dram, do as he did. He was in charge of the pacification of the peasants, and Lionstone had made it very clear that he had to be successful, whatever the cost. Rather hard on the peasants, but it was their own fault for getting ideas above their station.

  The man now known as Dram sighed deeply and sat down. The day had barely begun, and already he was having to run as fast as he could just to stay in place. He had to stay on top of everything, learning by doing, while giving every appearance of being an experienced man of war. It didn’t help that his own men distrusted him anyway. Apparently the original Dram had been something of a monster, hard and unyielding, and always ready to sacrifice his own men if that was what it took to ensure victory. That was how he’d first acquired the whispered nickname Widowmaker. The new Dram wasn’t sure he felt that way. Certainly he didn’t approve of throwing away lives. But if he didn’t act that way, or at the very least appear to, people might begin to suspect that he wasn’t who he was supposed to be. There were already rumors in Court . . . And if he was ever revealed as a clone, his short life would come to an abrupt and violent end. A clone replacing a man of influence and power was one of the Lords’ worst nightmares.

  However, if he could bring this off—pacify the peasants, regain control of food production, and lead his troops to victory in the sight of all—Lionstone had promised he would be rewarded with the Lordship of Virimonde. David Deathstalker had forfeited that right the moment he allowed the beginnings of local democracy on his world. It wouldn’t be much of a Lordship; Lionstone had plans for Virimonde that would make the Lordship little more than an honorary title. But for all Dram’s standing at Court as Warrior Prime and official Consort, he’d always known that a Lord without a holding wasn’t really a Lord. Virimonde would change all that. And the changes in store would eventually make him one of the richest men in the Empire. So he had a lot to play for.

  He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He wished he could make the rest of his world disappear so easily. Valentine Wolfe’s presence was a problem he could have done without. The Wolfe and the original Dram had dabbled secretly in the Golgotha underground, and had something of a shared history of which he, the clone, knew very little. Every time he spoke with Valentine he risked giving himself away by not recognizing a veiled reference, or a shared experience, so for the most part he kept a careful distance between himself and the Wolf, and let Valentine suppose what he would. A certain coldness was to be expected, since the original Dram had betrayed the underground to Golgotha Security forces. But what else might Valentine know about the original Dram that his clone didn’t? The original Dram had left extensive diaries, but there were naturally many things he’d had the sense or the caution not to put on tape, where they might be found and used against him. Dram sighed, heavily. Life as a clone was complicated enough, without your original being a devious, scheming, two-faced bastard.

  The journalist Toby Shreck, known in happier days as Toby the Troubadour, together with his cameraman Flynn, arrived on the planet Virimonde inside a large wooden crate marked Machine Parts. The ride down from orbit in the dark and very cold hold of a cargo ship was an escalating nightmare of bumps and bruises. Toby sat curled into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest, head hunched down to keep from banging it on the low roof, clung grimly to the handholds provided, and distracted himself by mentally composing really unpleasant obituary notices for the bastards who’d come up with this brilliant idea for sneaking him onto Virimonde.

  It was his own fault, really. After the trauma, tears, and hard bloody work of covering three war zones in a row, Toby and Flynn had asked plaintively for a story they could cover without getting shot at. The underground council offered them a rustic farmworld in the back of beyond, well away from any fighting, and Toby and Flynn had a race to see who could say yes the fastest. The mission seemed straightforward enough, for once. Make a study of the peaceful rustic society of Virimonde, currently menaced by the growing mechanization of farm-worlds. Show centuries-old traditions under threat, the livelihoods of helpless people being swept aside by an uncaring Empire administration—that sort of thing. It was the kind of story Toby could have done standing on his head, but he had a few private reservations. In his experience, long-established rural communities tended toward inbreeding, in people and ideas. You ended up with societies that resisted all change, good or bad, and families with less than the usual number of eyes, one thumb among the bunch of them, and room-temperature IQs. Favorite sports: coveting thy neighbour’s ox, throwing cats off high buildings to see if they’d land on their feet, and witch burnings. Or journalists, if there wasn’t a witch handy. But even with all of that, Virimonde had to be better than Technos III, Mistworld, or Haceldama. So Flynn packed some of his laciest underwear, Toby made plans for extensive relaxation and as little actual work as he could get away with, and they boarded ship for Virimonde. And Toby got his first impression that things were going terribly wrong when the Captain took them down to the cargo hold and showed them the large wooden crate with the words Machine Parts stenciled on the side.

