Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

his reflection in the mirror on the wall behind him. A man in his mid-twenties stared broodingly back at him, tall and rangy with dark hair and darker eyes. A man who'd been hard used, and expected to be harder used in the future. It wasn't that long ago he'd been a simple scholar, a minor historian of no importance to
    anyone but himself. Then Lionstone named him outlaw, and he'd had no choice but to become a rebel and a warrior. The Hadenmen named him Redeemer, and the rebel underground called him Humanity's last hope. Owen didn't believe a word of it.
    A clinking of glass caught his attention, and he looked fondly over at Hazel d'Ark, who was sorting determinedly through the bottles in the drinks cabinet, searching for something vaguely drinkable. Owen knew how she felt. The Hadenmen had done their best with food synthesizers, but the various alcoholic beverages they'd come up with had proved universally vile. That hadn't stopped Hazel from drinking them, but she persisted in trying to discover some combination that didn't leave her with an overwhelming urge to spit copiously in all directions.
    Owen admired her patience, and wished her luck. Personally, he wouldn't have touched any of the stuff if someone had held a gun to his head.
    He studied Hazel, admiring her sharp, pointed face and mane of long, ratty, red hair. She wasn't conventionally pretty, but then Hazel wasn't conventional about anything if she could help it. Before becoming a rebel, she'd been a pirate, a mercenary, and a clonelegger—and those were just the things she'd admit to. She was good with a sword but preferred a gun, and as many as possible. Since she and Owen had discovered the huge cache of projectile weapons in the Last Standing's Armory, Hazel had made a point of loading herself down with as many guns and as much ammo as she could carry. Owen thought she found the weight comforting. Owen didn't. Hazel tended to be a bit too arbitrary about safety catches for his liking.
    He sighed quietly, tapping his fingers on the armrests of his chair as he waited for the Hadenmen computers running the ship to finish their security checks.
    Technically speaking, he was trusting his life to the smooth running of the AI the Hadenmen installed, which did absolutely nothing for his sense of security
    and well-being, but it wasn't like he had a choice. Someone had to run the ship, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be him. Keeping on top of a starship's many and various systems was hard, skilled work, and if he'd wanted to work, he wouldn't have been born an aristocrat.
    The original Sunstrider had been run by his personal Family AI Ozymandius, but Oz had turned out to be a traitor working for the Empire. It had used hidden control words to turn Owen against his friends, and he'd had no choice but to destroy it. Even though the AI had been his friend long before the others. He'd had to kill his mistress, too, when she tried to kill him, on the Empire's orders. You couldn't trust anyone these days. Maybe not even the woman you loved… Owen turned his gaze away from Hazel, and made himself concentrate on something else. At least the Hadenmen had got the toilets right this time. Their earlier attempts had been somewhat distressing. Apparently Hadenmen had no use for such things, which told Owen rather more about the Hadenmen than he really wanted to know.
    Hazel wandered over, drink in hand. The liquid was a pale blue in color, and looked like it was trying to climb out of the glass. She sank into the chair opposite Owen with an inelegant grunt and settled herself comfortably. Hazel appreciated luxuries, big and small, mainly because there'd been so few of them in her life. She took a good mouthful of the drink, pulled a face, but swallowed the stuff anyway. Hazel never believed in letting a drink get the better of her.
    It was a matter of principle. Owen had had to hide a smile when she'd first explained that to him. He hadn't been aware that Hazel had any principles. He'd had enough sense not to say that out loud, of course.
    "What does that muck taste like this time?" he asked amiably.

    "Trust me," said Hazel. "You really don't want to know. That I am drinking it at all is a sign of how incredibly bored I am. How much longer before we can land?"
    "Not long now. Looking forward to being on your old stamping grounds again?"
    "Not really, no. Mistport is dangerous, treacherous, and bloody cold, and that's on its good days. I've known rabid rats with