The Emperor's Fist

by Jay Allan

  “That’s great, Sam. The rest of us were damned fools for not thinking about that.”

  She smiled for about half a second, and then she turned back to the board. “The connections that plug the ship’s AI into the various system are all located here, obviously. It’d probably take a lifetime to figure out most of it, but I think I was able to get the nav control circuits routed to this station. It should work pretty much like the main unit up on the bridge, wherever the hell that is. Might save you some time in that headset. I don’t like the idea of that thing, not even the one I built.”

  That will be extremely useful. The reduction in direct connection time will reduce the chances of significant injury to you by 7.4 percent.

  I thought you said it was likely I would survive.

  It was likely. It is likelier now. The rerouting of navigation circuits will reduce the connection time required and make it more likely. I would provide numerical benchmarks, but there is insufficient information to create useful models. You will recall, I did say there was still risk.

  Yes, you did.

  “I want you all back in the Claw before we make the run,” Blackhawk said. “I think we’re better off all going together, but if something goes wrong, I want you all ready to get the hell out.” He turned toward Sparks. “You can rig a set of controls in the Claw to open the outer bay doors, can’t you?”

  She hesitated. “Yes, I suppose so, but . . .”

  “You don’t think we’re leaving you here alone, Ark, do you?” Ace interrupted before Sam continued. “And you damned sure don’t expect us to blast off if there’s a problem and leave you behind.”

  “That is exactly what I expect, Ace. If something goes wrong here, this ship is finished. But with the field, there’s still a chance the Claw can get away.”

  “That may be true, but if we go, you’ll go with us.”

  “No, Ace . . . not this time. If it comes to that, I want you all out of here immediately. Every second you wait is asking for something to go wrong. For some enemy shot to wedge the bay doors shut or fry the door mechanism. There won’t be any time to waste . . . and, besides, even if something goes wrong, I’ve got to stay here and try however I can to get it fixed.”

  “Ark . . .”

  “Ace, if I go down here, I need you to go to Celtiboria. Help Astra any way you can. Promise me. Please.”

  Ace stood stone still, silent. Finally, he forced out a single word, a barely audible croak. “Okay.”

  “Thank you, old friend.”

  Ace just nodded. His poker face, the legacy of younger years spent traveling from one card game to another, failed him.

  Blackhawk turned to face his people. Shira and Sam were standing in the room, no more than a meter or two behind Ace, and Doc stood silently behind them. “Go back to the Claw, all of you. There’s nothing you can do here. You’ve already helped me every way you can. Do me this favor, let me know you’re all tucked in the Claw. It will free up my mind, not having to think of you all standing there staring at me.”

  Ace leaned forward, looking as though he was about to say something, to put up some sort of argument. But he settled back and remained silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Ark . . . I understand why you . . .”

  A burst of static blasted out of Sam’s makeshift comm setup. Every eye in the room darted toward the workstation, and the screen there, now come alive. A message was coming in, one with audio and video.

  Blackhawk’s mind raced. The only other vessel in the system was the newly arrived imperial battleship. Were they sending a communique to check on the status? To explain the obvious battle damage?

  That seemed likely, but Blackhawk had no idea how to respond without inflaming suspicion. He decided it was best to ignore the communication, to feign some kind of systems failure.

  Then he heard the voice.

  “This transmission is for Captain Arkarin Blackhawk of the Wolf’s Claw.”

  How . . . how could they know about the Claw? His stomach tightened. Something was wrong.

  And that voice, it was familiar . . . .

  “Again, this communique is for Arkarin Blackhawk.” A short pause, and then, more words, slamming into Blackhawk like a hammer. “Or, should I say, General Frigus Umbra?”

  Blackhawk stared at the small workstation screen, as it came into rough focus. It was man, standing, speaking. A man he knew. Suddenly it all came together, the tone, the face . . . even the cadence of the voice. He was stunned, unable to move, to speak. He just watched . . . and listened.

