Deathstalker Destiny (60 page)

Hazel fought on. The odds against her were impossible to beat, just as she’d dreamed, but she wasn’t going to let a little thing like that stop her. She was Hazel d‘Ark, and today she earned her legend.

The Dauntless was there too, blasting a path through the Recreated, shields flaring brilliantly as they tried to absorb or deflect the attacking energies. Many of the shields had already gone down, and the outer hull was open to space in half a dozen places. Interior seals preserved the ship’s atmosphere, but every section lost weakened the ship still further. Captain Silence sat calmly in his command chair, issuing a steady stream of orders even as damage reports and crew losses came in from all over his ship. Since coming out of the Maze, his mind had expanded to fill his ship from stem to stern, knowing it as intimately as he knew his own body. He was the Dauntless now, and it was him.

He studied the massing Recreated through his ship’s sensors, and pushed aside despair with almost casual disdain. He never once thought of retreating. He was standing between Humanity and its Enemy, and that was all he’d ever really wanted. Another workstation suddenly went up in flames, and its occupant screamed as the flames consumed him. He was dead by the time damage control had put out the fire, but Silence had no time to mourn. That would be for later, if there was a later. He maintained his calm, steady stream of orders, holding his crew together by strength of will and force of personality. Despite the strain, and the impossible odds, none of them had broken, and Silence was very proud of them. He nursed the remaining power in the ship’s engines, switching it from weapons to shields and back again, as needed, buying time for the Deathstalker, a man he’d once considered an enemy and a traitor, but who might now be Humanity’s last and only hope.

Out in open space, Carrion flew with his people, the Ashrai, darting back and forth in the darkness like a living star, burning so very brightly now. He struck at the monsters around him with his power lance, blasting apart unnatural flesh and bone with cold, intense fury. He was fast and deadly, and they couldn’t touch him. Space couldn’t harm him; he swam in it like a shark in a sunless sea. Where he looked, awful shapes exploded, and where he gestured, the Recreated were torn apart. But he was so small, and they were so large.

Even the whole race of the Ashrai reborn was dwarfed by the Recreated.

Carrion fought on, singing the song of the Ashrai, fighting beside them as he had once before, his voice joining with those of his people.

 

“You have to go back, Owen,” said the alien, and it didn’t sound like Cathy anymore. “Back through the Pale Horizon, back through Space and Time. You can do this. You have the power within you. Your whole life has been leading up to this, to this moment, this decision; toward making you into a hero capable of performing this last deed for Humanity. You must run, and let the Recreated chase you. Hold their attention. Hold them close. Don’t let them fall back, or consider giving up the chase. Keep them always on your tail, staying just ahead of them. Taunt them. Make them hate you. As you and they go further back in Time, the distance and the pursuit will drain the Recreated’s energy. That should give you the edge you need.

“I won’t lie to you. If they catch you, if you let them get too close, you’ll die horribly. You don’t have to do this. I can’t make you. But it’s the only way left to ensure Humanity’s survival, and put everything right again.”

“That was all Giles ever wanted,” said Owen. “But he chose the wrong way. So this is your great plan. I knew I wouldn’t like it.”

“But you’ll do it.”

“Of course I’ll do it,” said Owen. “I always do, don’t I? I’ve always known my duty. Known what it means, to be a Deathstalker. Talk to me; whatever you are. How are we going to convince all the Recreated that they should give up their attack on the brink of victory, in order to chase me back through Time?”

“The Maze and I will work together to make the Recreated think that you are the baby, trying to escape them by traveling back into the past. They’ll pursue you rather than risk losing their power source, and perhaps their very existence.”

Owen considered this. “All right; that might just work. But how the hell do I Time travel? I’ve never had that ability before...”

“Of course you have. You traveled through Time once before, right here, the first time you came through the Maze. Remember, Owen...”

