The Emperor's Fist

by Jay Allan

  Belakov didn’t take that personally. He knew the idea of somehow hacking an imperial battleship seemed pretty out there. And he couldn’t explain, or at least he couldn’t satisfy himself yet, as to why the imperial system was so weak. He hadn’t gotten through enough to be sure, but he was becoming convinced the imperial computer code lagged rather badly behind that of this sector’s best, more robust security systems he’d encountered. That seemed impossible to him at first, but then he thought about it. The Far Stars was a rugged frontier, full of every manner of gangster and criminal, all looking constantly for something they could steal. The empire was far more docile, its people subjugated and living in relative peace with the full force of the emperor’s judgment enforcing the rule of law. All that meant, at least Belakov was pretty sure, that imperial code was less secure because it simply hadn’t been created under the same pressure to develop more advanced security protocols.

  In other words: you don’t need security when everyone is too scared to possibly try and steal from you.

  And that was good for him and his . . . crew. He felt a spark of excitement—one he knew was far too premature. But there nevertheless.

  Because maybe, just maybe, he could develop something useful.

  If he had the time. The code might be simpler than he’d expected, but it was still voluminous, millions of lines in the core programming, not to mention thousands of shared subroutines. That’s what he was up against: sorting through all that in order to find what was probably the tiniest morsel of information or backdoor he could exploit.

  If you can find something, though—come up with some way to interfere with the operations of the other imperial ships—you could help to save the Far Stars.

  And win your spot on the Claw in a way even Ace Graythorn and Shira Tarkus can’t deny.

  Blackhawk stumbled into his cabin. He’d come back to the Claw because he wanted to be alone, because it was the closest thing to a home he had, and he craved some kind of rock to cling on to. He’d managed to endure another interface with the battleship’s main AI, and he felt as though a line of rail cars had thundered through his skull. But it wasn’t the pain, or the memories of the nightmarish experience, hitting him.

  It was Ignes Inferni, and the words the imperial general had spoken.

  They had awakened something in Blackhawk. Memories of brutality, of murderous devastation inflicted on whole populations, clashed with images of friendship and camaraderie. Ignes Inferni had been more than his brother or his genetic match. The two had been friends, comrades. Umbra had come first, and he had been Inferni’s mentor. All the success in the imperial general’s career was due to the training Umbra had provided.

  And all the blood he spilled is on your hands.

  Blackhawk, the part of him the last twenty-plus years had created, struggled against the tide, holding as hard as he could to his sanity as memories of glory, of comradeship, of comfort and power crashed over him, one wave after another. He was strong, the man he’d become unwilling to yield to the one he’d been before . . . but even the hardest rock could be worn down by the relentless sea, and he could feel his grip slipping away, ever so slightly.

  That inexorable pull was Ignes. And his apprentice in destruction was here to take Blackhawk back.

  There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. His brother had come for him, not to kill him, but to take him home. And to part of him—a very real part—the empire was home. His long exile could come to an end. He’d never have been able to go back, not alone. But alongside Ignes . . . it was a chance to reclaim all he’d lost.

  No, the other side of him screamed, not lost.

  Escaped.

  And because of that, Blackhawk resisted. He didn’t want to go back. He was appalled by what he’d been, by the millions he’d killed, the lives and worlds he’d destroyed. But Frigus Umbra was there, too, as close to escaping his mental prison as he’d ever been, and as his old self pushed hard to escape.

  Blackhawk could feel himself weakening.

  He sat on his cot, soaked in sweat, his fatigues plastered to his body. His hair was a tangled mess, long brown strands hanging down his face. The sessions connected with the ship’s AI, and now the battle raging in his own head . . . it was too much, even for a man of his great strength and endurance. He tried to focus his thoughts, to concentrate on a strategy to deal with all that was going on, but for the first time in his life, he lacked the strength to face his challenges, his enemies. His most dangerous adversary in this fight was himself, and the many long years of unending struggle had finally worn him down.

  He was afraid, too, terrified of meeting Inferni. Not of what his brother might do, but of how he might react in the presence of one who’d been so close to Frigus Umbra. The urge to run, to find some dark hole in the Far Stars and hide, was almost overwhelming. But there was no place to go, not if the empire conquered the entire sector.

  Besides, he couldn’t cower from his past while Astra fought the imperial forces. He didn’t know if there was any way to pull victory from the impending disaster, but he knew if Astra was going to fall, he would be there with her, fighting to the last.

  At least half of his mind felt that way. The thoughts that had been Frigus Umbra urged a different course.

  Join Inferni, return to the empire, reclaim your place. You can lobby the emperor for lenient treatment for the Far Stars. You can save Astra. If you beseech the emperor, he will pardon her, give her to you. The two of you can be together, instead of dead in a hopeless battle.

  The Umbra psyche was persuasive as always, and deceitful. Blackhawk knew if he surrendered to Umbra he wouldn’t care about the Far Stars, or Astra. That side of him relished only power, and its loyalty was solely to the empire.

