They moved slowly inward from every side, creating paths of death and destruction, heading for the center of the city, block by block, street by street. They kept to their previously arranged paths, ignoring the rest of the city. The Empire had come to conquer and control Mistport, not destroy it.
There were fires burning all across the city now, flames leaping high into the night sky. Screams came drifting up from the streets below. Hell had come to Mistport, and Toby Shreck and his cameraman Flynn were right there in the thick of it, keeping up a live broadcast. Flynn's camera darted and soared above the inferno of the burning streets and blazing buildings, getting it all, while Toby kept up a breathless running commentary. This far above the devastation, it was easy to feel detached and godlike, but Toby did his best now and again to remind his audience that real people were burning and dying in the fires and ruins below. Not that most of them would care. That just added to the excitement for the home audience.
Toby clung to the railings at the edge of the gravity barge as the boiling heat of a sudden updraft rocked the barge from side to side. Flynn was so taken with what he was seeing through his camera that he quite forget to hold the railing, and almost toppled over the side before Toby grabbed him and pulled him back. The cameraman didn't even nod his thanks. He was far away with his darting camera, swooping and soaring over the rising flames like an impartial angel recording the birth of Hell.
'Getting good footage?' asked Toby loudly in Flynn's ear.
'If only you could see what I'm seeing,' said Flynn. 'People have seen war footage before, but never this close, never this clearly. I can zoom in on individual buildings, individual people, or pull back to a panorama of the whole damned city. It's beautiful, Toby. The scarlet and gold against the black of night. The burning buildings, and the flames… it has a majesty and a grandeur that's beyond pity or compassion. It doesn't need excuses; it just is. A city is dying one inch at a time, and I'm getting it all. The colors are amazing—bright and primitive and striking. And the roar of the explosions is like a giant walking across the city, one great step at a time, as the ground shakes beneath his tread. It's… exhilarating.'
'Smell the smoke,' said Toby. 'That's burning flesh amongst the wood and grime. Listen to the screams. Don't get carried away, Flynn. This isn't an invasion; this is a slaughter.'
He broke off as a flying esper came howling out of the darkness toward him. The esper was armed with an automatic crossbow, jury-rigged from forbidden tech, and his deadly bolts stitched across the armed men at the railings as they tried in vain to draw a bead on him. They fell back from the railing, crying out as they clutched at transfixing arrows. Toby grabbed Flynn and threw them both to the deck. A nearby disrupter cannon turned to bear on the next building, and the esper was suddenly hovering there before it. He thrust his arm down the barrel, blocking it. Toby looked up, and their eyes met. The esper grinned savagely, scared shitless and not giving a damn, and then the bomb in his hand went off, blowing the cannon apart. The esper was thrown backwards, blood fountaining from the shoulder where his right arm had been. He fell toward the street far below, laughing breathlessly. Toby watched him fall until he disappeared back into the smoke and the flames.
Lieutenant Ffolkes came staggering down the deck toward Toby and Flynn, stepping gingerly over the injured and the dying. He had a gun in his hand, and there was blood spattered across one sleeve of his uniform. It didn't appear to be his. He looked over the railings, and nodded calmly at the burning city as though quietly satisfied.
'You're really missing the best of it from down here,' he said casually. 'I trust you're getting good coverage?'
'Oh yes,' said Toby, climbing carefully to his feet. 'Right up close and personal, some times.'
Ffolkes looked at him. 'The Empress might have ordered it, Shreck, but I'm still in charge. Follow your instructions. Nothing… controversial, or I'll shut you down.'
'Got it,' said Toby. 'Nothing controversial. Just blood and death and burning buildings.'
'Glad to hear it,' said Ffolkes. 'Carry on.'
And he strode away to upset somebody else. Toby made a rude gesture at the man's departing back, realized that Flynn was still lying on the deck, and hauled him to his feet. The cameraman was still lost in what his camera was showing him through his comm implant. Toby could have patched it to the frequency through his own comm link, but didn't. It was all he could do to cope with what he was already seeing.
