by Jay Allan
The first barrage of shots from the two imperial ships struck a frigate and a cruiser. The smaller ship split open like an egg, almost immediately, and a few seconds later, it disappeared entirely in the fury of unleashed nuclear fusion. The cruiser lasted a bit longer, perhaps thirty seconds. Shot after shot slammed into its hull, tearing off whole sections, and leaving the ship a dead hulk, nothing left but chunks of twisted metal floating uselessly in space.
Desaix watched, wondering how long the dying fortresses would hold the attention of the other five battleships. Even as he considered that, he realized there was a good chance that just the two ships were enough to obliterate his fleet.
Almost certainly . . . though we’d hurt those two ships, and pretty damned badly.
Grim pride over that hypothetical moral victory aside, he wanted to believe there was a chance. He looked at the imperial ships fighting the fortresses. They were all damaged, and marred by sections of twisted metal and breeches torn into their hulls. But the gargantuan ships endured, and if their fire slowed somewhat as turrets were destroyed and reactors knocked out, it was incremental . . . and the waves of destruction they unleashed continued, virtually undeterred.
The imperials were just too strong, their ships too tough, their weapons too powerful. Desaix wasn’t the kind to give up—he’d been born that way, and thirty years fighting in the Far Stars had forged that natural endurance into an unbreakable alloy—but he was sure he was about to see the end of that endurance.
A permanent end.
That thought pressed in on him, and it wasn’t so much the loss of his ships that tore at him, or even the prospect of his own death. Astra Lucerne was on Augustin, and his inability to protect her weighed heavily on him. Augustin Lucerne had been more than a commander to him. The old marshal had been Desaix’s friend, his brother-in-arms . . . and Astra was Lucerne’s only child, the only one left to carry on the legacy that began in the lowlands of the Lucerne estates a lifetime before.
I am sorry, my old comrade . . . I am sorry I am failing you.
But something even worse than Astra’s death was looming. Desaix knew enough about the empire to understand what would come after the fleet’s destruction. He’d heard a lot of talk about ground defenses, about how the army—the true strength of the Celtiborian military—would repel any attempts to invade the planet. That was a comforting thought, but not a realistic one. The army just might defeat the imperial troops, if they got the chance. Desaix didn’t think they would. The imperials wouldn’t invade Celtiboria, at least not until they blasted the planet to oblivion from orbit, and however tough Augustin Lucerne’s veterans were, it would avail them nothing in the face of thermonuclear warheads laying waste to the planet.
The Celtiborians had dared to attack—or liberate, depending on point of view—imperial worlds, and there was no doubt in Desaix’s mind the emperor’s minions had come with a mandate to make a terrible example of the Far Stars leading world.
He was sure Astra knew that, and Rafaelus DeMark, too, but they’d all done what they could to spread false hopes among their spacers and soldiers. If their people were going to die in battle, they deserved to do it thinking they at least had a chance to save their loved ones. Desaix had always been honest and straightforward, and he’d valued those traits in others, but this particular dishonesty felt right to him. He knew what hopelessness felt like—he was enduring it as he sat on the bridge of his flagship—and he would spare as many of his people as he could that pain in their final moments.
He looked over at the display, just in time to see two more of his ships destroyed. His people were doing damage to the battleships, but not quickly enough. The battleships’ guns were just too strong.
I will fight to the end for you, Marshal, my old friend . . . with the last strength I possess.
He knew that was all anyone could do.
“Are you ready, Alion?” Blackhawk was leaning back in the chair, in front of the same workstation where he’d twice interfaced with the battleship’s AI as well as undergone the strain of letting his own AI take control of him. He looked like a wreck, he knew, unshaven, coated with dried sweat, his clothes filthy and matted to his body. He was just as certain the outside, whatever kind of disaster it seemed, was far better than the inside.
He knew the stress of the human-machine connection was killing him. He was fairly certain a normal human wouldn’t have survived what he’d done already, but for all he’d been through in his life, all the struggles he’d fought, the things he’d done, both good deeds and blackest evil, the one thing he’d never been was normal. Blackhawk always believed he could push through whatever he had to do, and for all the guilt he carried and the uncertainty over who he truly was, nothing ever stopped him from pushing forward, doing what had to be done.
And this time was no different. A third connection might kill him, but so could so many other things.
How is this any different from the rest of your life, Ark?
“I think so,” Alion said, clearly nervous. He was brilliant, a savant with computers, that much Blackhawk had already discerned, but he wasn’t used to the kind of pressure the rest of the Claw’s crew had long endured . . . and this struggle went beyond even that. Nothing less than the survival of Celtiboria’s billions and the future of the Far Stars itself was at stake, and that was sure to put anyone on edge.
“Well, the Celtiborians are already engaged, so whatever you’ve got now will have to be enough.” Blackhawk tried to keep his own tension and fear out of his voice. His people, especially Belakov, needed to see him strong. He wasn’t sure how long he could maintain the façade, hide at least some of the bone-deep fatigue not to mention the battle still raging for control of his mind . . . but he was going to do it as long as he could.