  “Frigus, it has been a long time, very long. I have long wondered where you were. For years, I refused to believe you were dead. I know it has been difficult for you. You are lost, I understand this. But I am here for you now, to help you.

  “To bring you home.”

  Blackhawk sat utterly still, the headset still in his hand, and he stared at the screen. He knew who was speaking to him, he knew very well . . . but he couldn’t believe it. It didn’t seem real.

  His stomach lurched. He barely held back the retch that almost emptied his guts. He wanted to lean forward, to speak into the microphone, to answer two different calls—one, the communique coming from the other ship . . . and the second from deep within his dark and haunted past, as parts of him long imprisoned screamed for release.

  But he answered neither. He just sat, unmoving, like a man staring at a ghost, transfixed, frozen.

  “It is me, Frigus. I know you remember me. Whatever has happened these many years, the bond between us endures, as it shall, for all time. I only want to talk to you, to know where you have been for so long. To understand. I ask nothing else from you now, nor do I address whatever loyalties you may have accumulated. My mandate is not the same as General Idilus’s. It does not involve the conquest of the Far Stars, nor the destruction of any you now call friends. I am here to find you. You cannot refuse me, Frigus, at least not to speak with me . . . I know you cannot.”

  Blackhawk tried again to respond, but he couldn’t find any words. He didn’t know what to do or say, and in the darkest recesses of his mind, he could feel his past slamming into the gates, straining to escape. Frigus Umbra was still there after all the years that had passed, and he wanted to emerge, to claim the body he shared with Arkarin Blackhawk. To once again stride freely and claim his place near the top of the imperial hierarchy.

  But he couldn’t answer. He couldn’t do anything. He just reached out and slammed his hand down clumsily on the controls, cutting off the comm input. The speaker squealed hard and went silent, and darkness replaced the image on the screen. Blackhawk leaned back and exhaled hard. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to stop the shaking in his arms, his hands. Unsuccessfully.

  “Who was that, Ark . . . and how did he know who you are? Who you were?”

  Ace stood right behind Blackhawk, looking only slightly less shocked. He reached out his hand to put it on his friend’s shoulder in support, but he stopped before he did. Blackhawk was clearly tense, certainly as tight and on edge as Ace had ever seen him, and he feared what his captain would do should he suddenly be touched.

  Blackhawk remained silent for a moment longer. Then he managed an answer, his voice tentative as he spoke. “His name is Ignes Inferni. He is an imperial officer. Twenty-five years ago, he served under me, though I suspect now he has risen to the heights of power. Likely, he serves as the emperor’s right hand . . . as I once did.” His words were clear, but his tone was hollow, robotic, and without detectable emotion. Blackhawk was lost. He didn’t know what more to say, or how to say it. He could feel walls closing in all around him, and he struggled to hold on to himself. The version of himself he had fought and bled to create.

  “He knows you from your days in the empire? That makes sense, I guess, but how does he know your name now?” Ace’s tone was gentle, but confusion was lurking there, too.

  Blackhawk was silent again for perhaps half a minute, listening as Inferni repeated his call, beseeched h
im to respond. Finally, he turned toward Ace. “I don’t know. Likely, he doesn’t, not really. Not for certain, at least. He probably only suspects.” Blackhawk turned back and stared at the now blank screen. Then he said, “He is very capable, however, and not to be underestimated. And he knows enough about me to put together a detailed analysis. He is very familiar with my capabilities.”

  “He has access to your old imperial records?”

  “Yes. That . . . and more.” Blackhawk paused. “He knows the extent of my abilities because . . .” Another hesitation. “. . . he has them himself. All of them.”

  “You mean you both had the same training? The same conditioning?”

  “Yes, partially that is what I mean. But much more than that, too. He is the same as me, in every way, at least the same as I was . . .” He reached out and flipped the comm back on. He wasn’t sure why, or which part of him had pushed the action.

  “Frigus, I just want to talk. I am not attacking, nor seeking to close with your ship . . .”

