by Jay Allan
Ace Graythorn stood next to him, with Shira and Sarge just behind. He felt a touch of melancholy, floating just under the adrenaline and the focus on impending action. Imminent ground fighting always brought at least a part of his mind back to the members of his family no longer with him. Tarq and Tarnan, the giant twins and the two strongest men he’d ever seen, were both dead, killed in action, and along with them, two of Sarge’s four troopers, also lost in battle, and the other two retired. The struggles against the empire had cost the Claw a huge chunk of its fighting strength, and Blackhawk four irreplaceable friends.
“Roger that, Cap.” Lucas Lancaster was the closest thing Blackhawk had ever seen to a natural-born pilot, and when he’d first seen Lucas in action, he had gladly given up the helm for his new prodigy. He knew of at least two instances where Lucas’s piloting skills had saved them all, but there were maybe half a dozen other solid maybes. However Blackhawk stacked it all up, Lucas had earned his place among them in more ways than one . . . even if the kid had been well on the way to killing himself with drugs and alcohol when the Wolf’s Claw’s captain had first extricated him from a confrontation in a bar on the verge of becoming deadly.
“You all ready?” Blackhawk turned and looked back at his three companions.
His people responded, as they always did, with grim nods. They knew they were likely going into a fight, and as many engagements as those present had survived, they all knew the next one could be their last. The Claw had lost family before, and no one believed that toll had run its lot.
But not today.
That was their mantra. We will take losses again . . . but not today.
Blackhawk ran his eyes over his people, checking, making sure they were ready. It was wholly unnecessary. They were veterans all, and whatever hell they raised in their off times, he knew they’d always be focused on the mission.
Ace Graythorn had a pair of pistols, and a long, thin knife hanging from his belt. He had a canvas strap thrown over his left shoulder, with half a dozen reloads for the pistols and four frag grenades hanging from it.
Shira had her pistol at her side, an old weapon, its grip nearly as worn as Blackhawk’s own, and she carried an assault rifle, standard issue for the Celtiborian army, heavily modified to her own specifications.
Sarge stood, stooped forward a little, showing his age a bit more than he had before the war. His hands were clutched around an old assault rifle, and a pouch hung from his side. Blackhawk knew from his own experience that sack held six grenades, each of them modified with Sarge’s handmade, freshly cut shards of metal. The homebrew frag grenades cut enemies to shreds better than any mass-produced weapon Blackhawk had ever seen.
Katarina Venturi stood behind them all, almost unnoticeable next to the bulkhead. The former assassin—formerly of the Sebastiani Assassins’ Guild at least, if not of the profession itself—looked more like a noblewoman who’d booked passage on the Claw than a deadly fighter. But everyone in Blackhawk’s crew understood just how deadly an adversary she was. Her garb was far simpler than that of her comrades, a skintight black bodysuit, covered by a light cloak that seemed to be spun from the finest silk. The clothing was far more complicated than it looked, however, and much more high tech. The bodysuit was armor of a sort, strong enough to turn any blade, and filled with microfibers that would expand and become as hard as reinforced steel if struck by a projectile. And the cloak held pockets and pouches that almost mystically hid a panoply of weaponry, enough killing power, Blackhawk suspected, to depopulate a small town.
If she even needed weapons at all, he thought.
“We’re coming in, Cap . . . twenty seconds to drop.” Lucas’s voice had moved from the ship’s speakers to the headsets they all wore. Once they left the Claw, the comm would be their only link to the ship.
“Roger that, Lucas.” Blackhawk reached out and smacked his hand on the controls, and an instant later, the hatch slid to the side. The portal opened smoothly, easily, unlike the days when this ship had been old and battered. The Wolf’s Claw had been completely refit after the war, to such a degree, Blackhawk wondered how much of his old ship really remained.
No time for nostalgia, Ark. Focus . . .
Ace moved forward, but Blackhawk slid over and blocked the way to the hatch. His people always tried to protect him, but if there was one rule on the Claw, it was this. If Blackhawk led them into danger, he went first.
He watched as the ground came closer, the ship dropping slowly on its final approach. Then he took a deep breath and hopped out, landing hard on the ground a meter and a half below. The jarring feeling up his legs was a bit more pronounced than it once had been, proof that even genetically engineered monsters got old.
He pulled out his pistol, an act of reflex as much as a response to any real sign of danger. He turned three hundred sixty degrees, scanning all around. He knew his people were doing the same, but they lacked his eyesight. They were all good fighters, but they’d been born normally to mothers and fathers and not created by mad scientists combining the genes of hundreds of the empire’s best specimens. Blackhawk could see twice as far as any of them, and with a clarity none of his people could imagine—even after he’d lost some of what he’d had in his youth.
He glanced up at the darkening sky. The sun was about to set. That left about an hour to get to the baseline of the ridge. Then, they would go up and over . . . and move on the château.
And, if all went well, Astra would have one less enemy conspiring against her in the night.
Without a word, the group moved forward.