He picked up the headset, pausing for just an instant as recollections of the agony of the previous connections flooded into his mind. Blackhawk had never given in to fear, and he wasn’t about to start. But it took just about everything he had to put the headset on.
I’m ready. He shot the thought to the AI almost immediately after he put the headset on, before he had too much time to think about it.
He was far from ready, but it would have to do.
Connecting . . .
Blackhawk felt nothing for a few seconds . . . and then pain! Wave after wave of agony, almost as though his head was being turned inside out. He tried to hold back the screams, but he could hear them as they escaped his lips, almost like a series of distant howls. He was vaguely aware of his people around him, crowding in, no doubt reacting to the signs of suffering he could no longer hide. But they didn’t interfere.
He felt the same strange sensation he had before, almost as though he’d left his body, as if he existed not in physical form, but as energy, surging through the circuits of the massive battleship. He could almost feel the reactors producing energy, and the great laser batteries on the hull were practically like cold steel weapons in his hands. But it was communications he wanted this time, and he could feel the AI inside him searching, feeling around for the system they needed.
Pain. More pain. Then, finally, success. The priority comm system. It was buried deep in the battleship’s operating systems, an emergency routine, reserved for the highest-level communications.
Blackhawk could feel his hands moving over the keyboard, controlled not by him, but by the AI, entering the passwords and logins it drew from his deepest memories, access codes he hoped would still work. Having gotten this far, it wouldn’t have surprised him to suddenly be caught up short, but he had confidence.
In the empire’s complacency, if nothing else.
He waited, watching, struggling to focus as he endured the unending pressure and pain in his head. Time slowed, each second passing like an eternity, as his hands finished the entry of the final code. And then . . .
They were in!
The old codes still worked and they were in the comm system, the deepest sections that h
oused the priority lines. An instant later, the message was ready. It was simple, meaningless. Its purpose wasn’t to communicate, but to carry a cargo of sorts, to take the virus through the security protocols and into the core systems of the imperial battleships.
Basically it was nothing more than “Hey, how are you? I brought you a present.”
Blackhawk turned his head, an almost insurmountable struggle in itself, and he waved his hand, a rough gesture to Belakov. It was time.
He was vaguely aware of the programmer’s presence next to him, of Belakov’s arm reaching down to the workstation, inserting the data crystal containing the virus.
He could feel the tide of data, Belakov’s program, moving through the battleship’s memory banks, attaching to the pending transmission. When it was done, the system locked on to the seven enemy battleships and sent out the communication.
Blackhawk struggled to endure the pain as he felt the transmission flowing out, on its way across space toward the imperial vessels. It would take almost twenty minutes for them to reach their targets, and that much again before any signs the cyberattack was successful made it back. But he had done all he had to do, all he could do, and even as he felt a spark of satisfaction, his defenses against the pain reached their limit, and they collapsed. He heard himself let out a loud sigh, and he gave in to the wall of darkness pressing down on him.
Chapter 34
The light hurt Blackhawk’s eyes, but he looked up anyway. He was disoriented for a moment, but then he realized where he was.
Back on the Claw.
He looked around, though moving his head even a slight bit to the side caused the pain, just a dull ache when he stayed still, to intensify enormously. He knew his people would be there, and so they were.
“You okay, Ark?” The voice was familiar, but it took him a few seconds to place it. Katarina.
“I’m fine, Kat.” He was a long way from “fine,” he knew, but there was nothing she, or any of his crew, could do about it.
“You had us worried there for a while.” A different voice. Doc.
“I’m okay, Doc. Hurts a little. Can you give me something for the pain?”
“I pumped you full of enough painkillers to kill a Sebastiani bull, Ark. I don’t dare give you anything else.”
Blackhawk just nodded. That explained why the agony had subsided from “excruciating” to “mild torture.”
“Did it work?”
“Yes . . . it seems like it did.” Katarina again. “Ace is up on the bridge with Shira and Lucas, running the scanners on full. They’re weak with us here in the landing bay, but the imperial ships are definitely showing some signs of disorder.”
Blackhawk allowed himself a spark of hope. A very small one. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get any words out, Ace came sliding down the ladder from the bridge, yelling.
“We’ve got trouble. That other battleship just emerged from Galvanus, and she’s charging up her weapons. I’ve never seen energy readings like these.”
The others turned toward the door, as Ace bounded in. He was about to speak again when he saw that Blackhawk was awake. “Ark!”
“I’m good, Ace.”
“That’s why you suck at cards, Ark.”
Blackhawk almost managed a smile. “You can teach me about my poker face later. Get back up there and get the Claw ready to go.”
“I’m on it, Ark.” He turned and raced back through the center of the lower level, toward the ladder that led to the bridge.
“All of you, get ready to get out of here.” A disturbing thought hit him.
Did we get the omega codes set?
Blackhawk had made the last connection with the battleship with two jobs on the agenda. The virus had been sent, and, at least as far as he could see, it seemed to be doing what he’d hoped. But he’d lost consciousness before the second item had been completed.