  That wasn’t entirely true, Blackhawk realized, in some remote part of his mind separate from the turmoil encompassing him. Inferni’s ship was moving forward, though at a moderate thrust level. The general continued to speak.

  “I do not care what happened to the other battleship, or anything else you have done here. I do not want to harm you. I just want to talk. Please, just respond.” The communique continued to broadcast from the speaker, drawing Blackhawk’s attention in as a black hole did matter. Sam’s hasty setup didn’t offer particularly good sound quality, but the voice was so similar to Blackhawk’s own, not just in tone, but in manner of speech. He could have been listening to himself.

  “Ark . . . what is happening? Please, tell me.” Ace knelt down behind Blackhawk, and this time, he did put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Talk to me.”

  It’s time. Blackhawk forced the thought toward the AI in his brain, sending it with such force, he imagined it being received as a shout. We’ve got to get out of here. Now. We have to jump at once. He was losing control. He could feel it slipping away. If he stayed in the system, if he didn’t get away immediately . . .

  Your mental facilities are extremely agitated. It may interfere with operations. It may also increase the inherent risk.

  He pulled the headset on and slammed his fists down on the workstation. Damn the risk. I said it is time to go! Get ready to connect to the ship’s AI. Activate jump engines as quickly as possible once we do.

  Understood. Ready to connect on your order.

  Then, he turned once again, and finally answered Ace. “We’ve got to get out of here, Ace. Right now. You just have to trust me.”

  But, for once, Ace didn’t let up.

  “Ark, is he some kind of imperial killer sent here to find you?” He turned and grabbed Blackhawk’s other shoulder, spinning his friend around in his chair until they were looking at each other face-to-face. “There’s nothing you can’t tell me, Ark. You should know that by now. I am with you no matter what. Against any enemy.”

  Blackhawk stared back at his number two, even as the turmoil in his mind surged, as the demons he’d kept locked up for so long lunged for escape from the confinement that had preserved Arkarin Blackhawk for so long . . . and kept Frigus Umbra deep in the darkest recesses of his mind.

  “This is no enemy you can meet, Ace. No adversary you can defeat, nor even help me against. He’s a general, but also an assassin. A very capable killer. And he’s merciless. Ruthless. Relentless. He will do anything to complete his mission. He will never give up, never stop.”

  Ace held Blackhawk’s gaze and listened to his words, but he was clearly confused. “Is he after you?”

  “Yes, he is here for me. Though perhaps not to kill me. He is something I have to deal with, alone, myself. I won’t let any of you get involved in this. I can’t.”

  “Ark, I don’t understand.”

  Blackhawk looked back at his friend with watery eyes.

  “He has come for me, but not to destroy me. He has come to take me back.”

  “Back? Back where, to the empire? Is he a bounty hunter, something like that?”

  Blackhawk forced his head to shake, hands clenched into fists, his face twisted into a tormented scowl.

  “He is no bounty hunter.”

  Blackhawk gasped for air as he struggled to hold back the emotions pouring out.

  “He’s my brother.”

  Chapter 28

  “No response on any frequency, General. All receptor units on full power. We continue to scan for any sign of a communication from the ship, but nothing so far.”

  “Continue repeating the transmission, Commander. Full power, all channels.” Inferni stood on Exantallus’s bridge, clad in the grandeur of his full imperial regalia.

  “Yes, General. As you command.”

  Inferni was frustrated. That was something that often could be dangerous for those around him, but this was different. He drew in to himself, calling on old memories, struggling to think of what he might do or say. Any way to get Frigus Umbra—Blackhawk, as he called himself now—to respond.

  Assuming I am correct, and that it is Frigus on that ship . . .

  He’d analyzed every scrap of data he’d been able to obtain, read and reread seemingly endless accounts of Blackhawk’s adventures, of the—to those in the Far Stars, at least—inexplicable abilities he seemed to have displayed. Inferni knew such things were prone to exaggeration, and, at first, he’d suspected the adventurer was simply a gifted Far Stars rogue, perhaps one who had enjoyed good fortune enhancing his innate abilities. He might have ultimately come to that conclusion and given up his search.

