Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

almost therapeutic. A place where you could forget your cares and misfortunes. According to the records, there were 522 people down there when whatever happened happened. None of them have been heard of since."
    "But what could possibly have gone wrong on a pleasure world?" said Evangeline.
    "There was nothing there that could hurt them. And we know they were protected from outside attack. The planetary defenses are still working."
    "We're getting past them," said Finlay.
    Giles grunted suddenly, and sat forward in his chair, catching them all by surprise. "Pleasure worlds. Just another sign of how pampered and soft the Empire has become since my day. You need hard, driven people to keep an Empire strong. We had pleasure worlds, in my day, but they were places you went to test your mettle and your courage, a testing ground where you could grow sharper and stronger. Valhallas, where you could fight and feast and battle to your heart's content, or at least for as long as your heart could stand it. No mock battles,
    either; they were the real thing. That was the point. You could die on a Valhalla, if you weren't as strong or as skilled as you thought you were. The weak died and the race grew stronger. There was no room for weakness in Humanity then. We had an Empire to forge and protect. Now you sit in your seats at the Arenas, watching other people fight and die, and get all excited at the sight of a little blood. No wonder the Iron Throne's corrupt. The blood's become thin, and honor is just a word."
    "Not to all of us," said Finlay.
    "I don't mean duels over hurt feelings, boy; I mean honor you live your life by.
    A cold and inflexible master you serve before Family or Throne or personal need.
    A duty you carry till you die, or you break under the weight of it. I gave up everything I had or ever dreamed of, to follow where duty led. Can you say you'd do the same?"
    "I don't know," said Finlay evenly. "I don't suppose anyone ever knows, till the moment comes. But I'll do what's necessary, and damn the cost. I always have."
    "Do we have to be so gloomy?" said Toby. "Let us not forget, people, that however our mission goes, we all stand to become extremely rich. The networks will pay practically any price you can think of for exclusive eyewitness accounts of the mysterious Shannon's World. People have been mad with curiosity over what's down there for years, even before everything went to hell. And if we're in a position to explain what went wrong and why, we can name our own price. We're going to be rich, I tell you, rich!"
    "Or dead," said Flynn, without opening his eyes.
    "We are not here for the money," said Evangeline.
    "You speak for yourself," said Toby.

    Julian Skye listened to them argue, but had nothing to say. He didn't give much of a damn about Shannon's World, or its mystery. He was only here because Finlay was. And besides, he had his own worries. His headache was back again, a thick thudding pain that filled his head till he could hardly think past it. The pain came and went as it would, despite all the pills he took. The underground medics had done their best, but it hadn't been good enough. The pain and the disfigured face were the least gifts of the Imperial mind techs. They'd opened up his head and put needles in his brain, and now he wasn't sure who he was anymore. His courage was broken, and his certainty was gone, and what remained was less than a shadow of the man he had once been. The mind techs were very good at their job. Their procedures were advanced, secret, binding. There was no way of telling what they had done to his brain, what secret commands they might have planted in his mind.
    And even beyond that, there was the possibility that their work might have been interrupted, left unfinished. That not everything had been done to ensure he would survive the process. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, in the long dark hours when the vicious pain had driven all hope of sleep from him, and reduced him to helplessness and tears, Julian wondered if he was dying, slowly, inch by inch. When the pain was really bad, he wished he could. But eventually the pain would pass, again, and then he would cling to the few motives he had left that kept him alive. He still believed in the rebellion, and he believed in Finlay Campbell, the man who had risked all to come and save him. The Campbell had given up everything to join the underground. How could he do less?
    And so Julian followed Finlay wherever