Blackhawk: Far Stars Legends I

by Jay Allan

  He’d known all of this for a long time, but he’d hidden the direct choice from himself, stumbled forward through the wreckage his life had become, seeking only pain relief and taking no real steps to address the choice head on. Until now.

  He knew what had changed. Lucerne. He hadn’t known the Celtiborian general long enough to call what he felt loyalty, but he realized he deeply respected the man. And his encounter with Lucerne, the realization that there were good people out there, causes worth fighting for, had pulled him back from the abyss. He wouldn’t seek his own death. He would complete this mission for Lucerne. And then he would build a new life, one separate from that he had lived before. He would become the man he’d never been allowed to be, one whose actions didn’t overwhelm him with self-loathing. And he would remember his debt to this Celtiborian general.

  But what about Pellier? Why do I have this uneasy feeling? Am I worried I misread Lucerne? That I am wrong, that the general really sent his people to murder me in the desert? No, that doesn’t make any sense. He could have killed me far more simply in his headquarters…and no one would have cared. So what is it? Why do I feel such concern?

  He took a deep breath, enjoying the cool, fresh air, amazed at how cold it got in the desert at night. He shivered and slid down deeper into the light sleeping bag. It didn’t provide an enormous amount of warmth, but it was enough.

  His thoughts were on Pellier, on the day’s march. He recounted every moment, every word the Celtiborian officer had uttered. There was no reason to suspect the man of treachery. But Blackhawk was still uneasy, concerned enough that he’d decided to remain awake through the night. It was another benefit of his engineered body, the ability to go a number of days with no sleep without a significant degradation in his abilities. But for all his precautions, the unease he felt in his gut, he couldn’t make a rational case to suspect the officer. He told himself it was paranoia, that he was creating an issue where none existed. And he forced it back, out of his mind. But he also stayed awake, lying quietly, staring up at the stars.

  * * *

  “We’re almost there.” Pellier was at the front of the group, looking out over the landscape with a small scope. “We’ll stop just behind that low ridge.” He turned toward Blackhawk. “Then you’ll get your wish, Mr. Blackhawk. You’ll be on your own.”

  Blackhawk stared out in the same direction. He wondered for a moment how the view his enhanced eyes gave him compared to that Pellier had through the scope. He knew he didn’t have the same magnification with his bare eyes, but he could still make out the ridge. It was a long stretch of rock outcroppings, narrow but running on as far as the eye could see. There were breaks in the rock wall, places where sections had long ago been blasted away to make an easier path for the transports of the trade caravans. But it was more than enough cover, and Blackhawk was grateful they’d gotten this far without being discovered.

  “Will your people be heading back before nightfall?”

  He was debating spending the night along the rocks and setting out for Ghana’s camp in the morning. He’d have preferred the cover of darkness on the journey here…getting spotted with a pack of poorly disguised soldiers wouldn’t have been helpful. But now he intended to be seen. He was a wanderer who had come to enlist in Ghana’s army, and all of Celtiboria’s Warlords recruited from the dispossessed and desperate of the planet. Traveling now at night was dangerous…and sneaking around this close to Ghana’s base in the darkness only invited the guards and patrols to view him as a threat. Better to walk in, openly, in the sunlight of morning.

  “Perhaps,” Pellier replied. “We might take advantage of the cooler weather and get some distance behind us.”

  Blackhawk had stopped listening. He’d heard something, and he tensed immediately, his eyes darting to the side, looking off beyond the rock outcroppings.

  Airship.

  “Let’s go, Major…we’ve got to get to those rocks. Now.” Blackhawk moved forward, turning his head back and repeating himself. “Now!”

  Pellier had a surprised look on his face, one that changed quickly to anger at the imperiousness of Blackhawk’s tone. But then he heard it too, and he yelled out to his troopers. “Let’s go, men…we’ve got to get under cover.”

