The Emperor's Fist

by Jay Allan

  “I’m fine . . .” The words came out, almost automatically. Then he turned toward her, suddenly aware what the last moments—he looked at the chronometer . . . was it possible it had only been twenty seconds?—must have looked like to his people. “Really,” he added, his eyes focusing on her, seeing the concern on her face.

  On all their faces.

  “I activated the backdoor protocols. We control the entire ship from here . . . but we don’t have much time.”

  He moved his sleeve across his face, wiping away most of the blood. He turned to the screen in front of him, and he began entering commands. Then he stopped.

  He knew what he had to do. But now he struggled with it. His mind raced, searching for other options, ways to disable the crew, or to confine them. But there was nothing, certainly no way five of them could possibly contain eighty thousand or more. And the Imperial-37 system wasn’t impervious. If the ship’s commander wasn’t a fool, he was already trying to override the AI. If Blackhawk gave him time, he just might succeed.

  He had to kill eighty thousand spacers. Many probably deserved death. The imperial forces were brutal, and they inflicted death and misery on uncounted masses, and no small number of those on that ship had blood on their hands.

  But many of them were simply conscripts, serving aboard the battleship because the alternative had been poverty and even starvation. Regardless, they would be as dead as the grimmest imperial inquisitor, and at his hands.

  Once, Blackhawk wouldn’t have hesitated. In his days as an imperial general, he’d killed millions, those in arms and hordes of civilians as well. He’d delivered the emperor’s judgment, and he’d instilled the terror that kept the masses in line.

  Even after he’d broken his imperial conditioning, he’d been grim in his approach to things. He viewed the universe as a dark place, and death as a part of that. But the years—and his friends, the loyalty, the affection they had for him—had changed him.

  Astra had changed him.

  He’d entered the commands and codes, and now his hand hovered over the controls, one step from cutting life support everywhere but in the room his people occupied.

  Eighty thousand people. They would die, those in the outer compartments likely from the cold moving into the ship, shivering, struggling desperately to stay warm, to preserve what fleeting bits remained of their body warmth until the dropping temperatures took them.

  It would be different deeper in the ship, in the protected areas like the bridge and the engineering sections. Air would fail in those locations before heat. Men and women would take deeper and deeper breaths, their lungs aching, struggling for the last bits of oxygen remaining as the ship’s atmosphere became almost entirely nitrogen and carbon dioxide. They would gasp, and then they would slip away.

  Blackhawk was struggling, every manner of doubt whipping through his mind, grim thoughts of killing all these people with the press of a button.

  But there were billions in the Far Stars, and unless the imperial forces could be defeated, driven back, those multitudes would face death or slavery. There were things worth fighting for, killing for, and saving a hundred planets was one of them.

  Not just a hundred worlds, nor their billions of inhabitants. He was fighting to save Astra, too, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her safe.

  He pressed his finger down on the key, activating the command.

  Unleashing death on every imperial on the vast ship.

  Chapter 23

  Blackhawk stared at the screen, silent, unmoving. The figures he was reading didn’t lie. Oxygen levels on the ship were zero. The temperature ranged from thirty to sixty degrees absolute. Every member of the crew was dead, save any who’d managed to reach survival gear in time, climb into space or enviro suits before they froze or suffocated. With every hatch and access panel on the ship locked shut, though, that wouldn’t be very many. Just those few who’d happened to be in storage lockers with the required gear.

  They would die soon enough, too. A reserve air supply might last a few hours, but scattered survivors locked in compartments around the ship were doomed. And even if a few had both survival gear and plasma torches or some other way to get out of the rooms in which they were stuck, Blackhawk had activated the internal security systems. There were already bots zooming around the ship, searching, with orders to kill anyone they found.

  This mission, then, was done. Now, he was looking to next steps . . . to the other ship sharing orbit with the one his people occupied. He had to destroy it. There was no other way. But how?

  He’d ordered the AI to send out a signal indicating intermittent power failures and malfunctioning comm systems. It wasn’t a very effective cover, not to anyone with a brain who really looked at it, but it was good enough, at least for a short while. However strange it all looked, it was easier to believe than a small band slipping into the system in an undetectable ship and somehow managing to take control of an imperial battleship. That would be a scenario he doubted they’d even come up with, an impossibility—as sometimes only the truth could be.

  Still, it would only buy so much time. Blackhawk had to figure a way to disable or destroy the companion ship, something other than a repeat of the unlikely operation that had succeeded on his current vessel. He’d been fortunate and overcome odds that had seemed damned near impossible. But his people had benefited from total surprise, and while he was fairly sure the commander of the other ship had bought his story, he was even more certain that standard procedure would have the battleship on at least a low-level alert.

  Which means we have to attack. We’re close, very close, and we’ll have surprise on our side. If we get off the first shot, maybe even the first two . . .

  No, it was impossible. The backdoor he’d used had allowed him to access shipwide systems like life support, but it took far more than five people to crew an imperial battleship in battle. Even ignoring damage control and other labor-intensive operations, he would need hundreds at least, and more likely thousands.

