by Jay Allan
Blackhawk felt a tug on his pants leg, and he kicked hard, sending the sand rat flying across the room. The rodents in the prison were extremely aggressive, climbing up legs to get at the slightest morsel of food…or to take a bite out of a prisoner if nothing else was available.
This is just great, he thought, looking around with a disgusted expression on his face. He’d been in worse places, in greater danger, but somehow that was of limited comfort to him now. He was pretty sure he would be able to escape when the time came. Ghana’s operation didn’t come close to Lucerne’s in efficiency, and his soldiers were typical rabble, brave enough in a fight, but most of them seemed dumb as a box of rocks. And they were arrogant. Arrogance and stupidity were Blackhawk’s favorite combo in an adversary.
He leaned back, stretching, trying to twist the kinks out of his back. His body ached, but he mostly ignored it. He’d done about an hour in one of Ghana’s interrogation cells getting worked over by an inquisitor. It hadn’t been pleasant, certainly…but his main impression was these frontier folk had a lot to learn about effective torture. They wanted him alive, and more or less unharmed, at least it seemed that way at the moment. That had held them back, prevented them from using any truly brutal methods.
Blackhawk was grateful for their ignorance, for how far behind imperial methods they were. There were many ways to inflict unimaginable suffering without causing permanent damage, but Blackhawk hadn’t gotten anything more than a moderate beating…a few bruises that were already healing, courtesy of his improved bodily functions.
He suppressed a laugh. Every man would break at some point, though he knew he could take a lot of punishment. He had advanced training in resisting questioning…and an ambivalent attitude toward survival. It would take a lot for these yokels to make him talk. A lot more than a few kicks and punches.
He was more troubled by his thoughts of Lucerne than by the immediate prospects of an interrogation session he couldn’t handle. He had really taken a liking to Lucerne, respected the man. He was rarely wrong about people…and almost never completely in error. He tried to convince himself this was a lesson, a reminder in why never to get involved in the affairs of those around him. But he still hated facing the realization he couldn’t counter. Lucerne had set him up…and sacrificed one of his own officers and a group of his men to do it. That ran counter to every impression he’d had of the general…and also of the reputation Lucerne had among his own men.
Blackhawk knew a general’s image among the population, even with his rivals, was subject to all manner of tricks and playacting. But the men who fought his battles, who followed his commands, quickly took his measure. And Lucerne’s men seemed to take the concept of loyalty to a new level.
But what else could have happened? That was no random encounter…half a dozen airships, fifty men. Heading straight for us. No, they knew we were there. And everybody else who knew our route is dead. Except Lucerne.
The more Blackhawk thought about it, the surer he was. He put himself in Lucerne’s place, and he knew he’d have never trusted an unknown drifter, no matter how adept he was at fighting. Not in a million years. He cursed himself for his folly, for believing the Celtiborian general. But he still couldn’t figure out what Lucerne had to gain by betraying him.
He put those thoughts out of his mind. Now his focus was on getting out. Of the prison, of the Badlands. Off Celtiboria entirely. He was angry, disappointed in his own judgment…and he’d had more than enough of this miserable planet. It was time to go. Past time.
He wasn’t going to crawl back into the bottle, though. No, he’d wallowed long enough in his misery. There was plenty of work in the Far Stars for a man as good with a gun and a blade as he was…on planets whose dysfunctionality was far more straightforward, at least, than Celtiboria’s. Lucerne’s efforts—his treachery—had produced some benefits…they had shaken him out of his self-indulgent stupor.
Yes, it was time to get out of here. The only question he hadn’t answered was, would he leave Celtiboria immediately? Or would he kill Augustin Lucerne first? He knew he wouldn’t know the answer…not until it was time to make that decision.
His eyes panned around the cell, his mind working, making a plan. There were a couple guys in filthy brown uniforms off to the one side…Ghana’s men who had apparently gotten themselves into some kind of trouble.
Or they’re spies, hanging around, trying to overhear something useful from the other prisoners.
Blackhawk wondered. He would have had operatives in his prison, but he decided Ghana wasn’t that sophisticated. He was a blunt instrument, like most of the Warlords, born into a noble class with an inheritance of some lands and a force of retainers, assets he’d used more effectively than some of the others, mostly because his neighbors had been weaker than he was. He had some military skill, Blackhawk acknowledged that, but far less, he expected, than Lucerne. He glanced back at the uniformed men. Not spies, he thought again. Just soldiers who got in trouble.
There were a few others in the cell, clad in the light khaki garb of desert dwellers. Probably locals who’d resisted some outrage or another perpetrated by Ghana’s troops. It was one of the perversions of war that the father trying to prevent a soldier from raping his daughter was usually the one dragged away as a criminal. Or perhaps they were starving locals who’d been caught stealing from military supply depots. Whatever the specifics, there was injustice of one sort or another on display, just as Blackhawk had seen everywhere else he’d been. He looked at the men for a few seconds, some part of him wishing he cared more than he did, that some sense of outrage at these helpless nomads being imprisoned—and likely killed eventually—pushed him to want to help them. But he’d seen enough of the galaxy to know that fairness was a fool’s dream, one he had no time or patience to indulge.