Yes. It was difficult to maintain the connection when your state of consciousness declined, but I was able to complete the programming. It was a rough and hurried effort, and my knowledge of imperial operating systems is still limited, but the chances of successful implementation of destruct sequence is approximately 78 percent.
Not great, not by any means, but anything is better than nothing at this point.
He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the resulting nausea. He paused for a few seconds, sitting with his legs dangling over the cot. He waved his arm as Kat and Doc moved closer. He appreciated their concern, but he had work still ahead.
Work only he could do.
“You all get strapped in. The Claw’s blasting out of here in five minutes. Once you’re clear, send a communique to the Celtiborians. Let them know exactly what we did, just in case they haven’t figured it out completely. And then, get the field on and get the hell out of the line of fire.”
“What the hell do you mean, Ark?” Kat said. “You’re talking like you’re not coming with us.”
There was no easy way to say what he had to, so he just blurted it out.
“I’m not.”
The two stared at each other for what felt like a lifetime.
“Ark—”
“I have something I have to do.” He almost said something like, And then, I’ll be back, but he didn’t believe he was coming back, and something tugged at him inside. He didn’t want his last words to her, to any of his crew, to be a lie.
“Ark, you can’t. That’s insan—”
“I have to, Kat. You’ve known me a long time, been as close as friends get. Just believe what I say . . . and let me go. Please.”
The words hit her hard, he could see that much, but he wondered if she saw just how hard they hit him. She must have, because she just nodded, and then she leaned in and hugged him. He pulled her close for an instant, and then he pulled back, turning toward Doc with a nod he hoped communicated something that was the equivalent of love and respect and gratitude and pride.
He didn’t wait to see if the message got across, though. He turned and walked out into the main room, still wobbly as he worked his way to the airlock. He hesitated for just a second, wincing at the waste of destroying the imperial battleship. He wished there was a way to save the ship, to use it to fight the imperials. But he knew another connection effort would kill him almost immediately, and the risk that the imperials would board and reclaim the ship was too great.
But that was only one of his tasks. The other chilled him to his bones. He couldn’t let the newly arrived battleship join in the fight. He’d given the Celtiborians a chance, at least he hoped he had, but a fully functional imperial battleship thrown into the mix would destroy whatever hopes existed to save the Far Stars.
And he could only think of one way to hold that ship back, to delay it at least.
It was time for a family reunion.
“Something is definitely happening, Admiral.” The tactical officer was staring at his screen as he reported, his hands moving rapidly over his controls. “The enemy ships are still firing, but their targeting has degraded considerably.”
“What do you mean, ‘considerably’?” Even as he asked, Desaix turned toward the main display, his eyes darting around, watching the imperial fire coming in. It was erratic, most of the shots nowhere near any of his ships. Compared to the punishment the fleet had been taking until moments before, the difference was amazing.
Was it a trap of some kind? Were the imperials trying to lure him in?
Why would they do that? They don’t need us closer. They can blast us to dust right where we are now.
He felt an urge to order his ships forward at full thrust, to close and unleash all the fury they could before the imperial fire regained its former accuracy. But he held back, too careful with his limited resources to throw all caution to the wind.
He turned and looked over at Astra. She’d been quiet during the battle, leaving it to him to command the fleet, but now he needed her guidance . . . and the instant he caught her return gaze, he kne
w she was as uncertain as he.
He looked back at the display. It wasn’t just imperial fire that had degraded. The formerly perfect formation of the battleships was degrading. Perfectly matched thrust levels now varied enough to upset the aligned vectors the vessels had shared moments before.
“I want full power scans, of the enemy fleet, and as far out into the system as we can reach.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Desaix had jumped to his feet, but then he flopped back into his chair. He was exhausted, and yet also crackling with nervous energy. He was once again on the verge of ordering the fleet forward, as quickly as tortured engines could take them. But he couldn’t . . . not until he had some idea what was happening.
“Admiral, we’re receiving a transmission.”
Here it is. Are they toying with us?
He’d sworn he wouldn’t accept any communications from the enemy. Even in the unlikely event they offered him the chance to surrender, he was going to give them explicit—and anatomically correct—instructions on what they could do with it. He had no intention of ending his days in an imperial prison . . . or, likely, someplace far worse. But there was no reason to dangle thoughts of survival in front of his people.
“Commander, you can tell whoever is on that imperial flagship he can sh—”
“No, sir. It’s not the imperials.” The officer turned, and from his expression, Desaix could see he was stunned by what he’d received. “They say it’s the Wolf’s Claw, Admiral.”
Desaix shot a glance back at Astra, and he could see the effect the ship’s name had on her. He was barely less shocked—or excited.
And the one person he imagined just might offer a way out of the doom even then descending on them all.
“On my . . . no, on speaker.” Astra had to hear this, too.
“Yes, sir.”
“This is Admiral Desaix.”
“Admiral, this is Jason Graythorn on the Wolf’s Claw.”