Deathstalker 05 - Deathstalker Destiny

rather busy at the moment…"
    "This can't wait," Random said flatly. His voice was harsh, and grating. "We have traitors on board. Blue Block wants you dead. There's a bomb. Could be anywhere in the castle. They even suspect you know, they'll set it off."
    "Typical bloody Blue Block." Diana hit the hold on her viewscreen. "All right; let me concentrate." She frowned, and Random could feel her mind reaching out, spreading her thoughts over what remained of the castle, seeing everything. "Ah.
    Yes. Got it. They hid it well. Damn; it's a hell of a size. Big enough to take out the whole castle even when it was still intact. They really weren't taking any chances. I suppose I should be flattered."
    "Tell me where it is," said Random. "I'll defuse it."
    "No need. I've already shut it down. It's harmless now. You couldn't set it off now if you stuck a grenade up its ass. And I've detected all the traitors onboard, and shut them down mentally. I'm really going to have to do something about Blue Block, when I get back. One more problem to add to the list. It's just one damned thing after another these days, isn't it?"
    "Yes," said Random. "It is. If you don't need me anymore…"
    "Oh, I don't think so. I can cope. You go get some rest. Was there… something else, Jack? You look troubled."
    "No," said Random. "You seem to have things well in hand. You're right. I need some rest. Goodbye, Diana."
    He left the great Hall, and went back into the stone corridors. Diana hadn't needed his help after all. Diffused the damn bomb with just a thought, and took out the traitors. Probably wouldn't have needed his warning, either. More and more it seemed to him that Jack Random, the legendary professional rebel, had become superfluous. His way of doing things wasn't needed anymore. In the end, the rogue AIs had been defeated without any need of his warrior's skills. Diana Vertue had saved the day. He'd just been along for the ride.
    Ruby had been right. He'd outlived his own legend.
    And it was only then that he realized why the wound in his side wasn't healing; he had chosen to die. To put down his burden, and rest at last. Ruby was dead, and he wasn't needed anymore, so why go on. The Empire had changed beyond his ability to recognize, or be a part of. He'd tried going back to the old ways, forcing things to make sense with sword and gun, but that hadn't worked either.
    You couldn't just kill all the people who disagreed with you. He knew now that he'd just been trying to recreate the simplicity of purpose of his old days, when life itself had seemed simpler. Good or bad, fight or die. Bottom line was, the Empire didn't need a professional rebel anymore.
    There was still the matter of the Recreated, but Random couldn't bring himself to give a damn. Diana would probably just give them another telepathic hug, and that would be that. He'd fought for so very long, tried always to do the right thing, but he was very tired now, and he'd earned the right to rest. It was time
    to rest. Time to die.
    He made his way slowly back through the corridors, back to the wine cellar, to be with Ruby one last time. Let the superbeings take over. Owen and Hazel, Diana and the Mater Mundi. He'd never wanted to be a superbeing anyway. He'd dedicated his life to overthrowing the Iron Throne, been given a second chance he hadn't deserved, and lived long enough to see it happen. That was enough. He was walking slowly now, his strength seeping out of him along with the blood running down his side. He smiled and nodded to the people he passed.
    They mustn't know. There was always the chance Diana's people might try to help him, save him, and he didn't want that. It was time to let go.
    Oh God, Ruby. I loved you so very much.
    He could hear his own heartbeat now, loud in his ears, like the slow drumbeat at a funeral. He could barely feel his legs, but he kept himself upright and moving through sheer willpower. He had chosen to die, and he had chosen where, and he would not be denied that last dignity by the weakness of his own body. He walked on, his head dropping slowly lower with every step, the blood running more thickly now, like the last wine from the bottom of the barrel. But it seemed to him that he wasn't walking alone anymore. There were ghosts in the corridor now, old familiar faces. Alexander Storm came and walked with him for a while, and his old friend was young and handsome again, and they forgave each other everything. Then Storm was gone, replaced