  Blackhawk was moving forward, quickly, definitely a run…but far from the fastest he could go. There was no point in outpacing his companions. His idea of a new life didn’t include racing off and leaving comrades in trouble. He hadn’t exactly sworn an oath of loyalty to these soldiers—or Lucerne either for that matter—but running away and leaving them behind didn’t sit that well with him.

  Besides, if the enemy spots them, they’ll search the whole area…if they get caught, I get caught too. And it’s going to take Ghana’s people about ten seconds to figure out they’re not desert nomads…and another ten to decide they’re Lucerne’s men.

  No one is going to believe I’m not with them, that it’s just a coincidence we’re both here in the deep, empty desert…

  “Move,” he yelled, knowing the soldiers were already running as hard as they could.

  There was more than one airship now. Blackhawk could make out at least three…and when he looked up, he saw a glint in the bright sky, the lead bird heading directly toward the group. He cursed their bad luck…but deep in his mind he couldn’t believe it was fortune that had failed them. They hadn’t seen so much as a scout flyer zipping over the truce-quieted battle zone the entire day before. Now, on the verge of reaching their destination, a flight of what he was willing to bet were gunships, was heading straight at them.

  Blackhawk didn’t believe in coincidence, and he damned sure didn’t trust Pellier. Had the major simply screwed up, had they been detected by Ghana’s people somehow as they trudged across the desert? Or was something darker happening?

  He glanced back over his shoulder at Lucerne’s officer. He was cursing himself for getting involved, for trusting the general…and worse, for not listening to his gut instinct on Pellier. He wasn’t sure yet the major had set him up, but he was sure of one thing. As soon as he knew for certain, Pellier would die. Whatever else happened.

  The airships were closer now, louder. They were less than halfway to the ridge, and Blackhawk knew…they weren’t going to make it. He wasn’t even sure he could get there if he broke into a dead run. And he wouldn’t do that, not until he was sure about Pellier.

  “We’re going to have to fight, Major,” he snapped out. He knew the airships could gun them down with strafing runs, but he figured they would land instead. Either this was a setup, and Pellier was involved…or Ghana’s people would want to investigate, to discover who they were before taking any action that might threaten the truce. If the airships landed, that meant there would be a fight on the ground, and that gave them a chance.

  “Don’t provoke anything,” Pellier snapped back. “We should be able to talk our way out of this.”

  Blackhawk didn’t reply. He just wondered if Pellier was really stupid enough to think his water-fat soldiers would really pass for desert nomads, or…

  The lead airship swooped lower, kicking up a cloud of dust as it came down just in front of the group. Blackhawk watched as the other ships—there were six of them now, and they were indeed heavily-armed gunships—set down in a wide circle around them.

  He’d stopped running…there was no point. They weren’t going to make it to the rocks. He stood still, holding back from any moves that might appear threatening. That much of Pellier’s advice, at least, made sense.

  The noise from the airships’ engines was loud, almost deafening as the other ships landed, and the sound came from all sides. Blackhawk could see Lucerne’s men standing, their poses similar to his, not threatening, but ready to reach for their weapons on an instant’s notice. He could tell they were afraid—any rational person would be. But they were hiding it well, and anyone less perceptive than Blackhawk might have been fooled.

  He watched as the hatches opened on the le
ad airship, and a group of soldiers scrambled out. They were clad in desert camo, and they wore partial body armor. They had assault rifles in their hands, and heavy swords at their sides.

  “Stay where you are,” the leader yelled, his voice almost lost in the din of the airship’s turbines. “Hands out…don’t move.”

  The squad of troopers moved forward, fanning out, weapons pointed toward Blackhawk and his companions.

  “We want no trouble. We are Emiridani, desert dwellers…we are traveling between Hermami…oases.” It was Pellier, managing a credible version of a Badlands accent, complete with a few words of the native dialect.

  “You are on territory claimed by Lord General Bako Harrian Ghana. You are under arrest. You will be taken to our headquarters…if you are who you say you are, you will be released. If not…” The leader waved to his troops, and they moved forward, rifles extended in front of them.

