Deathstalker Honor (13 page)

“I loved her so much. I never thought I’d have to kill her. Stick a knife in her ribs, and twist it, and then hold her in my arms as she bled to death.”

“Jesus, Owen . . .”

“I would have saved her if I could.”

“She tried to kill you.”

“Sometimes I think she did. I never did ask her if she loved me. I was afraid of what her answer might be. Maybe if I’d known, she wouldn’t have taken so much of me with her when she died.”

“Stop that right now, Deathstalker. If you start getting maudlin on me, I am going to get up out of this chair and come over and slap you around the head.”

Owen smiled briefly. “You would too, wouldn’t you?”

“Damn right I would. Never put yourself down, Owen; there are always plenty of other people just waiting for the chance to do it for you. Cathy’s the past. Let it go and move on.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Owen said mildly. “And I don’t know why you’re so interested in my romantic past all of a sudden. You’re the one with all the surprises in that department. I still haven’t got over that time in Mistport when the Wampyr called Abbott turned out to be one of your exes.”

“He was a mistake.”

“And nowhere near the first or the last, by all accounts.”

Hazel glared at him. “Who’s been talking?”

“Practically everybody. The gossip columnists love you. You’ve got your own magazine on the Matrix Internet. With daily updates.”

“You haven’t been reading that rubbish, have you?”

“Nah. I just look at the pictures.”

 

When they finally disembarked, in the great city known as the Parade of the Endless, home to Golgotha’s remaining government, Owen and Hazel found themselves beseiged by a crowd of reporters. Most of the major news organizations were represented, and all of the minor ones with stringers on Golgotha. Owen and Hazel’s exploits were always news, and the reports trickling in on what they’d found and done on Virimonde had raised the journalists’ expectations to the boiling point. They surged around Owen and Hazel, shouting their questions, while cameras swooped and dived overhead, searching for the best shots. Interviewers tried to elbow each other out of the way, and fistfights broke out at the back. Even so, no one got too close to Owen or Hazel. They’d learned better, usually the hard way. Hazel hadn’t actually killed a reporter yet, but the smart money was on when rather than if. There were even betting pools on some of the more obnoxious tabloid characters.

Owen waited patiently for them to calm down a little and sort out their own seniority, while Hazel glared furiously in all directions and kept her hands worryingly near her weapons. It did absolutely nothing for her temper that most of her questions these days tended to be pointed inquiries about her relationship with the revered Deathstalker. She’d tried being facetious, but they just reported everything she said as fact. She’d tried hitting everyone who brought up the subject, but the others just filmed her doing it. Mostly these days she just settled for “no comment,” or a similar two-word answer, the second of which was usually “off.” It didn’t help her temper at all that Owen found the whole business vastly amusing, and always winked at the cameras when he said his “no comment.”

And then one of the reporters brought up the recent Deathstalker movie, and cranked up the tension a whole other notch.

The rebellion hadn’t been finished a week before the first documentaries had hit the holoscreens—feature-length films cobbled together from film footage of varying clarity and integrity. But as people have always preferred the comforts of Romance to the dry facts of History, it wasn’t long before the documentaries were roughly shouldered from the holoscreens by the first Deathstalker movie. Action-packed and vastly simplified, it made billions of credits for all concerned, except those on whose lives it was based, and was quickly followed by many more, of varying quality and accuracy. From Toby Shreck’s prize-winning coverage to wild fantasies that didn’t even always get the names right, the public ate it all up with spoons.

The most recent, and most popular of all, movie claimed to be a biography of Owen Deathstalker, in which he was portrayed throughout as a saintly and selfless hero, and his associate Hazel d’Ark was a murderous psychopath, barely restrained from constant mayhem and bloodshed by her undying doglike devotion to Owen.