There were five others, in the far corner. They’d been clustered together the entire time he’d been there, except when one had been dragged off for questioning. They were obviously together, and while he could tell at once they weren’t military regulars, there was something about them, a hint of the toughness veterans acquired in battle. They reminded him of seasoned militias and rebel groups he’d seen on different planets, civilians at heart, but with some strength and discipline too. They were more watchful than the other prisoners too. More than one of them had flashed a glance his way.
Perhaps they were some kind of fighters, a local resistance group or something similar. He didn’t care who they were or what cause they followed. But he knew they could be useful in his escape. Half a dozen prisoners would be a lot more trouble for Ghana’s men to handle during an escape attempt…and he’d be able to slip away while the guards were chasing down the others.
He stood up slowly and walked across the room, shifting to the side to avoid a particularly large pile of unidentified slop on the floor. Then he moved directly toward the group, making no effort to disguise the fact.
The conversation stopped abruptly, and all five turned toward him. There were four men and a woman, and as soon as he got a close look at their faces he decided they had all seen some kind of combat. It was their eyes…these were people who had faced death, who had watched friends and comrades die…he was sure of it.
“Can we do something for you, stranger?” It was one of the men who spoke, and Blackhawk decided immediately he was the leader. His tone wasn’t overtly hostile, but it wasn’t friendly either.
Blackhawk stared right into the man’s eyes. “Perhaps. I am going to get out of here…and I thought you might want to join me.” He preferred bluntness whenever possible, and a few minutes of pointless banter would serve no purpose here.
The man started to laugh, but it died quickly on his lips. Blackhawk’s stare was intense, his words heavy with deadly purpose.
“Is this some kind of joke?” the man replied. “A setup?”
Blackhawk’s eyes darted to the sides, surveying the others. They were all covered in bruises and cuts, their clothes stai
ned with dried blood. One of them had an arm in a makeshift sling, and another had a bloody rag tied around his head, covering one eye. Where one eye should have been.
Interrogation. These people have been questioned harshly…and from the looks of things they haven’t broken yet.
His respect for them grew.
These are not simple locals…definitely not…
He almost felt a wave of guilt for his intention to use them as diversions in his own escape. Almost.
“I am quite serious. You do not look like you have enjoyed your captivity. It occurred to me you might wish to end it.”
He noticed a few hostile stares, a rustling among the group. But the leader held up his hand, gesturing for his people to stay calm. Then he said, “And just how do you propose we escape?”
Blackhawk looked at the leader. “I have considered our options. The cell has two ventilation ducts. Both are on the ceiling, which makes it difficult to reach them. It might be worth the effort if this was an old castle or similar structure repurposed as Ghana’s headquarters. But it appears to be some sort of modern prefabricated building, and these are purpose-built cells, which means there is likely some sort of obstruction in the ventilation system anyway, blocking an obvious avenue of escape.”
Blackhawk clearly had the attention of all five prisoners now, even the ones who’d been looking at him a moment before with undisguised menace. His description was concise, complete, unemotional. Professional.
“The walls are made of some kind stress resistant polymer, so breaking through is unlikely, at least without tools we don’t have. It might be worth the effort if we were on the outside of the structure, but we’re not…we’re deep in the center.”
“How could you know that?” the leader asked.
“I kept track of distance and direction changes when they brought me in. The structure is roughly rectangular, and based on the path to this cell, it is apparent we are nowhere near the exterior wall.”
The leader turned to look at his companions, and then his eyes moved back to Blackhawk. He was silent, as were all the others, trying to decide if they believed the man speaking to them truly had that kind of awareness of his surroundings.
“That leaves only more direct options as possibilities. The guards will be here with the evening meal in approximately one hour. Their doctrine has been absolutely consistent over the past three days. Two prisoners will bring in the pushcarts, with two guards standing behind them. The guards will have assault rifles, and pistols holstered at their sides. There will be another guard out in the hall, to the left of the cell door, armed similarly to the others. I observed a shadow from farther down the hall on two of three occasions, so we must assume a potential fourth guard…my guess is about three meters from the cell door.”
The prisoners stared at Blackhawk in wonder…and rapt attention. The details he’d amassed on the prison, on the activities of the guards, were nothing less than astonishing.
“You want us to jump the guards?” There was surprise in the leader’s voice, and fear too.
“Yes, simply put.” Blackhawk could see the hesitation in the faces looking back at him. “Direct action is often the correct tactic, as much because it is unexpected as any other reason. Many efforts fail because those involved mistake added complexity for useful additions to the operating plan.”
Blackhawk paused for a second, looking around him, checking on the status of the other prisoners. What he had to say was for the four men and women he was speaking to and no one else. “A jailor anticipates prisoners trying to tunnel out of a prison or escaping through the ventilation ducts. But unarmed prisoners assaulting four guards…the very audacity of the plan gives it an edge. On a simplistic level, the presence of the armed guards is intended to thwart any such effort, and once they have deployed significant force—as is the case here—they will likely discount the possibility of a direct assault. They will feel they are strong, that they have enough strength in place to prevent any such attack. And that is what makes them vulnerable.”