  Blackhawk watched, trying to appear nonchalant as he inspected the soldiers, their armor, weapons…weak spots. He was aware there were troops pouring out of the other airships too, taking position around his group. But he didn’t look, didn’t take any action to give away the degree of his focus.

  One of the soldiers walked right up to him, a suspicious scowl on his face. “Open the cloak,” he said gruffly. His comrades were doing the same with the others. Blackhawk paused, just for a second. He knew they wouldn’t pass for desert nomads. Their looks were all wrong…and their weapons were far superior to the old bolt action rifles the Emiridani would be carrying. He needed to make a decision, in a split second. If he was going to fight, now was the time. The alternative was allowing himself to be disarmed, and probably shackled.

  Attack…

  He didn’t figure it offered great odds of success, but he knew even if these soldiers couldn’t tell, it would take Ghana’s interrogators about five minutes to figure out his companions were Lucerne’s soldiers. And even if they didn’t assume the same of him, the plan was shot to hell. There was no way he was going to explain away being captured with a group of Lucerne’s men.

  He could feel the strange feeling, the tingling in his muscles, the alertness in his mind, adrenalin in his bloodstream. He’d never fully understood the battle trance, the physiology behind it, at least…but he’d experienced it countless times, and he knew how to use it. It wasn’t voluntary…it came on him when battle called, and it increased his already-impressive abilities.

  He was about to lunge forward against the soldier in front of him when he heard the sounds of fighting off to his side. It was Pellier, moving, grabbing the rifle of the soldier in front of him and pushing it aside.

  Blackhawk launched his own attack, spinning to the side, away from his enemy’s weapon…and then swinging hard, one quick strike, his open hand slamming into his foe’s neck. The stunned soldier dropped to his knees, a shocked look on his face as he fell forward to the ground. Dead.

  Blackhawk was already on the move, pulling the assault rifle from under his cloak, and bringing it to bear on two soldiers in front of him. He pulled the trigger, a burst of three bullets almost taking the head off the first man. His eyes were fixed on the second as the trooper moved to bring his own weapon to bear. But Blackhawk was faster, and he put his target down.

  He swung his head back and forth, evaluating the situation. Most of Lucerne’s soldiers were already down, only Pellier and two others still standing. There were enemy fighters closing from the other airships, but only one left between Blackhawk and the closest bird. He reacted on instinct, without conscious thought, and he dropped the last soldier with another burst. He knew what he had to do…if he could get to the ship…

  Eight troops had come out. Blackhawk’s eyes focused for an instant, estimating the ship’s size. There would be a pilot inside…and possibly a co-pilot. But the payload wasn’t more than eight troopers. He was sure. Ninety percent sure.

  If he could get there quickly enough…he could kill the pilots, take the controls himself. He felt the tension in his legs as he readied himself for an all-out run for the airship. But Pellier and the other man…should he just abandon them? Could he?

  He was confused, in a way he’d never been in battle before. He knew what he’d have done before. He’d have left Lucerne’s men behind to their fates. But there was something else there now, in his mind. And it kept him in place.

  Fuck, he thought, glancing once at the airship before he turned toward his comrades. He disliked Pellier…and he’d deeply suspected the gruff major of treachery. But here he was fighting against Ghana’s men, just as Blackhawk was.

  One of the other soldiers went down, shot at least five times by two enemies…clearly dead even as he fell.

  Two left. Plus me.

  Blackhawk whipped up his rifle, flipping it to single fire as he did. Quarters were tight now…his targets were too close to his comrades for anything but aimed shots.

  He fired once. Then again. Two enemy soldiers dropped. They had been moving around Pellier’s flank, about to fire.

  Blackhawk ducked to the side even as he took the shots, lowering his body in a jerky motion, an almost random movement, as he heard the fire whizzing by, passing through where he’d been an instant before.

  He fired again. And again. Two more dead. But it wasn’t enough. There had been three. And the third soldier fired…taking Pellier right in the chest. Blackhawk felt the frustration, the anger, as he saw his comrade fall back. He fired again, and the soldier who’d shot Pellier dropped, the top half of his skull gone.