Owen and Hazel were sent free tickets to the premiere, so they went to see it, entirely unsuspecting. Owen laughed so much he hurt himself, and was finally asked to leave by an usher, because he was disturbing the rest of the audience. Hazel stuck it out to the end, gripping the arms of her chair so tightly that her hands ached. When the film was finally over, she set fire to the cinema. Luckily Owen got to her before the city guards did, and hustled her away while the firefighters were still trying to keep the fire from spreading. He then took away all her weapons, wrestled her to the ground, and sat on her until she promised not to hunt down and kill everyone concerned with making the movie. As Owen very reasonably pointed out, such actions would only tend to vindicate the movie’s portrayal of her.

It hadn’t helped that Owen had been played by a major star and heart-throb, while Hazel had been played by an exporn star with more looks than talent and a quite astonishing cleavage.

So, when a reporter in full battle armor raised the question of the movie, everyone else backed hastily away so that blood wouldn’t get on them. Hazel grabbed a hovering camera out of midair and threw it with devastating accuracy. It hit the reporter right between the eyes and knocked him cold. Owen moved quickly in and pinned her arms to her sides from behind. The reporters watched interestedly from what they hoped was a safe distance until Owen had more or less calmed Hazel down, and then they edged forward again, stepping over the unconscious body of their fallen fellow seeker after truth and ratings. Sensibly, they changed the subject. Unfortunately, they picked merchandising.

The mass audience’s appetite for celebrity being what it was, even the endless series of movies and documentaries weren’t enough to satisfy their interest in the new heroes. They also showed an insatiable readiness to buy enough general junk based on the movies and their characters to cover a small moon several miles deep. Said junk ranged from the truly tasteless to the appallingly cheap and nasty, and Owen and Hazel did their best to take no notice of any of it, as long as their royalties kept coming in. That was about to change.

“Have we seen what?” said Owen, and then rather wished he hadn’t, as the reporter held up a small plastic figure.

“There’s a whole line of them,” said the reporter cheerfully. “Fully posable action figures, of all the main characters in the rebellion. They’re very popular. Especially the Empress figure. People like to do terrible things to it.”

He produced more of the figures and passed them forward for Owen and Hazel to examine. They were cast in bright primary colors, with identical muscular figures and politely generic faces. Certainly they resembled absolutely no one Owen knew. He looked at Hazel.

“Did we authorize these?”

“Who knows?” said Hazel, glaring at the huge breasts on the figure supposed to represent her. “We signed all kinds of agreements. I lost track.”

“They’re harmless enough,” said Owen. “Tacky but harmless.”

“Either way, we’d better check this out,” said Hazel. “There’s supposed to be a hell of a lot of money in this market, and if there is I want my share. Which one’s supposed to be Ruby?”

“Uh, the one with all the guns,” said the reporter.

“Nothing like her,” said Hazel. “And she couldn’t even carry that many weapons at once. She’d fall over. Mind you, with breasts that size, she’d probably fall over anyway. Hell, no one has breasts that size outside the House of Joy.”

“Is there a lot of this stuff out there?” said Owen, handing the toys back to the reporter.

“Well, yes, sir Deathstalker. There are lunch boxes, posters, games. . . . These are quite popular just at the moment.”

He dug into the pack he was carrying and brought out two foot-long dolls of Owen and Hazel. Their clothes were reasonably accurate, if not their faces, and at least the proportions were rather more human. The reporter pressed the speaker buttons on their backs. The Owen doll said,
“Fight for justice!”
The Hazel doll said,
“Kill! Kill! Kill!”
Somehow Hazel held on to her temper. She’d learned to recognize when she was being goaded. Owen had the sense to turn his beginning laughter into a not entirely convincing cough. The disappointed reporter decided it was time to play his trump card. If that didn’t get her going, he’d eat his union card. He put the dolls back in his pack and casually brought out the last items.

“And there are, of course, these.” And he held up two cuddly furry toys in Owen and Hazel costumes.

“A furry toy? ”
said Hazel in tones that suggested imminent thermonuclear meltdown.
“They’ve turned me into a furry toy? ”

Everyone held their breath and decided which way they were going to jump when the shit started flying. The cameras would still get the best shots for them. Assuming they survived whatever appalling thing was about to happen. And then Owen reached out to the sweating reporter and took a toy in each hand.

