Deathstalker 01 - Deathstalker

thickened with the scent of cheap disinfectant. The door at the far end opened, and a man entered carrying a mop and bucket. He was about five foot six and looked to be in his late sixties, with a lined face and thinning gray hair. He wore baggy overalls that looked as though they'd been made for someone rather larger, and he looked like he'd missed more than his fair share of meals lately. His hands were trembling, and his face had a pale, unhealthy look.
    A wave of relief passed through Owen. Whoever this was, he clearly wasn't Jack Random. This half-pint in saggy overalls probably wouldn't even know which end of a sword to stab you with. Presumably a spa this size needed more than one janitor, and this was the other one. The janitor stared blankly at Owen and his companions, his watery eyes straining against the gloom.
    "What are you doing back here? Locker room's closed."
    "Sorry to bother you," said Owen graciously. "We're looking for Jobe Ironhand.
    Do you know where we might find him?"
    The janitor blinked at him. "That's me. I'm Jobe Ironhand. What can I do for you?"
    Hazel looked at Moon. "Didn't you just know he was going to say that?"
    Owen felt his jaw dropping and closed his mouth with a snap. There had to be a mistake. This couldn't be Random. The age was all wrong, for a start. Jack Random was a professional warrior, respected on a hundred worlds. This broken down old wreck barely had the strength to hold onto his bucket and mop. It couldn't be him.

    "This can't be him," said Hazel. "I mean… look at him."
    "For once, I agree with you," Owen said heavily. "Someone's been leading us astray. Let's get out of here."
    "I thought you wanted Jack Random," said Tobias Moon. "This is him."
    Owen and Hazel looked at the Hadenman. "What makes you think that?" said Hazel.
    "I fought beside him in the rebellion on Cold Rock. A few augmented men had joined his army for the experience, and I was one of them. I saw Random several times at staff meetings, and I never forget a face."
    Hazel looked back at the janitor. 'This bag of bones faced down the Imperial High Guard on Cold Rock? Give me a break."
    "Oh, hell," said the janitor. "You'd better come with me."
    They all looked at him, startled. His voice had… changed. He put his bucket and mop down, and produced a battered silver flask from a pocket in his overalls. He rescrewed the cap with some difficulty and took a long drink. His Adam's apple bobbed jerkily in his scrawny unshaven neck. He lowered the flask, sighed deeply and carefully refastened the cap. His hands didn't seem to be shaking nearly as much now, and his gaze was sharp and direct. He looked Owen and Hazel over, and then he turned away and disappeared back through the far door, leaving the others to hurry after him.
    He wandered down the corridor without looking back to see if they were following and pushed open a door almost hidden in shadows. He stood back and gestured for the three of them to enter. They did so, just a little diffidently, and found themselves in a boiler room that had also been pressed into service as living quarters. Apart from the boiler, most of the space was taken up with a long cot covered with disheveled blankets. Ironhand sank down onto it with a relieved sigh. Owen looked around for a chair, but there wasn't any.

    "Shut the door and sit down," the janitor said testily. "You make the room look untidy."
    Owen shut the door and sat on the floor, drawing his legs awkwardly up beneath him. Hazel sank easily into a full lotus beside him. Moon stayed standing at parade rest. Owen looked hard at the janitor, trying hard to see some sign of the legendary warrior in this beaten down little man. The janitor looked back at him with a surprisingly steady gaze, and Owen slowly discerned that the man sitting opposite him didn't look nearly as unimpressive as he had before. His back was straight and his hands had stopped shaking, and there was a new strength in his unshaven face.
    "I thought I'd hidden myself pretty well," he said grimly. "Suppose you start by telling me who gave you my name?"
    "The Abraxus Information Center," said Owen, and the janitor grunted irritably.
    "Those damn telepaths get everywhere. Looks like I'm going to have to move again. Can't say I'll be sorry to go. The place is a dump, and the work stinks.
    They charge me rent for this room, you know. You wouldn't think they'd have the nerve, would you? Still, I've stayed in worse in my time. Spent most of my adult