  He felt the urge to run to Pellier, the hope that the major was only wounded. But Blackhawk had seen enough battles to recognize a killing shot when he saw one. Pellier’s wound was mortal, and if the major wasn’t dead already, he would be in a matter of seconds. The regret hit him hard. He hadn’t like Pellier, hadn’t trusted him either. But the major had died fighting at his side, and now Blackhawk felt regret.

  He spun around, toward the other survivor. But he was too late again. He shot, took down a trooper moving in from one of the other gunships. But the rest of them opened fire, riddling the last of his escorts. He was alone now.

  He turned, going back to his old plan…a mad dash for the airship. But he’d lost time, his abortive efforts to save Pellier and the others had cost valuable seconds. He wouldn’t give up…it was still the best option. But he knew he wasn’t going to make it.

  “The general wants him alive.”

  Blackhawk heard the words. They were distant, but his enhanced ears picked them up.

  Why? Why would they want me alive? How would they even know I’m not just another of Lucerne’s soldiers?

  He spun around, flipping the rifle to full auto…and emptying the clip, dropping another six of Ghana’s troopers before throwing the weapon aside and turning back toward the airship. He zigzagged as he ran, avoiding the gunfire that wasn’t coming. His comrades were all dead…and the enemy wanted him alive.

  He felt the urge to reach for his pistol, but he remembered he’d left it behind at Lucerne’s headquarters. His sidearms were too distinctive, completely unlike anything a desert nomad would possess. The pistol was of imperial manufacture, and though it was old and well-used, it was a formidable high tech weapon. The sword was even older, its blade short but razor-sharp and forged of the best hyper-steel in the empire. If he’d wanted to draw unwanted attention to himself, either would have done the job. But now he wished he had his own weapons. He’d fought many battles with that pistol and sword, killed countless enemies with them.

  He was almost to the airship. Just few more steps. Then something hit him. It was like an electric shock, and he felt the energy drain from his body. A stun cannon…a powerful one. He staggered for half a second. Then he pushed forward, putting all that remained of his strength into keeping himself moving.

  Again. A wave of pain, blackness for an instant. A dull ache in his legs. He fell down to one knee, gasping for air. His body twitched, and his vision was blurry. But still�
�somehow…he climbed back to his feet, took a step. And another.

  Then a third blast, one that sent him face forward to the sand. He was lying, his mind fuzzy, clouded, his body immobile. He tried to force himself up, but there was no response. He struggled, pushed with everything he had…his arm lurched forward, then his leg. Slowly, he crawled forward, hearing the sounds of his enemies gathering around him. He could see their legs, the shadows they cast in the blazing desert sun.

  They were talking, but he couldn’t hear, couldn’t focus on what they were saying. Someone was yelling to him. He heard the words, but the meaning was slow to come. Stop. The man was ordering him stop.

  Fuck you, he thought, the defiance giving him back some clarity. He reached out ahead of him, shoved forward with his foot…another lurch toward the airship. Then pain, the stun cannon again, from close this time. He felt his body spasm, pain in every nerve. His mind was lost, floating. He had only one thought…he’d suspected Pellier, but the major was dead, a victim of the ambush even as he was. All the men were dead. There was only one answer, one possibility. Lucerne. Lucerne had betrayed him. He had betrayed them all.

  How could I have been so wrong? And why…what does he have to gain?

  And then there was nothing but the dark.

  Chapter Seven

  Ghana’s Main Base

  “The Badlands”

  Northern Celtiboria

  Blackhawk sat on the bare metal bench along the wall, looking out at the large cell. Ghana’s prison was considerably less humane than Lucerne’s, and far more representative of the genre in his experience. There were a dozen prisoners in the cell, with just a single bench large enough for perhaps half that many to sit. There were no cots, no place to sleep save sitting up on the bench for those lucky enough to have a spot…or on the damp, filth-strewn floor for the others. There was a single trough along the far wall, clogged and overflowing with urine and feces, adding mightily to the overpowering reek in the room.