Owen closed his eyes, concentrating on his newly restored memories of his first trip through the Madness Maze. The memory came to him again, clear and sharp as yesterday. He remembered journeying back through Time, watching his own life unravel before him, all the moments and decisions that had made him what he was. It was so simple a trick, once he saw how. Time was just another direction. But before he committed himself to the last great task of his destiny, Owen decided he was entitled to one small thing for himself. And so he concentrated, reached back through Time, and brought a man forward into the future, into the hidden heart of the Madness Maze. Owen slowly opened his eyes, and there standing before him was his father. Arthur Deathstalker.

Arthur was a young man, about the same age as Owen, dressed in formal Court attire. A sword at his side and a gun on his hip, and the same dark hair and darker eyes. They looked more like brothers than father and son. Owen looked at his father, dead and gone all those yeas ago, and his throat closed up. He couldn’t say anything. Arthur looked around him, more baffled than alarmed, and then turned back to Owen, and gave him a surprisingly charming smile.

“I don’t think I know you, sir, though your face... is familiar. Which is more than I can say for this unusual place. Perhaps you could tell me where this is, and who you are, and why I am here.”

“This ... is the future,” said Owen. “Your future. I brought you here, to talk with you. I’m your son, Owen.”

Arthur raised an elegant eyebrow. “My son Owen is currently four years old, and more trouble than anyone should be cursed with. He’s already run through three nannies. Have you any evidence of this extraordinary claim?”

Owen held up his right hand, and the Family ring of chunky black gold showed clearly on his finger. Arthur caught his breath for a moment, and then raised his right hand, to show an identical ring. They slowly lowered their hands. Arthur took a deep breath, and let it go.

“Damn. That’s the Deathstalker ring, all right. Only ever was one. So; Time travel. Damn. That is impressive. And you’re my son, Owen, all grown up. You look like you turned out fine. You look a lot like your grandfa ther, actually. Why am I here, Owen? I take it there is some reason.”

“You’re taking this very calmly,” said Owen. “Certainly more than I am.”

Arthur shrugged easily. “When you intrigue for a living in the Royal Court, there isn’t much that can scare or throw you anymore.” He fixed Owen with a sharp look. “Am I dead in your time, Owen? Is that what this is all about?”

“Yes,” said Owen flatly. “Lionstone had you murdered. She sent Kit SummerIsle after you, and he cut you down in the street. Nobody came to help.”

“Well,” said Arthur, after a moment. “At least she sent someone worthy after me. A SummerIsle no less. No doubt he went on to greater things. Will I remember any of this, when I go back?”

“I don’t know,” said Owen. “I’m ... new to all this Time travel business.”

“Ah hell. I never expected to reach an old age. Deathstalkers don‘t, mostly. The price we pay for being movers and shakers, instead of just one of the crowd. The way of the warrior is never easy.”

“Yes,” said Owen, new anger flooding into his words. “I became the warrior you always wanted me to be. I led the rebellion that overthrew Lionstone. I don’t have a wife, or a family, or anything else to call my own, but I still have your poisoned gift, Father. I became a bloody warrior!”

“You sound upset,” said Arthur.

“Are you surprised? When I’m a little older, you’ll hire a series of personal trainers to beat the shit out of me, over and over again, to try and bring out the boost in me, so I could be the great warrior you wanted. Well, I never wanted to be a warrior. Never! All I ever wanted was to be a scholar, a minor historian, doing quiet academic work in some ivory tower, far away from all the movers and shakers and all the misery they bring. But you and the damned Deathstalker legacy made me into a warrior anyway, and took away all the happiness I ever knew.”

For the first time, Arthur looked concerned. He took a step forward, and reached out as though to take Owen in his arms. And then he saw the look in his son’s eyes, and slowly lowered his arms without touching him.

“If I did do that, Owen, and you must remember I haven’t even considered it yet, then I probably ordered it done for the same reason my father had it done to me; because you needed the boost for your own protection. Just by being born a Deathstalker, you inherited many enemies. They would have had you killed in a moment, if they sensed weakness in you. I knew I might die with my work unfinished; you had to be able to survive, to carry on. And here you are now, a man grown into a warrior. Can you honestly say you’d be here, if you hadn’t had the boost?”

“What about the deals you made?” said Owen. “With the Hadenmen and the Blood Runners, promising them their tithes of Humanity, in return for their support?”

