Deathstalker War

ramshackle building that housed the Abraxus Information Center. Abraxus knew everything that was going on in Mistport, sometimes even before the people concerned knew it. Abraxus could answer all your questions, soothe your worries or confirm your worst nightmares, for the right price.

It wasn't much to look at. Abraxus had the first floor over a family bakery. There was no sign advertising its presence. Everyone knew where Abraxus was. The last time Owen had been here he'd learned many things, some useful, some disturbing. Among other things, Abraxus had told him how he would die.

I see you, Deathstalker. Destiny has you in its clutches, struggle how you may. You will tumble an Empire, see the end of everything you ever believed in, and you'll do it all for a love you'll never know. And when it's over, you'll die alone, far from friends and succor.

Owen shuddered suddenly, his hackles rising as the words whispered in his head again. Even the best precogs were wrong as often as they were right, or they'd have been running the Empire by now, but even so he found the prophecy disturbing. No hints, no riddles, no hidden meanings—just a blunt description of his future and his death. He liked to think he would press on anyway, doing what he knew to be right and damn the consequences, but… he had to talk to Abraxus again. A lot had happened since his last trip to Mistworld, not least his passing through the Madness Maze. That had to change things. In many ways he was a completely new person now.

'Hell,' he said finally. 'Everyone knows you can't trust precogs.'

'So whom do you trust?' said Ozymandius in his ear.

'I wish you'd stop talking to me. You know very well you're dead.'

'So maybe I'm haunting you. Answer the question. Whom do you trust these days? Hazel threw you out to be with Silver, Young Jack Random may or may not be who he says he is, and Jenny Psycho is living in a different reality from the rest of us. Whom can you trust?'

'Not you, anyway. I trust the real Jack Random to do what's best for the rebellion. I trust Ruby to back him up right down the line, as long as there's the promise of plenty of loot. I trust Giles to uphold the Deathstalker name. And I trust Hazel to do the right thing, in the end.'

'And Silver?'

'Hazel will go her own way. I've always known that.'

'I remain unconvinced,' said Oz. 'Jack Random is mostly famous for getting his ass handed to him on planet after planet, Ruby Journey was a bounty hunter, and therefore not to be trusted on general principles, and Giles's beliefs and aims are nine hundred years out of date. You never were very good at picking your companions, Owen. Hazel is up to something. You know that, deep down.'

'Hazel is always up to something. And for a dead AI, you're extremely cynical. You never did approve of my friends, even when you were alive. The bottom line is, I trust my companions because I have to. My only hope for survival is to throw Lionstone off the Iron Throne. For that I need a rebellion, and for that I need allies.'

'Is that the only reason you're fighting to change the way things are?' said Oz quietly.

'No. I've seen too much of the everyday evil and suffering the Empire is based on. I can't look away anymore. Things must change; even if it means my life.'

'You mean your death. What are you going to replace the Empire with? What else do you know but the privilege of aristocracy, and the rule of the Families?'

'Beats me,' said Owen. 'Let's win the war first. We can argue about whatever the hell comes next once we're safe from Lionstone's spite. Whatever we end up with, it can't be worse than what we've got.'

'Famous last words,' said the AI calmly. 'You're an historian, Owen. You know what happens after rebellions. The winning side turn on each other and fight to the death to determine which particular faction will replace the old order. Either way, the odds are the victors will have little use for a dyed-in-the-blood aristo like you. You could end up plunging the Empire into a civil war that could last for centuries and leave planets burning in the endless night.'

'You know, you've got really depressing since you died. And what do you care, anyway? There'll always be a use for an AI.'

'I don't care,' said Oz easily. 'I was just making conversation.'

'Well, shut up then. I have business with Abraxus, and I can't talk to you there. They wouldn't understand about dead AIs.'