Blackhawk felt an energy he hadn’t in a very long time. His mind was awake, alive, analyzing his proposed plan even as he spoke with the prisoners. They stared back at him, eyes wide as understanding sunk in that this was no random loudmouthed inmate speaking to them.
There was a long silence. Then the leader spoke. “And just how do we disable four guards…armed guards?”
“Kill,” Blackhawk said coldly. “We kill the guards. Don’t even think ‘disable.’ There is no time for half-measures. It is easier to strike a fatal blow than one certain to incapacitate an opponent…and a man who is still alive is still dangerous. I have seen ‘disabled’ men, even dying ones, kill their attackers. If we do this, we shoot to kill. We stab to kill. We punch or kick to kill. There is no time for hesitation, for softness. Any escape will be a race against time. If we allow General Ghana’s people enough time to respond, the escape attempt is doomed.”
“So you want us to attack the guards and what? Take their weapons? Fight our way out of Ghana’s main base? Past all his troops? And then what? Into the desert?”
“Yes.” Blackhawk’s voice was calm, matter-of-fact.
The leader looked back at him with shock in his eyes. “That is a desperate plan, isn’t it? One more likely to end in our deaths than escape.”
Blackhawk stared back. Your deaths maybe. He was still thinking of his tentative compatriots as cover, diversions. If they made it out, fine. If not, also fine. But he figured he had a good chance, maybe eighty percent. Ghana’s soldiers weren’t completely incompetent, but they’d never run into anything like him before either.
“Is that a valid reason not to try?” He looked over the group. “Is it better to stay here and endure Ghana’s torture sessions? He clearly wants some kind of information from you. Surely you know the instant one of you breaks, you are all dead.” Blackhawk’s tone was without emotion. He’d seen suffering, enough to desensitize him to it, to view it as an antiseptic fact. “Is it better to remain here like sheep, to endure pain and degradation until one of you falters? And then to die? If you must die, is it not better to die on your feet, trying to escape?”
Blackhawk watched the leader’s face, saw the realization there. His people were doomed if they did nothing, whether they told Ghana’s people what they wanted to know or not. They had nothing to lose by even the most desperate escape attempt. Blackhawk knew that, and he could see the leader coming to the same realization. The others looked less certain, their faces covered with masks of doubt. But Blackhawk was willing to bet they would follow the leader.
“I’m going to go whether you come or not,” Blackhawk said decisively. “We all have a better chance together than alone. Are you with me?”
The leader turned for a moment to look back at his people, but Blackhawk already knew the answer.
“Yes,” he said, struggling to keep the doubt from his voice. “We’re with you.”
He extended a hand toward Blackhawk. “I am Jarvis Danith. And this is Balon Tahl.” He gestured toward the man with the sling. Then he turned his head to look back at the others. “And Tig Arhn, Mog Poole, Cyn Larison.”
Blackhawk paused. It had been a long time since he’d had any real interaction with comrades of any sort. He told himself these were not new friends, they were cover, a diversion…that he intended to keep it that way. He had no place for connections, for relationships based on anything except utility. He’d allowed himself to feel respect for General Lucerne, and now he felt like a fool. He should have known better…and he didn’t intend to make the same mistake again.
Still, there was no harm in playing along with social conventions. Anything to get the best out of his new comrades. “Blackhawk,” he said. “Arkarin Blackhawk.” Then he reached out and took Jarvis’ hand.
* * *
“The prisoner’s possessions offer no hint of his origins, General.” Dav Roogen stood at attention, holding a small datapad in his hand. He was clearl
y on edge, fully aware that what he was reporting would not satisfy the Warlord. Ghana wasn’t a bloodthirsty psychopath like Carteria, but he wasn’t a patient or tolerant man either.
“That is unsatisfactory, Captain. We must know more. This man is clearly not from the Badlands…and I’d wager he is not Celtiborian either. His skills and abilities are beyond impressive. We are fortunate to have received warning about him. But we must find out who he is…and where he came from.”
Ghana was sitting behind his desk. He was a tall man in his mid-fifties, his head completely shaved except for a small goatee, black frosted heavily with gray. He was clad in a dressier version of the brown uniform his troops wore. His sleeves were rolled up, and his desk was covered with data chips and tablets. His workstation screen displayed a map, with symbols designating troop positions in the area.
“He was questioned, General. The inquisitor was instructed to do no permanent damage, but it was still a thorough session. The man said nothing, sir. Not even a grunt of pain.”
Ghana stared back at the officer, his hand absent-mindedly playing with a stylus laying on the desk. “That is unfortunate…though not entirely unexpected.”
“We can question him again, sir, if you wish. The head jailor has been focusing his primary attention on the prisoners from the Grays, but I can instruct him to…”
“No,” Ghana said, his voice deep. “This man will be hard to break. It will take considerable time, if indeed we are able to compel him to talk at all. Finding the terrorists’ secret base is still the priority. The disruption of what is left of our trading revenue has become intolerable.” He paused, staring down at his desk for a few seconds as though he was looking for something. Then he gave up and stared back at Roogen. “I can’t find it now, but I just read it. The most recent report suggests several of the prisoners are close to breaking.”