Deathstalker Honor (14 page)

“ Yeah, but the people love them.” Hazel shrugged as Owen got to his feet and dropped the orders onto the rep’s chest. “ It’s no big deal, Owen. Just smile and wave and try to look heroic. And remember, you’re supposed to kiss the babies and pat them on the head. Not perform an impromptu exorcism on the grounds it’s
supernaturally ugly
.”

Owen sniggered. “I was bored. You like all this public-acclaim shit. I just wish they’d all go away and leave me alone. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like being stared at. And I hate doing autographs. Last time my hand ached for a week.”

“Just relax and enjoy it. We earned this. Let them worship us if they want to.”

“All right, let’s get it over with,” said Owen resignedly. “Then we can make our report to Parliament, answer a whole lot of stupid and unnecessary questions, and heroically refrain from shooting a whole bunch of people too stupid to live. And maybe then we’ll be allowed to go home, crash out, and get some sleep.”

“Right,” said Hazel. “ I could sleep for a week.”

“He was right, you know,” Owen said quietly. “ It wasn’t exactly our most successful mission.”

“Hush, Owen,” said Hazel. “Your people were avenged. Settle for that. Now, let’s go. Our admirers await.”

She clapped him once on the shoulder and led the way off the landing pad. Owen followed her, dragging his feet all the way.

 

The parade’s organizers had thoughtfully provided a gravity sled for them, and Owen and Hazel floated down the main street, just high enough to be out of reach of the crowd’s grasping hands. There had been unfortunate incidents in the past, and after Hazel showed an understandable but regrettably violent way of dealing with fans, it was decided that everyone concerned would be a whole lot safer if the crowd’s heroes were kept up out of reach.

Owen smiled and waved like an automoton, and distanced himself from the din and bedlam as best he could by concentrating on the report he was going to make to Parliament. He’d never liked crowds. People staring at him made him feel nervous and self-conscious. Once, in his old life, when he’d had to make a speech to a gathering of historical scholars, he’d locked himself in the toilet for so long they’d had to send someone to ask if he was all right. It should be different now. He was a man of power and destiny. Everyone said so. He’d fought his way through whole armies of Imperial troops and never once hesitated.

It didn’t make any difference. He still hated being stared at.

It didn’t help that Hazel had really gotten into it, and was waving and smiling and turning back and forth so everyone could get a good look at her. A whole group of Hazel look-alikes were chanting her name and squealing ecstatically whenever she smiled in their direction. Some were even women. Someone threw her a long-stemmed rose. She caught it deftly, avoiding the thorns, and blew the thrower a kiss. The crowd loved that. Owen pretended he hadn’t noticed, while noting grumpily that no one was throwing him roses. Not that he wanted any, of course. It was just the principle of the thing.

Rebuilding was going on all around, as houses and shops and offices damaged or destroyed during the last great battle in the city were still being repaired. Workers in antigrav slings high up on the sides of buildings leaned dangerously out of their harnesses to shout coarse comments at Hazel. She shouted even coarser ones back. They loved it. Cameras were shooting back and forth overhead, and occasionally getting into butting contests over the best angles.

Owen smiled till his teeth ached—and kept a constant suspicious eye on the unfinished surrounding buildings for potential snipers. The adulation of the crowd was all very well, but there were a lot of people out there who would love to see Owen and Hazel conveniently dead, for all sorts of reasons. And besides, the approval of the crowds didn’t fool him. He knew what was behind some of it. With so many dead on both sides, for the first time ever transplants were now available for everyone. Even with the extremely long waiting queues, people who would otherwise have been left to die now had new hope. And all because of the many people dead because of Owen and Hazel.

There was an even darker side than that to the adulation. Inspired by Owen’s and Hazel’s more than human abilities, many in the general populace had been moved to “improve” themselves by all means possible. These Maze wannabes had taken to Blood, tech implants, and supplantive surgery with an enthusiasm that bordered on the macabre. Owen didn’t approve and did his best to keep an eye on the trend. He hadn’t saved Humanity from the Empress Lionstone just to see them turn themselves into minor-league Hadenmen.