“ I think they’re rather cute.”

“ You
like
these monstrosities? ” said Hazel.

“Well, I wouldn’t necessarily want one on my pillow, but I definitely want a piece of this action. We are talking major revenues here.”

Hazel calmed down visibly as she considered this. “Yeah . . . Could be. Kids go crazy for this kind of crap. One good Christmas and we could be set up for life.”

Owen smiled inwardly. When in doubt, you could always distract Hazel with talk of money.

The reporters reluctantly decided there wasn’t going to be any action after all, and heaved quiet disappointed sighs. Some even recalled their cameras. The agent provocateur reporter glumly took his fluffy toys back, stuffed them into his bag, and tried to remember if he’d kept all the receipts so he could get his money back. Everyone started to drift away. And then the representative from Parliament arrived, and everything went to hell in a handcart.

It was a fairly typical Parliament rep, all things considered. A jumped-up civil servant, promoted way out of his depth because there weren’t enough warm bodies to go round, trying to convince everyone that he was as important as the messages and instructions he carried. This particular fellow was dressed well beyond what should have been his means, surmounted by the traditional courier’s red sash and a distinctly snotty attitude. He strode forward, the reporters falling back before him, and planted himself before Owen and Hazel. He stuck his nose in the air and glared at them both, just to remind them of their real place in the scheme of things, and then launched into his prepared speech without even bothering to introduce himself.

“Sir Deathstalker, Miss d’Ark, you are commanded to present yourselves before Parliament at this evening’s session, to report on your mission to Virimonde. Parliament wishes to express in advance its extreme displeasure that not only have you failed to bring back any of the rebel Lords alive, but you also allowed that most detestable villain Valentine Wolfe to escape justice entirely. You are required to make full explanations of these shortcomings. Also, you can forget about your bonuses.”

All the cameras started zooming in again. The reporters knew a storm was brewing when they saw one. So Owen decided to try reasoning with the man just to annoy them.

“We did put an end to the abominable practices on Virimonde,” he said mildly. “Charnel House is no more. The dead have been avenged. And we did nip in the bud a most dangerous plot against the Empire. Not bad for one day’s work.”

The representative sniffed. It was a loud, arrogant, and entirely obnoxious sound. He’d clearly put a lot of practice into it. “All that matters is you failed to carry out Parliament’s demands. What you may or may not have done other than your instructions is utterly irrelevant.”

Owen and Hazel looked at each other. “After you,” said Hazel generously.

“ Thank you,” said Owen. He stepped forward, smiled at the representative, and punched him out. The unfortunate fellow stretched his length on the unforgiving surface of the landing pad and lay there, twitching quietly. Owen smiled at the reporters. “You just have to know how to talk to these people. Did everyone get that, or shall I pick him up and do it again? ”

The reporters said they’d got it just fine the first time, thank you very much, and then started firing questions at Owen and Hazel over these new details on their last mission. In particular they wanted to know just what the hell the Charnel House plot had been, and what the infamous Valentine Wolfe had had to do with it. The group interview then rapidly deteriorated into a bidding war for exclusive rights to the full story. Fistfights broke out among the reporters, and Owen and Hazel took the opportunity to make a quiet exit. The rep seemed to be stirring, so Hazel kicked him somewhere particularly painful, just on general principles.

“You know, you’d have thought they’d have learned to wear body armor by now,” said Owen.

“Must be a new guy.”

“Well, if he doesn’t learn better manners soon, he’s never going to be an old guy. Let me just check if he’s got any written orders on him.”

Owen knelt beside the quietly moaning man and frisked him thoroughly, coming up with a set of sealed orders with his name on them. Hazel frowned.

“ That’s another thing. How come my name’s never on these things? ”

“They wouldn’t dare,” said Owen. He broke the wax seal, studied the brief message, fashionably written in real pen and ink, and scowled fiercely. “Damn. They’ve arranged another parade for us. Right now, on our way to Parliament. I hate parades.”