“The rebellion needed them,” said Arthur calmly. “I had to promise what it took to close the deal. I always hoped that when the original Deathstalker finally appeared, he’d find some way to break the deals. Certainly I never intended we should actually pay the tithes, even if it meant another war. I’m a politician, Owen, not a monster.”

“No, I never really thought you were a monster. You were my father.”

“Then why did you bring me here, Owen?”

“Because ... because I never got to say good-bye.” Owen’s eyes blurred with hot tears. “I missed you, Dad. I never thought I would, but I did. And I wanted you to know... I won the rebellion for you. I wanted you to be proud of me.”

“I was always proud of you, Owen. You’re my son. And I’m glad I got the chance to see what a fine man you grew into.”

This time, they hugged each other tightly. Two Deathstalkers, finding peace together at last. Eventually they broke apart.

“Why didn’t you bring your mother here too?” said Arthur. “She’d have liked to see you too, I’m sure ...” And then he saw the look in Owen’s eyes. “Oh God. She dies young.”

“I barely remember her,” said Owen. “It was an illness. Very sudden. You never talked much about her, to me.”

“Damn. Damn.” Arthur looked away for a moment. “Perhaps it’s best I don’t remember any of this after all. I think it’s time you sent me home, Owen. Back to my own Time.” He looked back at Owen. “But I’m glad we had this chance to talk. I missed my father terribly after he was gone, killed in that stupid duel. I never got to say good-bye either. But I’m sure he would have been proud of you as I am. Good-bye, Owen. My son.”

And then he was gone, or Owen let him go, and Arthur Deathstalker plunged back through the years to his own Time; perhaps to remember, perhaps not.

Owen stood quietly for a long moment, remembering many things, and then let go his hold on Time. He disappeared, carrying the appearance of the baby with him, and high above the world the Recreated screamed in frustrated rage.

 

The
Sunstrider
was barely maintaining its orbit now, the last of its shields barely strong enough to turn aside the never-ending attacks. There were gaping holes in stem and stem, punctures in the outer and inner hulls, and only the invading vacuum kept the fires from raging out of control.

The control panels were a mess. Most of the guns were gone now, destroyed, shot away, and the few remaining were being controlled through a single isolated weapon control system. Fires burned sullenly on the bridge, adding to the hellish red glow of emergency lighting. Hazel was burned and bleeding from a dozen wounds, her flesh torn over and over again by exploding systems, but she still stood straight, all her thoughts in the remaining guns. She’d always known she’d die alone, striking out at her enemies to the last.

The
Dauntless
was being torn apart by repeated inner explosions, its rear assembly shattered and leaking air. Internal seals maintained pressure and life support in some parts of the ship, but they were few and scattered now, and one by one the guns were falling silent as they were destroyed, or ran out of crew to man them. The shields were going down all over the ship.

On the bridge, Captain Silence could feel his ship dying about him. But still he maintained calm and discipline through his own example, though half the bridge crew were dead, and fires burned in the guts of devastated workstations. Bodies lay everywhere, and no one had the time or the strength to do anything about them. Silence kept his ship heading into the face of the Enemy; drawing their onslaught and defying them to do their worst. Doing his duty. Dying by inches along with his ship. And sometimes thinking, just a little wistfully, that Frost would have loved this.

Out in space, the Ashrai were dying in their thousands, but the majority still hurled themselves upon the Enemy in wave after wave. Once there had been millions of them, all their great race born again, but though their numbers were savagely lessened, still they fought on, soaring through open space like fallen angels, harsh and unrelenting, undeterred by the scale or the terrible nature of their foe.

And brightest of them all, the man called Carrion, shining like the sun as he slammed through space, great energies crackling around his power lance as he attacked ships the size of mountains and of moons. He plunged through one side of a ship and out the other, protected by the power running wild within him, awoken by the Ashrai and confirmed by the Maze. He was tired now, in body and in mind, for all the energies he wielded, and only the strength of his will kept them from consuming him. He was mighty and he was powerful, but he was so very small in the face of the Recreated.