The siren ripped through the cool night air, shattering the silence, and setting off an avalanche of shouts and alarms. Blackhawk and his team had managed to get through the outer fence without giving themselves away, and they’d made good use of the rare night when all three of the planet’s moons were in their new phase. But their target was a man with enemies, and his refuge was surrounded with multiple warning systems.
Including the one that had just gone off.
Blackhawk felt the adrenaline flooding into his veins, the rush of alertness and strength he knew of as his battle trance. Part genetics, part conditioning, it was something that had seen him through countless deadly battles.
There are four enemies coming this way. One hundred to one hundred ten meters, just north of south-southwest.
Blackhawk nodded slightly, an affectation he’d developed over the years as a response to useful information he received from the AI in his head. Nasty thoughts were his typical reply to pointless commentary and suggestions, but those days were over. He just couldn’t argue with the fact that the artificial presence was able to make even better use out of his enhanced senses than he was.
He spun around, focusing his eyes in the direction of the approaching guards. He could see something now, hints of movement. He glanced around quickly, finding a metal cube about a meter high. It was some kind of machinery, a water pump or transformer box.
It was also cover.
He reached down, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. There was gunfire all around, but as far as he could tell, it was all from hostiles. His people knew better than to give their positions away with pointless shots into the darkness.
He listened, his ears now picking up the rustling sounds of the approaching men. They were closer now, close enough to see—and for them to see him—but he remained crouched down, hidden. His sword was out, his hand gripped tightly on the trusted old weapon. If he timed everything right, he could dispatch all four guards without firing a shot, and even without too many screams.
The enemy knew someone was on the property, or at least they suspected, but they didn’t know who or where. And Blackhawk wanted to keep it that way, at least until he reached the house.
He slowed his breathing, taking in deep lungfuls and holding them while his ears tracked the approaching guards. They were off to the side, farther from his position than he would have liked. He’d have to lunge to the sid
e, and he’d have to do it before any of them turned and looked over his way.
He could see the powerful searchlights the guards carried now. They were on a line three meters from where he was, or possibly four. Blackhawk centered himself, purged all thoughts but those of his impending strike. He could feel the worn leather of his blade’s handle on his palm, his fingers. In his mind, and his muscle memory, images of a hundred past kills floated somewhere between the conscious and subconscious.
The lights drew closer, and now he could hear the banter between the guards. They were a little edgy, but he realized immediately they didn’t sound like they were heading into combat.
They think it’s a false alarm . . . or just some vagrants or locals wandering on the property.
In a few seconds, he was going to disabuse them of that assumption in a profound and final way.
His muscles tensed, and he crouched down slightly, ready to spring into action. Time almost slowed, as it always did for him in battle. He knew where his enemies were, how quickly they were moving, the angle of their approach. His eyes were fixed on the location they would occupy in ten seconds, and he counted down slowly. He was ready, silent, barely breathing.
Then he lunged forward, even as his eyes locked on the closest of his enemies. The man didn’t see him coming, and didn’t hear him either, not until it was too late. Blackhawk’s sword slashed out, the movement so rapid the blade was barely visible as a vague blur.
The man stumbled back, his hands moving to his throat, even as a spray of blood poured out all around. His mouth was open, but nothing more than a gurgling sound came out. Blackhawk’s blade had cut deep, slicing arteries and vocal cords alike. The guard was dead before he hit the ground. But, by then, Blackhawk was on to the next one.
He struck, this time a sharp and deep stab to the chest of the second guard. Blackhawk’s eyes, his enhanced vision, and the silent but true direction of the AI guided his blade in almost horizontally, slipping smoothly between two ribs and almost slicing his victim’s heart in two.
Blackhawk pulled back hard, yanking the blade out and, in one smooth, continued motion, decapitated the third guard. He spun around, letting the momentum of his strike bring his body around, and he locked eyes with his last—and thoroughly terrified—victim. The man was frozen, seemingly stuck between trying to fight back and turning and running.
But neither option offered any real chance of survival. Not against an opponent like Blackhawk. Many fighters would have paused, their hands stayed, even for an instant, by pity. Others would have demanded surrender, given their adversary a chance at survival. But for all Blackhawk had progressed from his days as a remorseless killer, in the heat of combat, he knew he had to choose between two options: victory or death.
And knowing his death could mean the death of his crew and Astra, that was no choice at all.
Blackhawk’s blade lunged out again, ripping through the panicked guard’s body, the point driving straight through the man’s back. The first three had gone down almost without a sound, but the last victim had managed a yell of sorts, though it was short, and cut off quickly by the sword.
Blackhawk looked all around, and he listened. He remained where he was for a minute, then two. Nothing. He flashed a quick thought to the AI to confirm.
I do not detect any enemy approaching within the maximum range of your limited senses.
He might have sparred with the AI, even traded insults, but that kind of foolishness was something Blackhawk’s battle persona did not tolerate. The deadly game had begun, and there was only one thing that mattered just then.
Killing his enemies.