  That might as well be a million. A billion.

  But . . . what about the AI?

  The idea was a vague one, floating around the edge of his thought. Was it even possible for the artificial intelligence, the same one he’d used to exterminate the crew, to operate the ship’s weapons in battle? No. He knew the specifications of the imperial battleship, and the success of his raid proved little had changed in twenty years. The imperial AIs were capable of running internal operations, and emergency security measures, like the Imperial-37 protocols, but operating the ship in combat, the reactors, the weaponry . . . it was just too complex, too many systems. Imperial AIs were advanced, but they had their limits. And what he needed just then was well beyond them.

  It’s not beyond us.

  Blackhawk paused for an instant. The AI had delivered on its last promise and saved them all. But the pain had been unbearable.

  How?

  I can use your knowledge of imperial systems and tactics to direct the AI. I will be able to manipulate automated systems in a way imperial programming cannot. This ship was not designed for independent robotic operation, but it is likely we will be able to run it that way, at least for a short period.

  For a short time?

  Yes. There are insufficient robots and automated engineering units to adequately service or repair the vessel. Battle damage will quickly reduce effectiveness, as will normal wear and tear over a longer period. There is a luck element as well. A random malfunction could prove to be highly damaging, even deadly, and we lack the resources to address most of the problems that may arise.

  That’s not a great selling job.

  I do not try to “sell” you courses of action. My purpose is to work with you, to support your efforts. I believe, by any reasonable standard, I have proven this fact to you.

  Blackhawk paused. He wasn’t talking to another person. He was talking . . . to himself, or at least it felt that way. The AI didn’t have feelings, it co
uldn’t be offended by his years of suspicion.

  Could it?

  I’m not offended. Just disappointed in your limited capabilities.

  Was that . . . a joke?

  For perhaps the millionth time, he wondered just what the AI was able to do. And for the millionth time, he put that aside, focusing on the task at hand. But, in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help wonder if the AI did that, too—diverted him from probing too deeply.

  One day, I’m going to figure out just how the hell you work.

  No . . . you won’t.

  Strangely, he appreciated that honesty.

  How do we proceed?

  We must create an interface between your brain and the ship’s data system.

  Blackhawk didn’t like the sound of that one bit.

  How are we going to do that here? We don’t have any equip—

  We have sufficient parts. I have developed a design. It is crude, and far less reliable than a properly manufactured unit would be, but rough calculations suggest approximately an 80 percent chance of functionality for the duration we require.

  Eighty percent. That was good, of course, but with all their lives, and perhaps the future of the Far Stars on the line, that 20 percent loomed large in Blackhawk’s thoughts.

  There is one other matter you must consider. The link will be extremely unpleasant for you.

  Worse than what we did before? That seemed difficult to believe.

  Substantially worse. I do not have reliable test data to develop a proper range of expectations, but my calculations suggest the pain will test even your considerable capacity for pain.

  Blackhawk had always considered himself tough, able to endure almost anything. But whatever that had been when he’d invoked Imperial-37 . . . he’d felt almost as if his mind was turning inside out. He’d always faced every challenge head-on, but for one of the first times in his life he felt trepidation, and he wondered if he could endure something worse.

  Yes. The pain will almost certainly be more intense. There are other concerns, too. There is danger of permanent ill effects, both from the unbearable discomfort and from the connection itself. You could suffer brain damage, paralysis . . . even death. I believe we can create the link, and that it will serve to allow us to control the ship in a combat situation for a limited period. I also believe you will be able to survive this. But you must understand and accept the risks.

  Blackhawk sighed softly. The alternative was attempting the same operation on the other ship they had just completed . . . which he’d already dismissed. Just in case, though, he asked, What are the chances of that succeeding?

  Less than one-tenth of 1 percent. Insufficient data for more precise estimate.

  He hadn’t expected an answer, though he realized after more than twenty years of sharing his head with the strange presence, perhaps he should have. The AI continued,

  That is a maximum estimate. It is likely a comprehensive calculation with additional data points would yield a more negative result.

  Blackhawk shook his head slowly. He hated the idea of allowing the AI to control him again. And he dreaded the pain. He wanted to jump up and run from the room, to escape any way he could.

  But, of course, that wasn’t who he was.

  “We will do it.” He realized almost immediately, he’d spoken out loud.

  He turned and saw his people looking at him, concerned expressions on their faces. He had no idea what he’d looked like during the protracted internal dialogue he’d just been having, but he was sure it did nothing to inspire confidence. “I’m fine.” He looked up, his eyes moving from one to another of his people. “I’m just . . . trying to decide what to do.” He’d told his people about the AI he carried with him, but he imagined it still wasn’t easy to watch him seem to zone out in the middle of a crisis.

  How do we do this?

  Are you sure you wish to proceed? The risks are not inconsequential. I could attempt to calculate them if you wish.

  Yes . . . I mean, yes, I’m ready to proceed. And, no, damn you . . . I don’t want you to calculate the odds.

