Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

bleeding hemorrhoids that were friendlier than your average Mistworlder. I can't believe I let the underground talk me into going back to this hellhole."
    Owen shrugged. "It had to be us. Someone had to represent the underground to the Mistport Council, and we know the lie of the land better than anyone else they had to hand. Cheer up; things won't be so bad this time. Probably. We're a hell of a lot stronger and sharper than the last time we were here."
    Hazel scowled. "Yeah. That's something else I've been wanting to talk to you about. When that Blood Runner's hologram threatened to take me apart in his laboratory, you reached across light-years of space and blew him to pieces, just by thinking about it. I didn't know you had that kind of power. I don't."
    "I didn't think I had either, until I needed it. Our time in the Madness Maze changed us more than we knew. We're different people now."
    "I don't like the sound of that. Where do the changes end? Are we still human?
    Are we going to end up like the Hadenmen, so divorced from what we started out as that we might as well be aliens?"
    Owen shrugged again. "Your guess is as good as mine. I think we're as human as we want to be. Our humanity lies not in what we do, but why we do it. Besides, I'm not sure our abilities are all that stable. They seem to come and go. There used to be a link between us, a mental link among all of us who passed through the Maze, but that disappeared when we split up and went our separate ways. Now I can't even feel you through the link. Can you still feel me, in your mind?"

    "No," said Hazel. "Not for some time now."
    "That might be my fault," said Ozymandius in Owen's ear. "Perhaps my presence is disrupting your accord."
    "Shut up, Oz," Owen subvocalized. "You're dead. I destroyed you."
    "You wish. No, I'm still with you, Owen, here to advise and guide you through life's little difficulties."
    "The only difficulty I have is this dead AI that keeps yammering in my ear. If I knew a good cyberdruid, I'd have you exorcised. Whoever or whatever you are, I don't need your help. I can manage perfectly well on my own."
    "Well pardon my computations, you ungrateful little snot. If it hadn't been for me, you'd never have got off Virimonde alive, when your own Security people came after you for the price on your head. Your trouble is, you don't appreciate me.
    Look after yourself for a while. I'm going to sulk."
    Hazel studied Owen unobtrusively. He'd gone all quiet again, his eyes far away.
    He did that from time to time, and it never failed to irritate her. Even though she'd always known he was the thoughtful one in their reluctant partnership.
    Hazel had always believed in the virtues of direct action, preferably with a sword or a gun. Cut them all down and worry about the consequences later. If at all. She wondered what Owen would think if he knew she was taking Blood again.
    Blood. The most addictive and soul-destroying drug known to Humanity. It came from the adjusted men, the Wampyr. One of the Empire's less successful attempts at manufacturing terror troops. Synthetic Blood flowed in their veins, making them stronger, faster, nearly invincible. Just a few drops of Blood could make a mere human feel that way, too, for a while. It made you feel sharp and confident, and Hazel needed that more and more these days. She'd been hooked on
    the drug once before, in her early days on Mistworld. She'd beaten it then, though the cure nearly killed her. But so much had changed in her since then, and very little of it to her liking.
    She'd never wanted to be a rebel. All she'd ever wanted was the comfortable life, free from hunger and danger. She'd been happiest as a confidence trickster, parting rich leeches from their ill-gotten gains and disappearing into the night before they realized how badly they'd been stung. Hazel had only ever fought for money, cash in hand, and never trusted anyone but herself. Now she was a major player in the new rebellion, a target for every bounty hunter and backstabber in the Empire, being asked for opinions and plans on matters she had little or no understanding of. For the first time in her life, the lives and futures of countless numbers of people depended on her every action and decision, with all the stress and uncertainties that involved. Now everything she did or didn't do had consequences, and she just couldn't stand it. The pressure weighed down on her, filling her head till she couldn't eat, couldn't sleep,