  Besides, Astra would never surrender . . . not even to me.

  He felt as though he was splitting in half, and he struggled to hang on to what he was, what he’d become after almost twenty-five years in the Far Stars.

  He sat for a long while, the thoughts inside him surging back and forth, as the two personalities that lived in him fought for his soul. It was torture beyond any he’d endured at the hands of his enemies, but it was a hell he inflicted on himself. And there seemed to be no escape.

  No . . . you can’t sit here all day and wallow in misery. You have to find a way. You have to help the Celtiborians . . . help Astra.

  He tried to focus his thoughts on Astra. He imagined her beaten, lying dead and broken on some battlefield . . . or, perhaps worse, captured by imperial troops. The thoughts were upsetting, but they helped him, too. He drew strength from the waking nightmares, from the overpowering need to stop them from becoming reality.

  He would save Astra, somehow, whatever he had to do. He would fight, find a way to face the imperials, to defeat them. Even if it cost him his life.

  You’ve never been able to be with Astra, and you can’t spend your life with her. If you can save her now, save the Far Stars, just maybe you can atone for all you’ve done.

  It will be easier for her to move forward if I’m gone . . .

  But how can I defeat the empire? If the accounts we received are correct, there are eight battleships left. Every force of arms in the Far Stars, massed together, couldn’t come close to matching that kind of power.

  You must stay focused, Arkarin. You must cling to what you are, what you have become. I cannot help you in this battle, but I can tell you that you have the power, the strength to prevail. You must fight, as you have never fought before, and face your greatest fears head-on. Only then can you achieve the victory you seek.

  He felt a burst of gratitude. He had at least one ally. However, it was also unable to help in any real way. He tried to latch on to the assurances that success was possible, to tell himself the AI was always correct about such things. But the small lift faded quickly, and he sank again into the growing darkness.

  His mind raced, recalling every tactic he’d ever seen, every stratagem of war. But there was nothi
ng. Nothing but growing hopelessness, and the continued force of Frigus Umbra, pressing down on him, a war in his own mind that was far from over.

  If the struggle had been only for himself, he would have yielded, given in so the pain would stop. But it wasn’t only about him. He had to stay in the fight. He had to do it for the Far Stars.

  He had to do it for Astra. He would never abandon her, never stop fighting until she was safe.

  Never.

  Chapter 31

  The battleship shook, and Idilus stumbled, grabbing the arm of the chair next to him to steady himself. He felt a wave of rage flow into him, as his mind processed what had happened. His flagship had been hit . . . but by what? The range was too great for the Celtiborian ships to fire. They were far too small. They couldn’t have the power or weapons large enough.

  But, if not them, what?

  “Admiral Greeves, report. What was that?”

  “We’re receiving a report from the scouting wing, General.” A pause, a few seconds, but each one seemed to stretch out interminably. Then: “They’re detecting energy blasts from the asteroid cluster to the port side of the fleet. Searching for the source of the fire now.” Greeves was tense. Clearly, he hadn’t expected the enemy to get in the first shot any more than Idilus had . . . and passing on the scouting group’s report on the source of the surprise attack to the general was likely close to the last thing he wanted to do.

  “Do better than search, Admiral. I want whatever is hiding in there found and destroyed at once.” Idilus’s anger was growing. He’d felt somewhat clinical about destroying Celtiboria, simply a means to an end. But now he would savor the deaths of the planet’s billions. They would pay for his humiliation. “All units are to launch attack ships at once. They are to find and destroy all enemy contacts in the asteroid field.”

  “Yes, General.” Greeves turned and issued a series of orders, commanding all the ships in the fleet to launch their wings.

  “I want those ships out in ten minutes, Admiral. Any flight crews who fail to meet that deadline will go out the launch tubes after the attack ships. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, General. Understood.”

  Idilus stood and stared at the display, even as the ship shook again. He cursed, half under his breath, but audible to those closest to him. Then he sat in his chair. Toppling over and rolling across the floor of the bridge was beneath the dignity of an imperial general, and no less of a viceroy.

  “Scanner reports coming in, Admiral. The source of the fire appears to be a line of bases built on several of the asteroids.”

  Damn!

  Idilus had allowed himself to underestimate the defenses his forces would face. Celtiboria had spent three centuries fighting a series of civil wars, and by all accounts, the system’s fortifications had suffered badly as the planet’s warlords devoted all their resources to battling each other for supremacy. Yet, somehow, it appeared they had managed to restore some fortresses.

  He was angry with himself, and he realized he’d drawn too much on his past campaigns regarding what to anticipate at Celtiboria. It had been centuries since an imperial force had been engaged in more than the pacification of rebellions, and even when an entire world rose up, the system defenses remained securely under imperial control. The navy hadn’t fought a true fleet action—save for the handful of ships that had been in the demesne when the Celtiborians attacked—since the last time an admiral made a play for the throne. Almost five hundred years ago.

  Idilus tried to calm himself. The forts could cause some damage, but they weren’t enough to stop his fleet.