The parade seemed to go on forever, but eventually they came to the centuries-old building that housed Parliament. Since no one had taken Parliament at all seriously for centuries, the great square building was tucked away in an usually quiet backwater, and the general fighting and destruction had largely passed it by. The tall stone walls were overgrown with thick mats of ivy that no one ever dared prune because of the very real possibility that it was only the ivy that was holding the old building together.

As Owen and Hazel approached Parliament, troops moved in to hold back the crowds as Owen and Hazel stepped down from the gravity sled and made their way hurriedly into the lobby of the old building. The great oaken doors shut firmly behind them, and Owen breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Facing an undoubtedly hostile Parliament didn’t bother him nearly as much as hysterical crowds shouting they loved him and wanted to have his babies.

Waiting servants bowed to Owen and Hazel, and led them to the great outer Chamber, where everyone with business before Parliament was waiting with varying degrees of patience for the evening session to get under way. Parliament drew even more would-be movers and shakers than Lionstone’s Court had, not least because Parliament wasn’t likely to kill you if they thought you shouldn’t be there. They’d just bore you to death.

Everyone knew Parliament had inherited the day-to-day running of the Empire pretty much by accident. All the other contenders had been so busy fighting each other that they effectively cancelled each other out, and only Parliament was left. So far they were doing as good a job as anybody else might have. The two hundred and fifty MPs who made up Parliament, elected by all those above a certain yearly income who could be bothered to vote, hadn’t had any real power in centuries, and reacted to their new status with varying enthusiasm. Some threw themselves into the job with gusto, determined to show what they could do, given a chance. Others reacted strongly at the very thought of actually having to work for a living, and drew so far back into their shells that no amount of coaxing could convince them to come out. Most cheerfully advertised themselves for sale to the highest bidder. Some even floated themselves on the stock exchange. Certainly there was no shortage of organizations, factions, and powerful individuals trying to influence the MPs, so much so that armed guards had had to be installed in and around Parliament to keep the peace. Especially during budget debates.

Outside Parliament, things were getting really violent. Realizing too late that Parliament had seized the only real political ground, the various remaining factions had taken to deciding quarrels between themselves by brute force. The body counts rose every day, as swords, guns, bombs, and poison decided who was currently on top. The authorities had stopped even trying to enforce the peace, except during the morning and evening rush hours. Both sides bandied the word
terrorist
freely, while plotting atrocities of their own. Owen and Hazel had considered getting involved, and killing lots of people until the others got the point, but Jack Random had quietly talked them out of it. No one wanted to risk giving the factions the only thing they might actually unite behind; namely the assassination of Owen Deathstalker and Hazel d’Ark.

The only real competition Parliament had as a governing body were the ongoing war trials, presided over by leading figures from the various rebel undergrounds. Under Lionstone’s corrupt rule all kinds of atrocities had become commonplace. People could disappear for any or no reason and never be seen again. Torture and murder had been everyday matters of state under the Iron Bitch. Once she fell, and the rebel leaders had access to the Palace records, the names of these vile murderers and torturers became known, and a long-delayed vengeance began. The underground put their faces on holovision, along with their addresses, and they were dragged from their rich apartments or hunted through the streets. Many met bloody and awful ends, and the rest hurried to surrender themselves to the authorities. They still thought they could cut themselves deals by betraying each other, and realized too late that they were to be shown no more mercy than they had shown to their countless victims. The war trials had begun within hours of Lionstone’s fall, and were holovised every day in full so that the people could see justice being done. The trials went on and on, and there seemed no shortage of the accused, no matter how fast the courts hanged them. The public hangings attracted huge, mostly silent crowds, as though the people needed to see the bastards die for themselves before they could believe it to be true.

The courts released details of the victims’ fates as fast as they could. There were just so many of them.

Parliament was more than a little jealous of the war trials, both for the power they wielded and the attention they took away from Parliament’s sessions, but they knew better than to interfere. Even more than justice, the people needed vengeance.

