Deathstalker 01 - Deathstalker

business, haven't been around long, but if anyone can find him for you, they can."
    "Thanks for the name, Cyder, but we should already have a lead on him. Isn't that right, Deathstalker?"
    Hazel looked pointedly at Owen, and he sighed resignedly. He activated his comm implant and contacted Ozymandius.
    "Everything all right with the ship, Oz?"
    "Oh, sure. A few lowlifes tried to break in, but the yacht's security systems
    took care of them. Mistport ground staff removed the bodies. There have also been a number of attempts to break into my systems, but nothing I couldn't handle. Strictly amateur hour. These people wouldn't recognize a sophisticated system if they fell over it in the gutter."
    "I'm not entirely sure they have gutters here."
    The AI sniffed. "Can't say I'm surprised. Where are you? What's been happening?"
    "Tell you later. It looks like we're going to need Jack Random after all, Oz.
    What was the address you had on him?"
    "The Abraxus Information Center."
    Owen shook his head slowly. "My father's hand is getting clearer by the moment.
    He's doing everything but lead us by the nose." He broke off contact and looked apologetically at Hazel. "My AI says the same as your friend here. The Abraxus place has all the answers."
    "I should hope so," said Cyder. "They charge enough. Do you still have access to the money you banked in Mistport, Hazel? The money from your… previous occupation?"
    "Yes," said Hazel, glaring darkly at her. "It's under an assumed name. I should be able to get to it easily enough."
    "Good," said Cyder. "You're probably going to need it. Mistport's an expensive place these days."
    She led the way back down the stairs and into the bar, which if anything seemed more crowded than ever. The noise was deafening in a convivial sort of way, and two women had started a friendly knife fight in a corner, cheered on by an appreciative crowd. Owen kept a wary eye on it as he followed Cyder and Hazel through the crush. The press of bodies seemed to open up before Cyder, who had a smile and a nod for everyone, but she came to a sudden halt as an alarmingly
    large figure blocked her path. Owen took one look over Cyder's shoulder and immediately dropped his hand to his sword. The figure brushed Cyder aside as though she was a child and stood smiling down at Hazel, ignoring Owen completely. The crowd fell back a little to give them plenty of room. They knew better than to get involved with a Wampyr.
    Owen studied the smiling figure carefully. He'd heard of the Wampyr, but never actually seen one in the flesh. Not many had, and lived to tell of it. The Wampyr had been created to replace the treacherous Hadenmen as the Empire's new shock troops. The augmented men of Haden had proved too powerful to easily control, so the Empire scientists had tried a different approach. They created a new form of artificial blood, supercharged and potent, that would turn any man into an unstoppable warrior: strong, fast and self-regenerating. The only drawback was you had to kill your subject first, flush out the old blood and pump in the new, and then revive him. The scientists finally achieved a seventy percent success rate, which was good enough for the Empire.
    The result was a dead man, walking. They felt no pain or pleasure or sensation of any kind. Their only joy was in combat, their only thrills the limited pleasures of mental satisfaction. They delighted in torture, cruel as killer cats, and as patient and deadly. They didn't eat or drink, but their artificial blood had to be replenished and revitalized by the periodic infusion of fresh human blood. Mostly the Wampyr drank it, as much for the effect on witnesses as anything.
    They made excellent shock troops, with a tendency to be over thorough and hard to call off, but in the end they were just too expensive to produce en masse, and the project was reluctantly scrapped. But the Wampyr needed battle like they
    needed blood, and so they scattered throughout the Empire, searching for a little organized death and destruction, and starting it as often as not. They were never popular but often used, and so their legend grew: the undead soldiers who sought their own deaths as eagerly as any other's.
    Owen supposed it was inevitable that a Wampyr should turn up on Mistworld.
    Everyone and everything else did. This particular specimen was seven foot tall, muscular in a lithe, feline way, and altogether disturbing. His skin was completely colorless, and Owen knew it