In his room on the top floor of the Blackthorn Inn, as yet untouched by the invasion, Owen Deathstalker crawled across the floor on his hands and knees, shivering and shaking. His head hung down, hot and heavy, and sweat dripped from his contorted face. Pain blazed in all his muscles, sharp and piercing, and shuddered in his gut. He was blazing hot, his thoughts slow and muddy as the pain inside him tore him apart. He lurched on, inch by inch, as though trying to run away from the agonies that stretched his mouth in a soundless grimace. He didn't scream. He wouldn't let himself. He was a Deathstalker. He couldn't let anyone see him like this. His shoulder crashed into the leg of a table, and he knocked the obstacle away with one sweep of his arm. He tried again to vomit, but he'd already emptied his stomach. He'd crawled through most of it.
The trembling had started as he made his way up the narrow stairs behind the bar. At first he'd put it down to reaction at his nearly having died, or the strain of fighting off so many attackers at once. It had been a hard day, after all. But it got worse. His head swam and his sight became blurred. His hands shook violently, and his legs became increasingly unsteady, until he was lurching along like a drunk. Somehow he made it to the top floor, and pressed his shoulder against the wall as he went, to keep him upright. His room seemed a long way away, but he got there, and even managed to shut the door behind him before he collapsed and began to puke up his guts.
His head crashed into a new obstacle. He hardly felt it, and it took him a while to realize that he'd reached the far wall, and there was nowhere left to go. He got himself turned around, grunting at the horrid pain, and put his back to the wall, sitting more or less upright. The pain was worse if anything, and he felt like he was burning alive. The room was a blur, and he could feel helpless tears trickling down his cheeks.
'Dear God, what's happening to me,' he said, and was shocked at how weak he sounded.
'Side effects from your constant boosting,' said Ozymandius. 'I did warn you. Whatever the Madness Maze did to you, you're still human. You've been boosting too often and for too long, and it's finally caught up with you. The candle that burns twice as brightly burns half as long, remember? You've been relying on the Maze's changes to repair the damage you've been doing to yourself, but it seems you still have limits. Human limits. Your body's been burning itself up, and you've nothing left to put out the flames.'
'There must be something I can do…' said Owen, forcing the words out through chattering teeth. He was hot and cold by turns now.
'I'm afraid your options are rather limited, Owen. You could boost again, but it would only make things worse in the long run. A regeneration machine might be able to repair the damage, but I don't know of any in Mistport. Or you could throw yourself on the mercies of what passes for medicine on this planet, but I wouldn't recommend it.'
'Dammit, Oz… help me!'
'I'm sorry, Owen. You did this to yourself. There's nothing I can do.'
'Oz… am I going to die?'
'I don't know, Owen. The odds are against you.'
'Oz…'
'Hush, Owen. It's all right. I'm here.'
There was a polite knock at his door. Owen gritted his teeth against the pain, and forced out a single word. 'Yes?'
There was a pause, and then a voice said uncertainly, 'Lord Deathstalker, the city Council requests that you join them downstairs. Your advice and support are needed most urgently.'
Owen swallowed hard, fighting to control his mouth. His lips were numb and his tongue was swollen. He had to answer the messenger, or the man would come in to see what was wrong. And he couldn't afford to be seen like this. If he lived, no one would ever have faith in him again. They'd treat him like an invalid, and hustle him off somewhere safe. He was damned if he'd live like a cripple. And if he was going to die, he preferred to do it in private. He realized that the messenger was still waiting for a reply.
'I'll be down soon,' he said, as loudly and clearly as he could.
There was another pause, then the voice said, very respectfully, 'Lord Deathstalker, the invasion of Mistport has begun. You must have heard the explosions. I'm supposed to escort you…'
'I said I'll be down soon!' Owen shouted, not caring how his voice sounded.
He could hear the messenger shuffling uncertainly outside his door, but finally the man turned and walked away. Owen grinned humorlessly. Thick ropes of saliva hung from his stretched mouth. He'd thought the Maze had