Owen and Hazel came to the great Chamber, the last room before entering onto the floor of the House itself. The Chamber was separated from Parliament proper by an ancient massive oaken door that by long tradition was only ever opened from the inside. The MPs used this privilege to keep people waiting as long as possible, to remind them of their place in the new scheme of things—a practice they’d borrowed from Lionstone, though that of course was never mentioned. As always, the great room was packed, and the noise was deafening. Everyone was looking for contacts, trying to make a deal or talk up some new opportunity. There were no holo images; everyone had to be there in person. In these days of clones, aliens, and Fury imposters, people liked to be sure of exactly who they were talking with. Esp-blockers were installed in hidden locations just to keep everyone honest, and to hell with whether it upset the espers.

When Owen and Hazel made their entrance, everything stopped. All eyes turned in their direction, and the gabble of voices died quickly away to nothing. Owen and Hazel looked calmly about them in the silence and inclined their heads politely. Everyone turned away, and the babble of conversations resumed. No one was interested in talking to the Deathstalker or the d’Ark woman. It wasn’t safe. For all kinds of reasons. Owen and Hazel moved unhurriedly forward into the Chamber, and everyone made room for them.

“ The usual warm greeting,” said Owen, not caring if anyone overheard.

“Ungrateful bastards,” said Hazel, and looked hopefully to see if anyone present was stupid enough to take offense.

“They do have their reasons for not liking us,” said Owen more quietly. “Heroes and role models are supposed to be pure and unsullied. I fear we came as something of a disappointment.”

“My heart bleeds,” said Hazel. “ I never claimed to be a hero. For two pins I’d walk out of here and Parliament could whistle for its report. Hell, for three pins I’d burn the place down as well before I left.”

“Steady, steady,” murmured Owen, smiling unconcernedly so everyone could see. “Don’t let them get to you. They’d take it as a sign of weakness.”

Hazel sniffed. “Anyone sees me as weak and tries to take advantage of it, they’ll be carrying their lungs home in a bucket.”

“Get your hand away from your sword, dammit. You can’t kill anyone here. Duels are forbidden. You even start to draw your sword, and half a hundred guards will appear from everywhere. Even we’re not exempt. I do wish you’d keep up on the changes here, Hazel.”

“Ah, you know you love a chance to make speeches to me. Besides, I could handle half a hundred guards.”

Owen sighed. “Yes, you probably could, but that’s not the point. We are trying to make a good impression.”

“Since when? ”

“Since we failed to bring back Valentine Wolfe for trial yet again.”

Hazel shrugged. “Is it okay if I just half kill someone? ”

“If you must. Only try to do it when the holovision cameras aren’t looking. We really don’t need any more bad publicity.”

Hazel looked about her. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen so many cameras here before. Either Parliament’s got something really juicy lined up, or someone told them we were coming. Hello, I spy a familiar face.”

And she plunged off into the crowd, shouldering people out of her way if they didn’t move fast enough. Owen followed after, murmuring polite apologies as he went. It was a practice he was growing increasingly used to. The familiar face turned out to be Tobias Shreck, accompanied as always by his cameraman Flynn. Owen joined Hazel in greeting them, smiling genuinely for the first time since he’d entered the Chamber. Toby Shreck had been a news reporter during the rebellion, and had demonstrated an uncanny ability to turn up in just the right place at the right time, with Flynn always there at his shoulder to broadcast it all live. They’d covered a lot of the fighting Owen and Hazel had been involved in, and had even been there when the rebels finally threw down the Empress Lionstone and destroyed the Iron Throne forever.

Toby looked much the same as ever, a fat, perspiring butterball of a man with slicked-down blond hair and a ready smile. He was wearing fashionable clothes of the very finest cut, tailored to disguise as much of his great girth as possible, but they didn’t suit him. He was more used to the easy casualness of combat fatigues, and it showed. Flynn was the same tall, gangling sort, with a deceptively honest face. A quiet, retiring sort in the field, he tended to fade into the background when working, a useful trait when people were firing guns all around you.