  After an eternity of darkness, muttered curses, and the occasional uncertainty as to which way was up, the cargo ship finally touched down. There was a long, nerve-straining wait, and then
the crate was unloaded and dropped onto the ground with what seemed to Toby like entirely unnecessary force, and there was the sound of the ship departing. Toby waited in the dark, sweating nervously. A little light streamed through the cracks in the crate, but there was no telling where they’d ended up, or if friendly hands were anywhere near. For all Toby knew they could be surrounded by a crowd of heavily armed customs officers with no sense of humor. The crate shook suddenly as crowbars attacked the lid, and then the top was suddenly prised open and put aside. Bright sunlight poured in. Toby raised an arm instinctively to shield his face, eyes streaming under the impact of the new light. A calloused hand grasped his and pulled him to his feet, and Toby found himself looking at a grinning, friendly face. Toby could have kissed him, but didn’t. He didn’t want to give Flynn ideas.

  It was early evening on Virimonde, with dark shades of red among the darkening clouds above. Twilight was fast approaching, and the cooling air had a hushed, muted feel. Toby and Flynn walked up and down outside the Daker farmhouse, getting the cramps out of their backs and legs. The air smelled wonderfully clear and unpolluted, unless you counted the rich underscent produced by various surrounding animals and their scattered dung. The farmhouse was a large, blocky stone building with primitive guttering and a thatched roof, so old that no one in the present family could remember exactly how old it was. Toby just knew, without having to be told, that this was the kind of place that only had an outside toilet. He smiled at the farmhouse and made polite comments, while privately thinking it looked drafty as hell.

  The surrounding countryside wasn’t exactly what he’d been hoping for, either. It was mainly moorland, with white and purple heather; grazing land for the countless animals spread out between the farmhouse and the far horizon. It looked pleasant enough, but decidedly bleak. Not at all the kind of place you could hope to get much sunbathing done. Toby sighed inwardly and paid attention to his hosts. Adrian Daker, the head of the family, was a short, round fellow with close-cropped grey hair, knowing blue eyes, and a constant friendly smile wrapped around a clay pipe. His voice had only a trace of a rustic burr, and his face had all the usual features, in all the correct places. His wife was a large fat woman called Diana, with red cheeks, freckles, and hair so red it all but glowed. She was positively bursting with life and hospitality, and cheered Toby despite himself with promises of as much good country cooking as he could eat.

  When Toby and Flynn were finally able to stand up straight without wincing, the Dakers led them into the farmhouse kitchen and sat them down at the table. Adrian and Diana then bustled around, getting a hoc meal ready. Adrian covered the heavy wooden table with a blindingly white tablecloth, and shyly set out what was obviously the best plates and cutlery, only used for guests. Diana hovered over her black-iron oven like a mother hen, lifting saucepan lids to check the contents and assuring Toby and Flynn that she’d have had a hot meal ready and waiting for them, but the underground had been very vague as to when they’d be arriving. Toby could understand that. The rebel council had never impressed him with their efficiency.

  He sat back and looked happily around him. The kitchen was small without seeming cramped, and comfortably warm and cosy. Shelves on the walls were packed to bursting with a lifetime’s collection of knick-knacks, obviously hand-made, some of them astonishingly cute and vulgar. Adrian produced a stone jar of thick dark cider and poured generous doses into porcelain mugs shaped like fat old men. Adrian explained that these were known as Toby jugs, and they all laughed, though Toby didn’t see the point of the joke at all.

  Several animals shared the kitchen with the humans, apparently through long right and custom. There were three dogs with grey-and-silver muzzles, too old now to guard or control sheep, half a dozen cats of various snootiness, and a couple of daft chickens who wandered round bumping into things. These latter took an inordinate interest in Toby and Flynn’s ankles, pecking at them in a curious way, until Diana stopped what she was doing to put the chickens’ heads under their wings. They promptly assumed that because it was now dark it must be night, and went to sleep where they stood. The dogs sniffed hopefully at the smells of cooking in the air, but were too well trained to make nuisances of themselves. One of them came up to Toby, sat down before him, pawed at his leg, then put his head on Toby’s knee to have his head scratched. Toby did so, cautiously. He didn’t have much experience with animals at close quarters. But the dog’s tail thumped heavily against the stone floor, so he assumed he must be doing it right. In fact, he rather liked it. Flynn had won over the cats, and two snuggled in his lap while a third perched on his shoulder. Flynn talked cheerful nonsense to them, and they purred back happily. What worried Toby was that the damn things appeared to be listening.