  But he also wouldn’t underestimate the Celtiborians again.

  “I want those forts destroyed immediately, Admiral. All attack wings are to hit them at once. And bring the fleet around. All ships are to target the bases now. Alter approach vector, and close with the asteroid cluster.” The fortress guns were far stronger than anything the Celtiborian fleet seemed to possess. If he brought all his strength to bear, maybe he could take them out before they did any real damage. Then he could finish off the enemy’s mobile units.

  His main guns were in range, but barely. Accuracy would be poor, even against fixed targets. He’d expected to dominate the fighting completely, but ground-based weapons had an inherent advantage over mobile ones, because they could be bigger and had access to more powerful energy sources.

  Once the fleet closes, we’ll blast those bases to ruins . . . and then we’ll sweep away their fleet. After that, Celtiboria will become a footnote to history . . . if it is remembered at all.

  “We’ve got incoming attack ship formations, Commander. It looks like almost seven hundred inbound against us.” Norgstrom sat at his station, staring at the vast clusters of dots on his screen. He’d never seen anything like the waves of attack ships coming at the fortresses, and he knew exactly what he saw in them.

  His death. All their deaths.

  The asteroid bases were strong, at least as strong as the engineering teams had been able to make the neglected, centuries-old installations on a few weeks’ notice. It was a miracle the forts were functional at all, but despite the determination to which he clung, and the inspiration of Astra Lucerne’s address, he knew in his rational mind the forts were finished. All they could do was inflict as much damage as possible before they were destroyed.

  He’d known that from the beginning, or at least part of him had, but it was something entirely different to face it imminently. The imperial battleships were already returning fire, and it would be less than ten minutes before the waves of attack craft began their assault.

  He heard a distant rumble, another blast from one of the battleships slamming into the base. His mind was racing to triangulate just what had been hit when the damage control system reported it to him.

  Turret nine. Completely destroyed.

  That was the third big gun Base Drendel had lost, plus several reactors and upward of five hundred crew . . . and the fort had been lightly hit compared to some of the others. Omicron was completely out—at least there were no responses to continued communications attempts (fully open once the enemy knew they were there), and none of the scanners could pick up any energy output at all.

  Still, every other fort continued to engage the enemy, every gun still operational firing at maximum power, even beyond maximum. Most of the turrets were pumping overload levels of energy through their guns, and all along the enemy formation, the battleships were pounded by shot after shot.

  The imperial warships were immense, though, and even the heaviest guns on the forts caused only local damage. Still, there were glowing circles on all the scanner symbols, and he knew every ship in the imperial fleet had taken at least some damage.

  He slammed his fist down on his workstation as he saw one of Drendel’s main guns score a hit on the lead battleship. He watched and waited, hoping to see at least one of the monsters destroyed. He waited, though, in vain.

  The fleet was firing, too, and several of the battleships were changing their vectors to engage the flank attack. Even the heaviest ships in the Celtiborian fleet seemed like insects buzzing around a Kalishari Stegaroid. But they were scoring hits, and enough stings could bring down even the greatest of beasts.

  He looked over at Commander Crendus. The officer was silent, as Norgstrom himself had been for the last several minutes. The gunnery stations had their orders, the damage control teams were on the job, struggling to keep power flowing where it was needed . . . at least for a few more minutes. There was nothing left to do but sit and watch the battle.

  Crendus had surprised Norgstrom with his calm and his demeanor in the battle. He’d resented the officer since the day he’d been placed under his command, and he’d bristled at Crendus’s pointless pomposity. But now Norgstrom had seen a different side of his commander, and he could feel something unexpected welling up inside him. Respect. He could die alongside worse officers than Crendus. Far worse.

  He turned and looked at the main
display, and he froze, his eyes glued to the mass of enemy ships coming in . . . only seconds away now, about to launch the attack all but certain to obliterate Base Drendel, and all its companion stations.

  He took a deep breath, and he turned back toward Crendus, only to see the commander looking over at him. The two men exchanged silent glances and nods, and Norgstrom knew instantly, beyond whatever arrogance and insecurity had forced Crendus to behave the way he had, behind it all, there was respect there, too.

  He took another breath, and he held it for a few seconds, trying to steady himself for the final struggle. Then he looked up at the display . . . as the first wave of attack ships came whipping down at the base.

  “Marshal, the bases are heavily engaged. The enemy fleet has altered its approach vector and begun to close with the fortresses. The bases are suffering heavy damage, but all of them are still in the fight.”

  Astra Lucerne sat quietly, listening to Emile Desaix’s report. The Celtiborian admiral was the true expert in fleet tactics, and she knew it. She was on Augustin to be with her spacers, to face the enemy . . . not to impose her own far lesser knowledge of naval operations on her outmatched fleet.

  But there was one thing she did know, and she was sure Desaix would agree.

  “It is time, Admiral.”

  The commander of the Far Stars Confederation navy turned and met her gaze. “Indeed it is, Marshal Lucerne.”

  Astra just nodded, a simple way of giving her assent.