  Save for the war.

  It was clear he’d been a military commander before, and a highly gifted one. There were no accounts of him serving as one of Lucerne’s generals, nor in the armies of any of the marshal’s Celtiborian rivals. Blackhawk had not led one of the mercenary companies working the sector, at least not one of the major ones, and there was nowhere else in the Far Stars he could have gained the experience and ability to lead large armies.

  So that left the empire. The imperial forces had lost many leaders over the past two decades, killed in action, retired to their estates, even no small number who had badly lost the emperor’s favor and found themselves executed.

  But only one had disappeared without a trace, simply vanished as if he’d somehow stepped out of the galaxy itself.

  Inferni had harbored fleeting thoughts that Blackhawk was Umbra since the Far Stars had initially fallen, and as thin as the evidence had been, it had driven him to petition the emperor for leave to join Idilus’s expedition. Since he’d arrived, however, every scrap of information he’d been able to uncover only increased that initial gut feeling almost to certainty. He was sure the man on that damaged battleship was Umbra, and the fact that he’d seized the great ship—and likely destroyed the second that was supposed to be in the system—only reinforced his conclusion.

  But what could he do next if Blackhawk didn’t respond? Inferni hadn’t come to kill Umbra . . . he’d come to bring his old comrade back, to discover what had caused him to simply walk out of his command post one day and never return. Had he been injured somehow? Had some trauma damaged him mentally? Clearly, whatever had happened, it hadn’t reduced his cognitive capacity or his tactical ability.

  Perhaps he’d been brainwashed? Captured by some rebel group, and somehow conditioned to turn his back on all he’d served? Umbra had been one of the richest and most powerful men in the empire, even as Inferni himself had become. He’d sat at the right hand of the emperor, and all he had faced quaked before him. How did he end up giving up all that, wandering around the Far Stars in a tiny ship, with a handful of crew?

  Unless I’m wrong . . .

  But he didn’t believe he was wrong. It went beyond analysis, beyond evidence . . . somehow, he knew it. Blackhawk was Frigus Umbra.

  If he could just get to Blackhawk, if he could m
anage a face-to-face meeting, he was certain he could get past whatever was keeping the imperial general from his true self. He could lead him back, to his old service, his old life. And, once again, the two of them would fight side by side, bringing the emperor’s power to every corner of the galaxy.

  “Answer, damn you,” he whispered.

  Alion Belakov sat in front of the workstation on the imperial battleship. He’d been terrified when the Claw’s crew took him prisoner, but that initial fear had morphed into something else, something he realized was the start of loyalty. He was still afraid of a few of the Claw’s crew, but Blackhawk had an almost hypnotic charisma, and even though he was, by normal standards, the most terrifying human being he’d ever met, he’d also felt drawn to Claw’s skipper—an attraction sealed when Blackhawk had invited him to join the crew.

  Belakov had been on his own almost his entire life, and though his computer skills had usually served to provide a comfortable living, the solitary nature of his activities had led to him being threatened and abused by those he worked for, and finally taken prisoner by a gangster like Durienne. The thought of being part of a crew—one obviously able to take care of its members—was extremely appealing.

  That respect turned to awe when he’d stood and watched as Blackhawk somehow managed to control the battleship, apparently by connecting his mind to the main computer system. Belakov was no stranger to advanced computer systems, but he’d never seen anything at all like what he’d just watched. He asked Ace about it, and the Claw’s number two gave him a quick and cryptic reply, something about Blackhawk having an AI of some kind implanted in his head.

  That was another revelation—assuming he decided he believed it—that stunned the programmer. Belakov had heard of some experiments of that sort, connecting artificial intelligences with human brains, but nothing nearly advanced as what Ace had described. The complexity of meshing a machine implant with a human neural network was (almost literally) mind-boggling. He wanted to doubt the whole thing, to write it off as Ace messing with him . . . but it would explain what he’d seen Blackhawk do.