Oz chuckled briefly and fell silent. Owen looked casually around to see if anyone was watching, then clambered up the rickety exterior stairs to the upper-floor entrance. The place needed a good coat of paint the last time he'd been there, and time had not improved its appearence. Patches of rising damp showed clearly in the wood, and the simple brass nameplate on the door, saying simply Abraxus, clearly hadn't been polished in weeks. Maybe months. There was a distinct smell of cat urine, which rather puzzled Owen, as he hadn't seen a cat all day. There was no bell, of course. Owen hammered on the door with his fist and kicked it a few times for good measure. It made him feel better. After a pause just long enough to make sure Owen understood his place, the door swung open, and the man called Chance filled the doorway. He looked Owen over, then gestured for him to enter. Owen did so, his head held high.

The place hadn't changed. Two lines of ramshackle cots filled the long narrow room, pressed close together, with a narrow aisle down the center. On the cots lay dozing children, from four or five years old to emaciated, spindly teenagers. Intravenous drips fed nutrients into their veins, and catheters carried everything else away into grimy jars. Some of the children were covered in blankets, while others had thrown them off. A few were strapped down. There was a strong pervasive smell of cheap disinfectant and rubbing alcohol. The children were espers, brain damaged as often as not, too weak to survive on a harsh world like Mistworld. Chance bought them from their parents and used their esp abilities to spread a telepathic web over all of Mistport, seeing and hearing everything. And that was Abraxus. Chance kept the children alive as long as he could; it was in his interest to do so. But none of them ever survived to adulthood. They were the weak and the damaged, the broken and the abused, and by the time Chance got his hands on them, it was already too late. It didn't affect Abraxus. There were always more. The children were loyal to Chance, sleeping and awake; he was the nearest thing to a friend most of them had ever known.

Owen shook his head slowly, but wouldn't let himself look away. The first time he'd been here he'd been sickened to his soul. He'd wanted to tear the place apart, and Chance with it, but he hadn't. Much as he hated to admit it, Abraxus was the best these children—genetically damaged and idiot savant espers with terrible pasts and little future—could hope for.

Just another product of Empire rule. Owen turned to glare at Chance, founder and manager of the Abraxus Information Center. Chance was a large muscular man, almost as broad as he was tall, wearing black leathers with metal studs. Half his face was hidden behind a complex and very ugly tattoo. His smile was meaningless, his eyes were too bright, and he didn't blink often enough. Owen often wondered if Chance had been crazy before he started Abraxus, or if endless exposure to death and suffering had sent him over the edge. Either way, Owen maintained a safe distance, and kept his hand near his sword. Chance nodded abruptly to him.

'Knew you'd be back, Deathstalker. What can I do for you this time?'

'Don't you know?' said Owen. 'You must be slipping, Chance. I have questions that need answering.'

'That's what we're here for,' said Chance. 'I feel I should point out you exhausted all your credit the last time you honored us with your presence. And my prices have risen dramatically. You understand how it is; small businesses always have to fight to stay afloat.'

'Your business exists because my father's money made it possible,' Owen said flatly. 'Technically, as his only heir, I inherited Abraxus.'

'You were outlawed,' said Chance. 'All assets attached to the Deathstalker name were confiscated by the Empress. And besides, this is Mistport, where possession is every part of the law. Abraxus is mine.'

Owen smiled humorlessly. 'I think you have me confused with someone who gives a damn. I'm back in Mistport to revitalize the old Deathstalker information network, and make it part of the ongoing rebellion again. And that very definitely includes you and Abraxus. Since, for my sins, I'm one of the people currently leading the rebellion, Abraxus answers to me. So if you want to keep your presumably very well paid managerial position, I strongly suggest you stop pissing me about. Got it?'

'You couldn't run Abraxus without me,' said Chance. 'The children are mine, body and soul.'

'They'd soon get over you. Children are so very… adaptable, after all.'

Chance thought about it. 'You'd risk ruining my operation, just to get control?'

'Of course,' said Owen. 'I'm a Deathstalker. We have a long history of getting our way, and to hell with where