Deathstalker 02 - Deathstalker Rebellion

have to stop this factory coming on-line. It's our only hope."

    "Sounds straightforward enough," Random said briskly. "It's a regrettably common scenario in the Empire these days, though this is perhaps a more extreme case than most. Tell me about the weather. I gather it's rather unusual here."
    "That's one way of putting it," said Tall John. "Ever since the cyberats screwed up the weather satellites over two hundred years ago, the seasons here have lasted exactly two days, over and over again. The planet's various owners have been trying to repair the satellites for decades, with no luck whatsoever. Most life here couldn't adapt and died out. What little did survive, did so by being extremely tough. And not a little eccentric. During the winter, anything with any sense hibernates. In the spring, everything wakes up, explodes, and proliferates. They live, fight, and breed in the summer. Then they feed exhaustively and build nests in the autumn, deep down, away from the razorstorms and the hurricanes. Then they sleep through the winter so they can wake in the spring and do it all again. Life here is nothing if not adaptable. It's had centuries of practice.
    "And that's Technos III in a nutshell. Perfect for vacations. Bring the kids. Of course, the war ignores such trivialities as the seasons; it goes on day in, day out, whatever the weather. You've arrived as autumn turns to winter—the nearest we've got to a quiet time. Our people and the Wolfe mercs take the opportunity for a breather, plan our revenges, and bury our dead. But don't think you can relax. You've got maybe two hours before the killing starts again. So welcome to hell, gentlemen and bounty hunter. Maybe now we can get to the important questions, like: When are the others coming? How large an army can you supply us with? How many weapons?"
    Storm and Ruby both looked at Random. He sighed and met the rebels' gaze as calmly as he could. "I'm afraid there isn't any army. Not yet. The underground
    is raising volunteers for the great rebellion on hundreds of worlds, but it's a long slow process. Such trained men as we have are scattered across the Empire where they can do the most good. For the moment we're all you're getting."
    "I don't believe I'm hearing this," said Tall John, his voice shaking with barely suppressed anger. "We were promised battle-hardened fighters, led by the legendary Jack Random, the professional rebel. And what do we get: two old men and a professional back stabber. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just throw the three of you out into the winter to freeze?"
    Random snatched the gun out of Tall John's hand, lifted him off his feet with one hand, and pressed the gun under the rebel's chin. Tall John's eyes bulged as his feet kicked a good foot above the floor. Before the surrounding rebels could react, Random put Tall John down again and offered him his gun back. The rebel leader took it automatically and blinked confusedly. The rebels looked at each other uncertainly. Throat-slitter Mary was grinning. Ruby sniffed.
    "Show-off."
    Tall John pulled his dignity about him again and nodded curtly to Random. "Not bad for an old man."
    "There's more to us than meets the eye," said Storm smoothly.
    "There would have to be," said Throat-slitter Mary. "Well, if you're all we're going to get, we'd better make the most of you. Come with me, and I'll introduce you to a few of our strategists. Ragged Tom and Specter Alice should have a few ideas. They usually do."
    "Interesting names you have here," said Storm. "Hasn't the concept of surnames made it this far yet?"
    "Our ancestors were indentured workers," said Tall John. "Slaves, in all but
    name. They just had numbers. We're free, so we choose our own names or accept those given to us by others. Surnames are for people with families and a future.
    We live from day to day and depend on no one but ourselves. There's no room for luxuries on Technos III."
    In a small private gymnasium, in the great hulking residential building attached to the factory, Michel Wolfe, reluctant husband to Stephanie, was working out on the parallel bars. Sweat dripped from his bulging muscles as he pushed himself through the strenuous routine his computers had recommended. He grunted and huffed with every effort, eyes squeezed shut, scowling with concentration. He'd originally acquired his muscles from a Golgotha body shop and just went back for quick touch-up if they looked like they might be sagging a bit. But