Deathstalker 05 - Deathstalker Destiny

difficult thing, being human.
    Sometimes."
    He went off to organize some way of transporting the drive to the landing pad.
    Luckily both were outside the Mission proper. Owen watched his friend go, and wouldn't let himself consider whether he was being selfish. He'd never asked for anything before, for himself. And he'd lost and given up so much, to become the hero and warrior he never wanted to be; he was damned if he'd lose Hazel too.
    He heard heavy footsteps behind him, and turned to find ex-Captain Rottsteiner bearing down on him, looking even more upset than before, if that was possible.
    Owen met him with a steady gaze, and Rottsteiner slowed to a halt at what he hoped was a safe distance.
    "You can't just leave me here, Deathstalker! Not with these… people!"
    "Watch me," said Owen, entirely unmoved. "And by the way, Moab's Washpot is a bloody silly name for a ship, so I'm renaming it Sunstrider III. I'd break a bottle of champagne over the hull to christen it, if we had any, but we don't.
    And if we did, I wouldn't waste good booze in such a fashion. And we can't use the local stuff, because it would eat holes in the hull."
    "You can't just leave me here!" shrieked Rottsteiner, seizing his chance as Owen paused for breath.
    "Why not?" said Owen calmly. "Give me one good reason. Hell, give me one bad reason. Mother Beatrice can always use another pair of hands, so you'll have plenty to occupy your time. Do you good to be genuinely useful for a change.
    Look on it as character building. Or not. See if I care. Now go away and stop bothering me, before I think of something amusing and horribly violent to do to you."
    Ex-Captain Rottsteiner went away, very quietly. Owen made his last rounds of the Mission, saying his goodbyes and making sure the projects he'd started would continue without him. He was polite and even gracious, but the lepers could tell his attention was elsewhere. They understood. They knew he was just filling in time till his new ship was ready. It took Moon less than an hour to install the new stardrive, but to Owen it seemed like days. He smiled widely for the first time in two weeks when the Hadenman finally reappeared.
    "Yes, it's done," said Moon heavily. "Yes, it will function perfectly, and no,
    there's no reason why you shouldn't take off whenever you feel like it. Have I missed anything?"
    "I don't think so," said Owen. "Thanks, Moon. Try not to feel bad about me. I have to do this."
    "I know you do." Moon hesitated. "I could come with you. Hazel is my friend."
    "You're needed here," said Owen firmly. "We can't all go running out on our responsibilities. The people here need you to teach them how to link up with the Red Brain. And besides; what I'm doing has nothing to do with law, and everything with vengeance. I don't want you involved in the things I may have to do."
    "Watch yourself, Owen," said Moon. "You're not the inhuman you used to be."
    "Yeah," said Owen. "But they don't know that."
    He put out a hand for Moon to shake, and then the Hadenman surprised Owen by sweeping him forward into a hug. It was clumsy, as though Moon understood the theory rather more than the practice, but it was well meant, and Owen hugged him back for a long moment. They finally stepped back, and looked each other in the eye. Neither of then wanted to say goodbye, so in the end they just nodded to each other, as though Owen were just stepping out for a while, and then they turned and walked off to follow their respective destinies.
    They never saw each other again, except in dreams.

    Hazel d'Ark lay on her back, strapped down on a moving trolley as it trundled along endless stone corridors. The trolley ran fairly smoothly, but it was constantly being jerked this way and that as she was transported down one narrow passage after another. She felt deathly tired, and her body seemed weighed down
    by far more than the half dozen leather straps holding her in place. Her thoughts were slow and drifting, and it seemed to her that they had been for some time now. Headfirst, strapped down, the trolley carried her on into the gloom, and it was hard for her to care where or why.
    Suddenly there were people moving around her, passing silently back and forth without looking at her. They were all tall willowy albinos with glaring bloodred eyes, wearing long robes of bright swirling colors, and their long bony faces were covered with vicious ritual scars, in wild jagged patterns. The patterns were different on every