“The Recreated?” said Owen.
“Whoever or whatever they are.” Saint Bea straightened up, withdrawing her dripping hands with a loud sucking noise. She wiped her hands on a cloth, and then dropped that into the bucket with the innards. “I always thought the Grendels were too bad to be true. This ... makes a mockery of God’s creation. They destroyed their own moral sense, their ability to choose between good and evil, purely in the name of survival.”
“Maybe they had no choice,” said Owen. “Maybe they did it to protect whatever species came after them; sacrificing themselves for the greater good. Don’t judge them too harshly, Mother Beatrice. We don’t know what kind or depth of evil they had to face. Hard times make for hard choices.”
Saint Bea snorted. “Things have come to a pretty pass, if you’re lecturing me on tolerance.”
Owen smiled despite himself. “Well, thanks for inviting me to your little show and tell, Mother Beatrice. It has been truly revolting. Let’s not do this again sometime.”
Saint Bea shrugged. “Brought you out of yourself a bit, didn’t it?”
“Very nearly literally. I think on the whole I’d rather be miserable.”
The door behind them crashed open, and a leper lurched in, concealed as always inside the gray cloak and pulled-forward hood. But this figure was barely five feet tall, and moved like some inner gyroscope had been jarred irretrievably from its proper mount. A hand with only three fingers left and slate gray skin emerged from inside the gray cloak and saluted Owen, before quickly disappearing back inside again. The leper hawked and spat, and something juicy hurtled out of the hood and splashed on the infirmary floor. When the figure began speaking, its voice was a curious mixture of accents and timbres.
“Lord Owen the Great, there is message for you at comm center. Most urgent and imperative, and critical too. Word is, I is to bring you to center immediately, for details and shouting at. You come now, or I is turning you into small hoppity thing. Why you still standing there?”
Owen blinked a few times, and then looked at Saint Bea, who nodded calmly at the small belligerent figure. “Thank you, Vaughn. Straight to the point, as always. Go with him or her, Owen. I think you’re going to want to hear this message.”
The figure inside the cloak sneezed moistly, and made gurgling noises, swaying impatiently all the while.
“Him or her?” said Owen.
“Vaughn has never volunteered that information,” said Saint Bea. “And so far, no one has ever felt sufficiently motivated to investigate further. Now, off you go to the comm center, both of you. Hop like bunnies!”
“I does not hop!” said Vaughn haughtily. “I has my dignity to consider, not to mention missing toes. Move it, Deathstalker, or I show you where I got warts.”
“Lead on,” said Owen. “I’ll be right behind you. Well, maybe not right behind you, but I’ll be able to see you from where I am.”
“Lot of people say that,” said Vaughn.
When they finally reached the comm center, there was a message waiting for Owen from the captain of the approaching courier ship. Apparently he had a most urgent communication for the Deathstalker, from Parliament. The ship would be landing in a few hours, and Owen was instructed to be there on the landing pad, waiting for him. Perhaps wisely, the captain had refused all further communication. Owen seethed at the imperious nature of the command, but made himself concentrate on the possibility of finally getting off Lachrymae Christi. He badgered the comm center staff for details on the ship and its crew, but all they had was the captain’s name, Joy In The Lord Rottsteiner, and the name of the ship, Moab’s
Washpot.
Owen gave the comm officer a hard look.
“Moab’s Washpot?
What the hell kind of name is that for a starship?”
“Is old Church name,” said Vaughn, getting the comm officer off the hook. He or she was still hanging around the comm center, despite increasingly unsubtle suggestions that she or he must be needed somewhere else. “Captain sound like hard-core old Church too. Top-grade fanatic and major pain in ass for all other sen tients, and any other living thing not get out of way fast enough. Thinks hangings are too lenient, and approves of floggings. Twice a week, around at his place.”
“I know the kind,” said Owen. “I thought Saint Bea had rooted most of his kind out of her reformed Church. And what’s he doing, carrying messages from Parliament, in a Church ship?”
“Why you asking me?” demanded Vaughn, looking up from inspecting the contents of a trash basket. “I look like mind reader? I not esper! Spit on esper, and other things too! I is Imperial wizard, third dan, seven subpersonalities, no waiting; unpleasant curses of an appalling nature a specialty. Run big-time protection racket, until dripping rot set in, and they send me here, to this dog’s bum of a world. I know secrets of universe, and those before this one. Bend over and I’ll cure your warts.”