Ace Graythorn opened fire, the stream of bullets shattering the glass door and shredding the bodies of the four guards just inside. He’d held his fire, stuck to the plan, maintained silence as long as he could. But that last floodlight had caught him by surprise, standing right in the middle of the lawn behind the château. He’d exchanged glances with at least two of the guards, and even as he opened fire, he saw them trying to bring their own weapons to bear. Ace had the jump by perhaps half a second, and he’d yet to meet some gangster’s hired thugs who could beat him to a shot. Still, it was four to one, and even as the last of his opponents dropped, the final stricken guard got off a poorly aimed burst. The shots missed Graythorn, by at least a meter and a half, but he felt a shudder anyway. Getting shot at was never a comfortable feeling.
Ace raced through the shattered door and into the château. The Claw’s assault team had gotten close under the cover of darkness, but now the surprise was gone. Everybody in the building knew they were under attack. Like a lot of their recent missions, Ace and the rest hadn’t been able to get much intel, at least on the number of guards to expect, but his gut told him the five of them would be heavily outnumbered.
So far, four to one. Not to say that’s anything new . . .
Ace swung his rifle back and forth, ready to fire at the slightest hint of any more guards. But there was nothing. He took the chance to pop the half-spent magazine and slam a fresh one in place. Then he moved deeper into the building.
He tapped the side of his headset, activating the transponder. The mission had called for radio silence, but there was no need for that anymore. He wasn’t ready to speak—that would be too likely to give any enemies out there a chance to locate him—but the transponder’s short bursts would let his comrades know where he was, and show him their locations, too, when they activated their own. The enemy could lock in on their net, in theory, but Doc Sandor had done the encryption programming, and the mission would be long over, one way or another, before anybody was going to break it.
Ace moved carefully over the shattered glass, trying to stay as quiet as he could. Rajit Durienne was in there somewhere, and for all the guards who got in the way—and the stash of valuables almost certainly stored in the château—Ace knew they were really there just to kill the petty crime lord.
No, petty wasn’t quite fair—not anymore. Not if they were here to kill the man. Blackhawk believed his people bought the idea they were doing jobs solely for the plunder, but Ace knew damned well they were running interference for the new government, taking out anyone Blackhawk thought posed a threat to Astra Lucerne and her new order. He suspected his comrades all knew as well, and he was a little surprised Blackhawk hadn’t figured that out yet. Ace would have followed Blackhawk anywhere for any reason, but watching his friend leave behind the woman he loved, and devote himself to protecting her, to risking his life for no gain, no credit . . . it only hardened his resolve. Ace had always respected Blackhawk, despite all he knew about the former imperial general he’d been, but after what he’d watched in the years since the war, his enemies would have to kill him—no, they would have to dismember him and bury the parts in different places—to drag him from Blackhawk’s side.
He reached down, pulling up the small tablet hanging from his neck. There were five dots on the schematic it displayed. Five transponders.
Five killers from the Claw. On the hunt.
Chapter 6
“Can I bring you anything, Marshal Lucerne?” The old woman stood in the doorway, looking in with a concerned expression on her face. “Something to eat, perhaps. You didn’t touch your dinner.”
“No thank you, Marta. I’m fine.” Her tone suggested anything but, and the deep sadness she tried to hide came out in every word. Also, she knew she was Marshal Lucerne now, but she couldn’t help but think of her father when she heard the title, or to think about how absurd it was for someone like herself, who’d never been a real soldier, to carry it. Astra knew her way around a fight well enough, but she’d never done service as an army or navy officer, and she sometimes wondered how long the troops would remain loyal to her, how many months or years it would be before they realized she was a fraud in all save her bloodline.
“Some tea, perhaps? We have a fresh shipment in from Sebastiani, the cinnamon blend you like so much.” The woman’s voice was troubled. Sh
e was almost begging for a chance to soothe Astra.
“Really, Marta, I’m okay. I’m just not hungry.” A pause. “I’ll have some of the tea in the morning, if you’ll fix it for me. You know just how I like it.” It was a salve, a balm to satisfy the woman’s need to help her. For even though Astra was buried under work, awash in the blood spilled to unite the Far Stars, and heartbroken in her personal life, she’d long ago sworn she would always remember those who were loyal and cared. And that applied to everyone, from the loftiest military commanders to the old woman who looked after her and brought her meals.
“Yes, Marshal . . . certainly. I will make sure it is here when you awaken, just the way you like it.” Astra wasn’t sure if she’d accomplished her goal, or just ensured that her loyal servant would be up all night waiting for the first sign she had risen. One thing was certain, though. Marta would be back with her breakfast before she’d managed to clear her eyes enough to see straight, and a pot of cinnamon tea would be the centerpiece of the tray, a batch the old woman would no doubt stare at intently all the while it brewed.
Astra Lucerne was standing next to the massive doors, looking out onto the large stone balcony as she heard her attendant leave. Her father’s stronghold had been her home since birth, and while the end of the wars on Celtiboria had allowed her to soften some of the martial touches and replace them with a few creature comforts—like the four-meter-high glass doors—the place felt less comfortable to her than it ever had.