Deathstalker Honor

meltdown. 'They've turned me into a furry toy?'

Everyone held their breath and decided which way they were going to jump when the shit started flying. The cameras would still get the best shots for them. Assuming they survived whatever appalling thing was about to happen. And then Owen reached out to the sweating reporter and took a toy in each hand.

'I think they're rather cute.'

'You like these monstrosities?' said Hazel.

'Well, I wouldn't necessarily want one on my pillow, but I definitely want a piece of this action. We are talking major revenues here.'

Hazel calmed down visibly as she considered this. 'Yeah… Could be. Kids go crazy for this kind of crap. One good Christmas and we could be set up for life.'

Owen smiled inwardly. When in doubt, you could always distract Hazel with talk of money.

The reporters reluctantly decided there wasn't going to be any action after all, and heaved quiet disappointed sighs. Some even recalled their cameras. The agent provocateur reporter glumly took his fluffy toys back, stuffed them into his bag, and tried to remember if he'd kept all the receipts so he could get his money back. Everyone started to drift away. And then the representative from Parliament arrived, and everything went to hell in a handcart.

It was a fairly typical Parliament rep, all things considered. A jumped-up civil servant, promoted way out of his depth because there weren't enough warm bodies to go round, trying to convince everyone that he was as important as the messages and instructions he carried. This particular fellow was dressed well beyond what should have been his means, surmounted by the traditional courier's red sash and a distinctly snotty attitude. He strode forward, the reporters falling back before him, and planted himself before Owen and Hazel. He stuck his nose in the air and glared at them both, just to remind them of their real place in the scheme of things, and then launched into his prepared speech without even bothering to introduce himself.

'Sir Deathstalker, Miss d'Ark, you are commanded to present yourselves before Parliament at this evening's session, to report on your mission to Virimonde. Parliament wishes to express in advance its extreme displeasure that not only have you failed to bring back any of the rebel Lords alive, but you also allowed that most detestable villain Valentine Wolfe to escape justice entirely. You are required to make full explanations of these shortcomings. Also, you can forget about your bonuses.'

All the cameras started zooming in again. The reporters knew a storm was brewing when they saw one. So Owen decided to try reasoning with the man just to annoy them.

'We did put an end to the abominable practices on Virimonde,' he said mildly. 'Charnel House is no more. The dead have been avenged. And we did nip in the bud a most dangerous plot against the Empire. Not bad for one day's work.'

The representative sniffed. It was a loud, arrogant, and entirely obnoxious sound. He'd clearly put a lot of practice into it. 'All that matters is you failed to carry out Parliament's demands. What you may or may not have done other than your instructions is utterly irrelevant.'

Owen and Hazel looked at each other. 'After you,' said Hazel generously.

'Thank you,' said Owen. He stepped forward, smiled at the representative, and punched him out. The unfortunate fellow stretched his length on the unforgiving surface of the landing pad and lay there, twitching quietly. Owen smiled at the reporters. 'You just have to know how to talk to these people. Did everyone get that, or shall I pick him up and do it again?'

The reporters said they'd got it just fine the first time, thank you very much, and then started firing questions at Owen and Hazel over these new details on their last mission. In particular they wanted to know just what the hell the Charnel House plot had been, and what the infamous Valentine Wolfe had had to do with it. The group interview then rapidly deteriorated into a bidding war for exclusive rights to the full story. Fistfights broke out among the reporters, and Owen and Hazel took the opportunity to make a quiet exit. The rep seemed to be stirring, so Hazel kicked him somewhere particularly painful, just on general principles.

'You know, you'd have thought they'd have learned to wear body armor by now,' said Owen.

'Must be a new guy.'

'Well, if he doesn't learn better manners soon, he's never going to be an old guy. Let me just check if he's got any written orders on him.'

Owen knelt beside the quietly moaning man and frisked him thoroughly, coming up with a set of sealed orders with his name on them. Hazel frowned.

'That's another thing. How come my name's never on these things?'

'They wouldn't dare,' said Owen. He broke the wax seal, studied the brief message, fashionably written in real pen and ink, and scowled fiercely. 'Damn. They've arranged another parade for us. Right now, on our way to Parliament. I hate parades.'

'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