  Blackhawk generally liked to know as much as he could going in, but there were no other options, so it didn’t matter how grave the risk. He was going to do it anyway.

  We will require the following items: a headset from one of the workstations; two probes from the first aid kits; a small blade, as sharp as possible; approximately two meters of grade 4 wire . . .

  Blackhawk followed the list, not especially liking the sound of some of the items. The AI’s words were still in his mind, an echo repeating again and again, promising pain worse than the agony he’d felt earlier. He marshaled his strength, but all he wanted was to leave the room, to be by himself for a time. To gather himself and prepare . . . but there was no way to actually prepare for this.

  He turned toward his people, snapping out instructions, sending Ace to break open one of the workstations and extract needed parts. Katarina was digging through the gear, pulling out the first aid kits. Shira broke into a panel and pulled out at least five times the wire they needed . . . and then she handed Blackhawk her knife, just about the sharpest blade he’d ever seen.

  He looked back at her and managed a faint smile. “I don’t think I’ll be the one using this,” he said, his tone heavy with gallows humor.

  Shira returned his gaze until it was clear she understood. She just nodded as she took the blade back, and in her look was a promise. She would do the cutting. She turned and stepped away, moving toward the opposite wall, and she pulled something from her pocket, a sharpening stone. She began sliding it down the length of the already razor-sharp blade. Blackhawk hadn’t told her what she would be doing with the knife—and the AI hadn’t told him—but she seemed to know already, just as he did.

  And there was no one he’d rather have handling the knife than Shira.

  I suggest you consume any analgesics contained in those first aid kits. The pain, both of implantation and operation, is likely to be severe.

  Blackhawk didn’t like the sound of the word implantation, but he liked even less the idea of going through what he was about to for nothing. He didn’t know what he would have to do, or how much his own mental state factored into the AI’s work, but he intended to stay wide awake and as sharp as possible, whatever was coming. That meant no painkillers, no sedatives . . . not even a shot of fifty-year-old brandy, assuming such a thing had been lying around the data center of the imperial battleship.

  I will dictate the steps of the procedure. It is highly advisable that you record them where your people can access the various steps. I only have direct communication access to you, and it is possible you will lose the ability to speak, or simply the mental presence to relay my instructions.

  Your bedside manner sucks. Blackhawk paused and took a deep breath, pleased with himself that he still had time for humor, lost as it was on the AI. Okay, let’s go . . . give me the steps. His hands reached out, hovered over the keyboard.

  Very well. First, clean the right side of your head with alcohol from the first aid kits—right from your point of view, left from that of someone looking at you—from the back of your earlobe to the front cheekbone, and from the hairline to the top of your neck.

  Blackhawk felt a little nauseated thinking about what was coming next, and his eyes caught the gleaming blade in Shira’s hand.

  He was scared, but he was damned sure not going to show it, not to his crew . . . and not to the infernal thing inside his head.

  Assuming it didn’t know already exactly how he felt, which, of course, it did.

  “Okay, come on . . . let’s get this done. What’s next?”

  Chapter 24

  “You were able to guide us here through the Void, ten battleships, a feat like none that has come before . . . and you’re telling me you can’t assist our navigation across the space here?” Idilus was clearly frustrated. The fleet had come to a complete stop again, deep in interstellar space, still light-years
from Celtiboria.

  Rachus Denali sat quietly, listening to Idilus’s tirade, as he had done a dozen times since the fleet had left Galvanus. Facing powerful imperial lords required sterner stuff than he was made of, but he’d felt his way around so far, and he’d managed to deal with the situation. Mostly by staying calm and accepting any abuse hurled his way. Still, he could see that Idilus was close to the end of his rope.

  “General . . . yes, that is essentially what I am saying. I am sorry. If I had any methodology for increasing our speed to Celtiboria, I assure you I would offer it at once. My future is tied closely to yours now, is it not? My own rewards for our success await our victorious return.”

  That wasn’t entirely true, though. Denali could have offered a few pointers, but he withheld them, showing more courage than usual in doing so. It was an odd combination of mental and emotional forces vying inside him, an urge to resist aiding the invaders, though it had been his own efforts that had brought them to the Far Stars in the first place, struggling with the realization that his own best interests lay with the imperials.

  “What an infuriating sector!” Idilus still sounded frustrated, but Denali could feel the intensity fading. Impatience remained, and perhaps unfocused anger . . . but he had sidestepped being its target, at least for the moment. “Victory awaits us, and once Celtiboria is gone, the Far Stars will be easily conquered.”

  “That is true, General.” Denali wasn’t Celtiborian, though he’d visited the planet a dozen times on trading runs. He wouldn’t have thought he cared about its fate, but now he saw a world that held the promise of a better future for the sector facing its doom, and it sickened him to be a part of it. He wanted to escape, to run somehow, to stop the deadly attack that was coming, but there was nothing he could do, and even if there had been, he would have been too scared to try. He was not the stuff heroes were made from.