Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

said Owen. It wasn't a casual question.
    "Tired. At peace. What the hell did we tap into just then? Some power the Maze
    gave us?"
    "I don't think so. It felt more like something we'd always had, something the Maze just put us in touch with. Maybe someday all Humanity could learn to do what we did."
    "Yeah," said Hazel. "Maybe. But I doubt we'll be around to see it. That energy blast pretty much used us up. There's nothing left in me anymore."
    "Same here," said Owen. "Guess our time's run out. There are worse ways to go.
    And at least we got a chance to throw a scare into the Iron Bitch first. Hazel, there's… something I've been meaning to tell you…"
    "Same here," said Hazel. "My Blood addiction's gone. I can feel it. That energy surge scoured it right out of my system. I'm clean, at last."
    "I'm glad. Hazel, I wanted to say…"
    And then his voice was drowned out by the roar of gravity engines overhead. Owen looked up, and then forced himself to his feet again. Six gravity barges were hovering above the square, their disrupter cannon trained on him and Hazel.
    Owen's hand clenched around his sword hilt, but knew that this time there wasn't going to be any last-minute escape. Even at his peak he doubted he'd have been able to stand against the massed disrupter cannon of six gravity barges. He looked up at them and grinned defiantly anyway.
    "You people ever heard of the word overkill?"
    "The fight's over, Deathstalker," said an amplified voice from above. "But you don't have to die here. Lionstone has empowered us to make you an offer.
    Surrender to us, and you will be allowed to live. Our scientists could learn much from studying you."
    "Tell them to go to hell, Deathstalker," said Hazel, behind him. "My mother
    didn't raise me to be a laboratory rat. Probably vivisect us, first chance they got. Or send their mind techs into our heads, to turn us to their side. We can't allow that, Owen."
    "Our sensors indicate that you are gravely wounded, and your companion is dying," said the amplified voice. "We can save both of you. We have a regeneration machine aboard the Defiant. She doesn't have to die, Deathstalker.
    It's up to you."
    "Owen…" said Hazel.
    "I'm sorry, Hazel," said Owen. "I'm not ready for both of us to die." He looked up at the gravity barges and threw down his sword. "I surrender. Come and get us. But hurry it up. I don't think she's got much time left."
    "You bloody fool," said Hazel.
    He looked back at her, and smiled regretfully. "Always, where you're concerned."
    Hazel tried to reach for her gun, but her fingers wouldn't work. Owen sat down beside her again and listened to her curse him till the Imperial troops came to take them both into custody.
    Near the center of Mistport, lit bright as day by the burning buildings and out-of-control fires, Young Jack Random, John Silver, and the forces they led battled the invading Imperial forces to a standstill. The air was hot and smoky, with dark smuts floating in it, and the roar of the fires almost drowned out the roar of the gravity barges and Legion's triumphant howl. The fighting filled the streets from side to side, and spilled over into back alleys and culs-de-sac.
    The trampled snow turned to blood-soaked slush, and bodies lay everywhere. The Deathstalker's projectile weapons were proving their worth at close quarters, but even so the battle raged this way and that, neither side able to take the advantage for long. Steel hammered on steel, the fighters held face-to-face by
    the crush of the crowds. There was no room for strategy or tactics or fancy footwork, just the hard, steady work of human butchery and slaughter.
    Young Jack Random was right there in the thick of it, his great frame standing out in the crowd, larger than life and apparently unbeatable. His war cries rang out above the din, loud and triumphant and unyielding, and every man who fought at his side felt twice the man for being in his presence. Random's sword rose and fell steadily, cutting a path through the enemy forces toward their commanders, refusing to be slowed or turned aside. His courage and determination inspired the rebels to ever greater efforts, throwing themselves into the fray as though their lives were nothing.
    And right there in the middle of it, too, was John Silver. He was soaked in blood, as much from his own wounds as others', but still his sword was steady in his hand, as he pushed himself relentlessly forward. He was beyond pain or exhaustion now, driven