Deathstalker Rebellion

The real struggle for power and influence will take place after that. There's always a need for people like me. And who knows; just maybe the price of my future support will be Evie's return, and your head on a spike.'

'In your dreams, little man,' said Finlay. 'We're fighting this rebellion to get rid of people like you. Right, Random?'

'Shut the hell up, both of you!' Random glared from Finlay to Gregor and back again. 'Play dominance games on your own time. The longer this meeting continues, the more likely it is the Empire will discover us. Now, does anyone else want to speak in support of the Cause?'

'I offer the support of Clan Deathstalker,' said David, smiling coldly at Owen. 'I am the Lord of Virimonde, and its resources can be placed at the rebellion's disposal. We're a long way out from the center. It'll be some time before they notice anything.'

'Virimonde's only yours till I come to take it back,' said Owen. 'Don't make yourself too comfortable, David. You aren't going to be there long.'

'You have no right to anything there, whatever happens in the rebellion,' said David. 'I'm the Deathstalker now, and you're nobody. I will defend what's mine against all enemies.'

'I wouldn't be too sure about that,' said Owen, smiling coldly. 'As I recall, the Lordship of Virimonde is part of the price on my head. All someone has to do is kill me, and Lionstone will make him Lord of Virimonde. Your Standing's built on sand, David. And the tide's coming in.'

'If the rebellion wants the continuous food and supplies my planet can provide, they will acknowledge me as the rightful Lord, now and hereafter,' said David. 'No one individual is greater than the cause. Right, Random?'

'Yes,' said Random. 'I'm sorry, Owen.'

David smiled smugly at Owen. 'All traces of your brief reign have been removed. Soon, no one will remember you were ever Lord. It isn't as though you made much of an impact on the place. Hidden away in your Standing, writing histories no one ever read. I, on the other hand, have great plans for Virimonde. I'll make the name Deathstalker great again.'

Owen seethed silently. The thought of this young usurper living in his Standing, sleeping in his bed, and drinking the best wines from his cellar drove him almost to apoplexy, but somehow he kept his peace. Much as he hated to admit it, Random was right. The rebellion had to take preference over a personal quarrel. He was still searching for something diplomatic to say when Giles stepped forward, fixing David with an implacable stare.

'The Deathstalker name has always been great, boy. You just have to live up to the rest of us. If you want to prove yourself, do it on the field of battle, as Deathstalkers always have. In the meantime, you and Owen make peace. You're Family. You're bound together by blood and honor and nine hundred years of tradition. You're both my children, in every way that matters, and I won't have you at daggers drawn. Now, make your peace or I'll bang your heads together.'

Owen had to smile. The original Deathstalker had a way of getting to the heart of things. Family was more important than politics, and always would be. Causes come and go, politics mutate and evolve, but the Family goes on. He nodded brusquely to David.

'I don't want to see you dead, David. I doubt very much we're ever going to like each other, but you're still Family. Just remember that although you currently have everything I had, the Iron Bitch can take it away from you in a moment, just like she took it from me. Watch your back. And watch your own security people, too. They were the first to turn on me when I was outlawed. See me afterward, and I'll tell you about a way out they don't know about.'

'Thanks for the advice,' said David. 'I'll bear it in mind.' He looked back at Jack Random. 'Kit SummerIsle and I represent a great many others of our generation: younger sons who'll never inherit and are… impatient with the way things are. Many of them have made careers in the army and the fleet, and they might just throw in their lot with the rebellion if they were offered the right incentives.'

'Talk to them,' said Random. 'But be careful what you promise. None of us can look too far into the future at this point.'