“I don’t have any warts,” said Owen.
“You want some?”
It was a long two and a half hours until
Moab’s
Washpot finally fought its way through the weather and touched down on the planet’s sole landing pad, just to one side of the Mission. Owen had tried everything up to and including open threats to get rid of Vaughn, but he or she was still there at Owen’s side as he stood waiting on the pad in the rain for the ship’s captain to make an appearance. During his long wait, Owen had made inquiries about the diminutive figure, and discovered that Vaughn had originally been a major league esper, until he or she had an epiphany in one of the back rooms of the House of Joy, and declared him- or herself a sorcerer. Basically, Vaughn had whatever powers she or he thought he or she had, because no one could convince Vaughn otherwise. Owen suggested the leprosy might have unhinged him, but apparently Vaughn had always been weird.
Owen decided he didn’t want to think about that, and concentrated on the ship as it stood steaming in the pattering rain. It wasn’t much of a craft; barely the size of his late lamented
Sunstrider II.
Probably only had a nominal captain, and a few crew to do the scut work. Fast mover, though. Parliament wouldn’t have bothered commandeering a slow ship, not for a direct message. Owen smiled grimly. The message would have to be pretty damned important to divert one of Parliament’s couriers from his war duties, and Owen had a strong feeling he didn’t want to hear it. He couldn’t afford distractions now. All that mattered was getting off this planet, and going after Hazel.
The ship’s airlock finally cycled open, amid a long hiss of equalizing pressures, and Captain Joy In The Lord Rottsteiner stepped out onto the landing pad. He glared disdainfully about him into the rain, and then glared even more disdainfully at Owen. He was almost seven feet tall, supernaturally thin, and looked like he’d sway on his feet in even the mildest of breezes. His long face was all bones and harsh planes, dominated by a beaked nose you could open cans with. His eyes were deep set and very dark, and his mouth was set in a grim line. He dressed all in drab black, unadorned save for the bright red sash that marked him as an official representative of Parliament. He looked Owen up and down and sniffed superciliously. Owen just knew they weren’t going to get along.
The Captain strode forward to stand before Owen. He held his nose up high, the better to look down it at Owen, and ignored Vaughn completely.
“I bear Parliament’s word,” said Joy In The Lord Rottsteiner, in a harsh growly sort of voice. “I speak for Humanity.”
“Really?” said Owen. “How nice for you. How are they all?”
The Captain pressed on. “It is required that you return at once to Golgotha, Sir Deathstalker. Your services are needed most urgently. You are instructed to come with me, that I may convey you to an approaching starcruiser. How long will it take you to pack?”
“Hold everything,” said Owen, entirely unmoved by the message or the messenger. “What’s so important that they’ve detailed a whole bloody starcruiser to come and pick me up? What’s been happening in the war while I’ve been cut off here?”
“War always bad idea,” said Vaughn. “Much property damage, bad for insurance. Much better, kill all persons in authority, on both sides. Saves time, and helps prevent further wars. I know these things. Talk to God personally on subject many times.”
“The war goes badly,” said the Captain, ignoring Vaughn with a thoroughness Owen could only admire. “You must come now.”
“Tell me about the war,” said Owen.
“Shub’s forces are winning on most fronts,” said the Captain, and for the first time Owen heard real gravity in his voice. “Humanity is barely holding its own against the insect ships. New Hadenman Nests are appearing all over the Empire. The Recreated have not yet left the Darkvoid, but signs of their coming have been manifesting in disturbing ways among the more sensitive elements of the esper community. And beyond all that, a new plague has appeared, leaping from planet to planet, striking down all who come into contact with it. We are living in the End Times, Deathstalker, when all will come to judgment. Evil and horror and destruction threaten Humanity on all sides. You must return. The Empire needs you.”
“No, it doesn‘t,” said Owen. “These are all matters for the armed forces to deal with. I’ve no idea who or what the Recreated are, and for a plague you need doctors and research labs. Parliament just wants me back because it’ll look like they’re doing something. I don’t have the time to rush around making appearances as a reassuring symbol. I’m needed elsewhere.”
“Parliament thinks otherwise,” said Captain Rottsteiner. “Do you defy the will of the people?”