  The meal finally arrived, simple food, lots of it, piping hot. Toby thought it was the best he’d ever had, and said so loudly, which earned him another large helping. He demolished that in record time, too, and was seriously considering the possibility of a third, when the dessert arrived. Heavy chocolate sponge pudding, with thick white chocolate sauce, Toby thought he’d died and gone to Heaven. Eventually he reached the point where even he couldn’t eat any more. He sat back, undid his belt another notch, and sighed happily. This was looking to be a great assignment. Adrian Daker grinned at him.

  “Soon as I saw you, I knew you were a man who liked his food. Don’t you worry, son; the wife’ll feed you up good and proper while you’re here. She loves to see her cooking being properly appreciated.”

  “Quite excellent,” said Flynn, from under his cats. He’d eaten one helping of everything, and was quietly content.

  “And this is just part of what we stand to lose, if mechanization continues,” said Adrian seriously. “This kind of life. Simple food and simple pleasures, no less important for that. Our whole way of life is under threat, if the rumors are true. I hope you’ll make that clear in your report.”

  “Delighted to,” said Toby. “I think we’ll start with some footage of you and your family working the farm. How many of you are there?”

  “Seven sons, three daughters,” Diana said cheerfully. “Good strapping lads and bonny lasses. The boys are still out working the land; you’ll meet them later. Liz and Megs work in town, but they’ll drop by tomorrow to say hello. Good-looking girls, if I do say so myself. Be married already, if they weren’t so choosey. I don’t suppose either of you two gentlemen . . .”

  “Leave them alone, Mother,” said Adrian, his eyes crinkling. “That’s not what they’re here for. There’s one other daughter, Alice, but I don’t expect you’ll see much of her. She’s taken up with the young Deathstalker and spends most of her time in his company.”

  “What’s he like?” said Toby. “He’s one of the things we were sent here to cover.”

  Adrian shrugged and began packing the bowl of his pipe with dark aromatic strands of tobacco. “Seems harmless enough. Handsome, rich, and luckily for us, mostly uninterested in interfering in the way things are. Best we could hope for, I suppose. Bit of a feather in our cap, that he’s taken a shine to our Alice.”

  “They don’t want to know about that, Father,” said Diana, leaning forward in her chair and resting her heavy arms on the old wood table. “They want to know what we’ve been doing with democracy here. That’s what got the Golgotha underground interested in us, right? Thought so. We began trying our luck when Owen was the Deathstalker, seeing what we could get away with. Owen didn’t care. He wasn’t much, in those days. He was happy with his mistress and his studies, and didn’t want to be bothered with us. Steward wasn’t too keen, but without Owen’s backing he couldn’t do anything. We began small, adding one small victory to another, until we reached where we are today. We have regular elections for town offices, and most of the decisions about farming and livestock are made at the local level. We’ve all been making a lot more money since we started making our own deals with the shipping companies. We run our own lives now, as much as that’s possible in the Empir
e these days. Steward isn’t happy, but David Deathstalker’s actually been encouraging us. Though I’d be surprised if he knew half of what goes on out in the towns and the farmlands. He and his young friend the SummerIsle are more interested in hunting, drinking, and wenching. Not necessarily in that order.”

  She and her husband shared rich chuckles over that. Toby wasn’t so sure. “Tell me about the SummerIsle.”

  Adrian frowned for the first time. “Damned if we know what to make of that one, eh Mother? Good-looking. Polite. Doesn’t throw his weight around more than you’d expect. But . . . he’s a cold one. Hard to tell what’s going on inside his head. He came here once, with David, to pick up our Alice. The dogs took one look at the SummerIsle and hid under the table. Wouldn’t come out till he’d gone. I felt a bit like joining them, to be honest. There was something about his eyes, like he’d just as soon kill me as not. Wouldn’t surprise me if there was bad blood in that one.”

  “At Court they call him Kid Death,” said Flynn quietly. “The smiling killer.”

  “Can’t say as I’m surprised,” said Adrian. He scowled, searching for the right words. “It’s not like he’s done anything, or said anything, that a man could take offense to, but . . . he’s a dangerous man, or I never saw one. Don’t know what the Deathstalker sees in him, but they seem close enough. Always together.”

  “Bit too close, if you ask me,” said Diana.

  “Now, Mother . . .”

  “Do you think the Deathstalker will object to our presence here?” said Toby.