And then he broke off as a group of six men moved purposefully through the crowd toward him, their hologram signals so strong they forced all others aside. People cursed and spluttered, but the six men ignored them. They were tall and willowy, albinos with milk-white skin and hair and bloodred eyes. They wore long robes of swirling colors, and their faces had been savagely ritually scarred. Everyone knew who they were, who they had to be. The Blood Runners were infamous in deed and legend. They were based in the Obeah systems, a small group of planets out on the Rim, united by a dark and ancient religion based on blood and suffering and possession by deceased ancestors. Murderous fanatics, and proud of it. They were branded as heretics by the established Church long ago, but no one did anything about it. The Blood Runners had a hand in every dirty and illegal trade in the Empire, and their reach was very long. They dealt in everything from Wampyr Blood to clonelegging to slavery, and bowed their pale heads to no one. They came to a halt before Random, who studied them thoughtfully.

'Wonderful,' he said finally. 'More complications. What the hell are you doing here? You weren't on the guest list. Hell, you people aren't on anybody's guest list. If you turned up at a funeral, the corpse would walk out on you. In case I'm not hinting strongly enough, get the hell out of here, before we have to have the place fumigated. The rebellion will never be so badly off that we'll turn to you for support.'

'Harsh words from a tired old man,' said the leader of the Obeah delegation. 'I am Scour; I speak for the Blood Runners. We are a people of one race and one religion, with roots far older than your revered Empire Families. We are proud and honorable, according to our traditions, and we have never bent the knee to Lionstone, or any who preceded her. We come to offer our support to the rebellion. We are wealthy. You are welcome to take what you need.'

Random licked his lips. His mouth was very dry. Scour's voice was a harsh whisper, full of age and pain, like the dusky breath of an ancient mummy. Random remembered some of the uncanny things he'd heard about the Blood Runners, and suddenly they didn't seem nearly so unlikely. He didn't want their help. Didn't want anything from them. But the rebellion needed backers.

'I take it there's a price for your support,' he said finally. 'What did you have in mind?'

'To be left alone. We have our own ways, which have endured for centuries beyond counting, and we have no wish to change. Lionstone's new measures threaten our independence. In return for the gifts we offer, we require only to be left in peace. Disapprove if you must, but do it from a distance.'

'What's the catch?' said Random.

'There is one other thing,' said Scour. 'A matter of honor. One of your people owes us a debt.' The Blood Runners all turned their dead-white faces to stare at Hazel d'Ark. Scour took one step toward her. 'You are the only survivor of the starship Shard. The Captain of that vessel made a pact with us. Promises were made and help provided in return for future payment. The Captain and the rest of the crew are dead. As the only survivor, the debt is now yours, Hazel d'Ark, and it is past time for repayment.' He looked back at Random. 'We require you to hand this woman over to us.'

'Don't waste your time,' said Hazel. 'Whatever price Captain Markee agreed to. I wasn't consulted, and I didn't agree to it. Besides, I couldn't pay it. I'm broke.'

'We don't want money,' said Scour. 'Your Captain made an agreement with us. The Shard was to provide us with fresh bodies; a percentage of those acquired during your work as cloneleggers. We always have a need for fresh bodies. Our customs and researches tend to use them up quite quickly. We cannot overlook the debt. That would be dishonorable. So we must have our pound of flesh. You will come with us, Hazel d'Ark, and we will make good use of you. While you last.'

'Like hell you will,' said Owen, and his voice cracked across the silence, cold and hard and very deadly. 'Hazel's my friend; no one threatens her while I'm here.'

'Thank you, Owen,' said Hazel, 'but I can speak for myself.' She glared at the Blood Runners. 'Your deal was with Markee, and he's dead. You never made any deal with me, so I don't owe you squat. You're not getting your hands on me. I've heard about people who end up in your laboratories. They end up begging for death to stop the pain.'

'What is pain,' said Scour, 'when the goal is knowledge? We are unlocking the secrets of life and death. You should be honored to assist us.'

'Take your honor and stick it,' said Hazel. 'You're not cutting me up an inch at a time.'

'Yes we will,' said Scour. 'It has been agreed. It is immutable, fixed, inevitable.'

'Crazy as well as ugly,' said Owen. 'Get out of my sight. There's nothing for you here.'