“I’ve been the hero often enough,” said Owen. “Let someone else do it. Hazel d‘Ark has been kidnapped by the Blood Runners. I have to rescue her. If you need a Maze survivor for a symbol, why not ask Jack Random and Ruby Journey?”
“They are no longer considered ... reliable,” said Rottsteiner. “Reports have been coming in from the planet Loki, of terrible actions performed at their command. Mass executions without trial, and other atrocities. Unacceptable, barbaric behavior.”
Owen looked at him for a long moment. “I don’t believe it,” he said finally. “Jack Random would never allow such things to happen. I never knew a more honorable man. No; this is just some trick, to get me to return to Golgotha with you. Well, I’m not going. Hazel needs me.”
“The fate of all Humanity is more important than one woman! It is your duty to return with me.”
“Don’t you dare use that word with me. I’ve given up more for duty than you could ever imagine! For once I don’t care what other people want or need. My only real duty is to the one I love.”
Captain Rottsteiner stepped back a pace without taking his eyes off Owen, and then moved away from the airlock. “It was anticipated that you might prove difficult. I was therefore provided with an escort, to ensure that you do the right thing.”
He snapped his fingers crisply, and the crimson-armored figure of a Grendel alien stepped out of the airlock. The rain pattered loudly on its broad heart-shaped head as it moved slowly forward, flexing its steel-clawed fingers and smiling endlessly with its steel teeth. It came to a halt beside the Captain, and only then did Owen note the control yoke around its thick neck. The creature stood inhumanly still, all its attention fixed on Owen, silent and deadly and utterly disturbing. Owen stood very still too, careful to make no movement that might provoke it, staring steadily back so Captain Rottsteiner wouldn’t guess how scared he really was.
Owen had once fought a Grendel alone, with only his boost and his courage to sustain him, deep in the caverns below the Wolfing World before the Tomb of the Hadenmen. He’d been lucky to escape alive. He’d killed the awful thing, eventually, but had lost his left hand doing it. He still had nightmares, sometimes. But the Captain didn’t know Owen was just a man again ... He thought he was facing the legendary Owen Deathstalker, hero and miracle worker. Owen fixed the Captain with his best intimidating stare.
“I just finished fighting a whole bloody army of these things. You might notice that I’m still here, and they’re not. A wise man would derive a conclusion from that. Now get rid of your little pet, before I dismantle it into its respective parts, and make you eat them.”
The Captain paled slightly, but stood his ground. The Deathstalker he knew of old was almost certainly capable of such a thing, but the espers’ Guild had assured Parliament and him that the Grendel would be able to handle the Deathstalker. They knew something about Owen, though they wouldn’t say what. There’d never been any love lost between the espers and the Maze people. Captain Rottsteiner studied the Deathstalker carefully. He didn’t look like he was bluffing ... The Captain drew himself up to his full height, and reminded himself that God was with him.
“I have been instructed to bring you back alive, Deathstalker, but not necessarily intact. You will return with me, one way or another. It is your duty to your fellow man, and to God.”
“And Hazel d‘Ark?”
“Is irrelevant.”
Owen looked at the Grendel. Eight feet of impenetrable armor, steel claws and vicious speed and strength. Owen had his gun and his sword, and his boost. He could take the creature. He’d done it before. Hazel was relying on him. He realized the captain’s hand was hovering dangerously near the disrupter on his hip. So; shoot the captain first, and then go one on one with the Grendel. That made the odds even worse, but it wasn’t like he had a choice. He took a slow deep breath, settling himself. He could do this. He could.
Damn,
he thought coolly.
This is going to hurt.
And then Vaughn, forgotten by everyone, lurched forward a step and pointed a stubby gray finger at the Grendel. Its yoke chimed loudly, and then chimed again. The creature twitched, and then shook as the yoke kept chiming. In seconds the Grendel was convulsing violently, in time to the continued chiming. Captain Rottsteiner went for his gun, only to find Owen already had his in his hand. The captain looked at the gun aimed at his belly, and stood very still. The Grendel shook and shuddered, the collar chiming so fast now it was an almost continuous tone. And then the Grendel’s back arched, it threw up its arms, and fell rigidly backward onto the landing pad, like an oversized toy whose batteries had just run out. The yoke chimed once more, victoriously, and then was silent. Owen and the Captain looked at the unmoving body, and then turned to look at the stunted figure in the gray cloak and hood.