Deathstalker War

trouble. Any questions?'

'Come in. Lord Deathstalker,' said the man at the head of the table. 'We've been expecting you.'

'Yeah,' said Owen. 'I'll just bet you have.' He looked back at Chance. 'Find a chair, sit down, and keep quiet. I don't want any distractions.'

'Suits me,' said Chance. 'I wouldn't miss this for the world. But you are strictly on your own now, Deathstalker.'

The six men glared at Chance as he pulled up a chair and sat down in a far corner, where he could see everything but stay well out of the line of fire. Owen moved to stand at the end of the long table, and all their eyes snapped back to him. He looked from one scowling face to another, taking his time. He didn't recognize any of them, but he knew men of influence and power when he saw them. Not just from their perfect tailoring and extra weight, but in their attitude. Their untouched confidence. They were annoyed at his arrival, but not concerned. They weren't afraid of him. They'd been rich and secure for so long they'd got out of the habit of being afraid of anyone. Owen smiled briefly. He'd change that.

And if they reminded him just a little of himself, the way he used to be before he was shocked awake, then that just made it all the worse for them.

'Would you like me to identify these people?' said Oz. 'I have all their details in my data banks.'

'Sure,' said Owen, subvocalizing. 'Make yourself useful for once. Hold on a minute—data banks? Where is your hardware these days?'

'Don't get personal. And pay attention; I'm not running through all this twice. We'll start at the left and go clockwise. Beginning with Artemis Daley, a man of many trades. He's a supplier, a fixer. You want it, he can get it for you. Legal or illegal are petty considerations that have never bothered him. If you're late with the payments, he's the one who sends around the legbreakers to reason with you.

'Next to him, we have Timothy Neeson, banker. He owns this building, and a lot more of Mistport. Number one in a very small field, which means that locally he's very powerful. Nothing of an economic nature takes place in Mistport without him taking a cut somewhere along the line. Next to him is Walt Robbins, the biggest landlord in Mistport. He owns everything the banks don't. Specializes in slums and sweathouses, because that's where the most money is.

'Moving down the other side of the table we have Thomas Stacey. Acts as a lawyer for everyone else here, and for anyone else with enough money to meet his exacting standards. Never lost a case, and that has nothing to do with his legal skills. And finally we come to Matthew Connelly and Padraig MacGowan. Connelly owns and runs the docks, everything from the starport to the landing bays on the River Autumn, and MacGowan runs the dock union. Between them they keep things running smoothly, irrespective of who gets hurt in the process. And there you have the movers and shakers of Mistport, in all their sleazy glory. If you killed all of them right now, the smell of Mistport would improve dramatically.'

'I never knew you knew so much about Mistport,' Owen subvocalized.

'Lot about me you don't know. I am large, I contain wonders.'

'Do you have something to say to us, Deathstalker?' said Neeson, the banker, a large fat man with a straining waistcoat. 'Or are you just going to stand there and stare at us all day?'

'Just gathering my thoughts,' said Owen. 'We have a lot of history between us, gentlemen. My father's money brought you to where you are today. Deathstalker money, originally intended to fund an information network here in Mistport. He put you into positions of power and influence so that you could keep track of things for him. Instead, you used his money to become major economic forces in this city, becoming so rich and powerful you forgot your original purpose. Or perhaps you simply decided that such things were no longer important to people as rich and powerful as yourselves.'

'Got it in one,' said Stacey, the lawyer, long and stringy, with broken veins prominent in his cheeks. 'And we've absolutely no intention of becoming politicized again. We don't think in such small ways anymore. We've made over our lives, and we like things fine just the way they are. Among us, we run Mistport; we are the economic lifeblood that keeps this society moving. Mess with us, even threaten us, and the whole city's economy would collapse. We'd see to that. People would lose their savings, money would become worthless, and people would starve as food piled up undistributed on the docks. You can't touch us, Deathstalker. All the people in Mistport would rise up and tear you apart if you even tried.'

'They'd get over it,' said Owen. 'Once they saw the old corrupt system being replaced by a fairer one.'

'Fairness is a relative concept,' said Robbins, the landlord, a short fat barrel of a man. 'There will always be rich and poor. We provide stability. You don't understand the economic realities of a rebel planet like Mistworld.'

'I understand greed,' said Owen. 'I understand treachery and self-interest. And I certainly understand bloodsucking scum when I see them.'

'That's good,' said Oz. 'Win them over with flattery.'

'We know why you're here,' said Daley, the fixer, a large hunched man with a brooding face. 'You want to take our lives away from us in the name of your rebellion and naive politics. Well, boy, you've come a long way for nothing. These days, our influence extends far beyond Mistworld, with investments on many worlds. Even Golgotha. Elias Gutman has been very helpful in shaping our portfolios. Yes, I thought you'd recognize that name. A man of real power and influence. He told us you were coming.'

'Gutman,' said Owen, as though the name was an obscenity. 'He's come crawling around the rebellion more than once, but I've always known his vested interests lie with the Empire. His information comes straight from the Empress herself. When you followed his advice, you did Lionstone's bidding, right here on the rebel planet. Can any of you say, 'conflict of interest'?'

'Money has no loyalties. Or politics,' said Neeson. 'Gutman has always been a good friend to us.'

'I'll bet he has,' said Owen, his voice getting colder all the time. 'And when his loans finally come due, you'll find the money by squeezing it out of the people here, who owe you. Whether they can afford it or not. And Mistworld will become just another planet bleeding itself dry to maintain Golgotha's wealth.'

He looked round the table, to be met only with flat stares or indifferent shrugs. 'That's business,' said Daley.

'That's injustice,' said Owen. 'And I have sworn an oath on my blood and on my honor to put an end to it. Which means putting an end to you, and your cosy little setup. Maybe I'll kill you all, and see if your heirs prove more reasonable to work with. Either way, your money will be used to support the rebellion, as it was always intended to be. As my father intended.'

'I don't think so,' said Neeson. 'Guards! Take him!'

Doors flew open on every side and a small army of guards came crashing in, armed with swords and axes and even a few disrupters. Owen subvocalized the word boost, and a familiar strength flooded through him. He felt almost supernaturally awake and aware, as though up till now he'd spent this life sleeping. He felt he could do anything, take any risk, and never pay the cost. Owen clamped down hard on that. It was the boost talking, not him. He was boosting too much and too often these days, despite the dangers, and he knew it, but he trusted to the Maze's changes to protect him from what would otherwise be crippling side effects. He had to; there was work to be done. The blood pounded in his head and in his sword arm, calling him on to battle, and he gave in to it with a smile that could just as easily have been a snarl.

The guards seemed almost to be moving in slow motion as he threw himself into the midst of them, knowing the few with disrupters wouldn't dare use them rashly for fear of hitting their own people. His sword flashed brightly as he swung it with inhuman strength and speed, and blood flew on the air. There were shouts and curses and hysterical orders from the six men around the table, and over it all came the sound of men screaming horribly as Owen's unstoppable blade worked butchery on their bodies. He moved among them like a deadly ghost, too fast to be stopped or even parried, his sword flashing in and out in a second. He seemed to be everywhere at once, hacking and cutting, and men fell howling in pain and horror before him. A man's arm fell to the floor, the hand still clutching desperately at nothing. Bodies fell to litter the blood-soaked carpet, and did not rise again. A disrupter blast scorched the great table from end to end, hitting no one, but leaving a long trail of burning wood behind it.

Owen was laughing now, though there was little humor in the sound. The battle raged from one end of the room to the other, blood splashing the walls till they all ran crimson. The six most powerful men in Mistport retreated from the burning table and huddled together in one corner of the room, watching with disbelief as one