The Emperor's Fist

by Jay Allan

  Save, perhaps, staying here. The limited scans were showing multiple Celtiborian vessels closing all around the flagship. If he remained, he faced a serious risk of dying in the wreckage of his own ship.

  If he pulled back, he would have the journey back to the empire to figure out what he would say . . . how he would explain the disaster to the emperor.

  He tried to steel his resolve, to throw all he had left into the fight . . . but the resolve was fading. Idilus’s battles had seen millions dead, but he himself had never faced serious risk of defeat. Now, he was in danger, possible deadly danger, and his nerve was cracking. He was scared to go back and face the emperor, to prostrate himself before his master and seek pardon for his failure—for another failure. But at that moment, the thought of Celtiborian warships tearing his vessel apart section by section seemed more threatening.

  He fought to gather his courage, but even as he struggled to stiffen his spine, he wondered if he should. He’d already lost more battleships than any commander in the past five centuries. Could he risk those that remained? He already faced a reckoning when he returned home, and he was loath to make it worse.

  “General . . . we have restored limited ship-to-ship communications.”

  “Anything on the targeting systems?” A last burst of what remained of his courage came through.

  “Negative, General. Engineering reports some progress, but no estimates on restoration of targeting data nets.”

  That was the end of Idilus’s strength. He simply couldn’t risk losing more of the empire’s great battleships.

  He hoped.

  “Commander . . . all ships are to break off at once. Pull back out of range and prepare for hyperjump in five minutes.” He heard the words, and even as the officer acknowledged and began to issue the needed orders, he sat there, his thoughts dark.

  I am the first imperial commander in living memory to lose a major battle, and the first in half a millennium to see battleships under his command destroyed.

  How could this have gone so wrong?

  Chapter 38

  Ignes Inferni held his ground, watching as Umbra—still Blackhawk, barely—stumbled backward, looking almost as though he might fall to the ground. He was close—so close—to bringing his brother back. And suddenly, that was the only thing he desired.

  Inferni was a merciless killer, a general who had rarely given a thought to the millions who’d died at his hand. He’d never stayed his hand against one who had opposed the empire, nor allowed pleas for mercy to affect his actions. He was utterly without sympathy.

  But with Umbra it was different.

  Inferni had answered Blackhawk’s call for a one-on-one meet, prepared to bring his brother back . . . or to leave the man he’d become dead on that deserted moon. But the instant he’d seen his quarry, his resolve had been shaken. He still wanted Umbra back, but he wasn’t sure what he would do if that effort failed. The scourge of empire, the Angel of Death, Doombringer, and a hundred other names he’d been given by terrified populations that had endured his cold vengeance, hesitated now at the thought of killing one man.

  Umbra would be a terrible opponent in a fight, he knew, as skilled a fighter as he was, and as strong and dexterous. And while Blackhawk’s years in the Far Stars had mostly been without the army and fleet commands he’d held in the empire, he’d no doubt seen more face-to-face combat than Inferni, who’d mostly directed vast fleets and armies during that time.

  Yet that was the Umbra of his recollection. This Umbra was tired and damaged, and Inferni was confident, despite the understandable caution in facing so proficient a killer, that he could prevail. That analysis would normally have sent him immediately into battle, but something was still holding him back.

  Simply put, he didn’t want to kill Umbra.

  More, he didn’t want to kill his brother. The only human in all the vast galaxy who understood what is was like to be so different from the others. A man—if they were even technically men, considering how they were designed and created—with the same history and legacy as him.

  Inferni had long believed Umbra was alive somewhere, even after the other imperial authorities had given up all hope and terminated search efforts. He’d scoured reports himself when he’d been able, trying to find clues, anything at all, that might lead him to find his lost twin. After so many years of fruitless effort, the thought of finally finding his brother alive, only to kill him with his own hands, was difficult to accept.

  He could see the same hesitation in Umbra, the reluctance to take the first step, to commence the struggle that could only end with one of them dead. He knew his duty, what the emperor would demand of him, but no one else was there, no one to issue commands, no one to judge what was done on that barren, barely habitable moon. It went against all he knew, all he was, but he struggled to find a way he could let Umbra—Blackhawk—live.

  Was it even possible? Could his brother walk away, and leave him behind unharmed? Whatever Umbra had become, Inferni didn’t doubt his brother remained as intractably stubborn as he was.

  Inferni’s hands were at his side. He was armed, even as Umbra was, with pistol and sword. His blade was longer and more ornate than the one hanging from his brother’s belt, but he knew well from his recollections just how skilled Umbra was with a blade. Long years of hand-to-hand battles in the Far Stars could only have increased that deadly proficiency.

  He wondered if he could subdue Umbra, capture him somehow. He could send for a shuttle to pick them both up. That would give him more time. The brother he remembered, the man he knew, was still in there . . . he was sure of that.

  But what value is there in time? Could time wear him down?

  He doubted it.

  He’d heard the entreaties coming from the man who called himself Blackhawk, and he’d seen truth in them. His service for the emperor had been brutal, and millions of innocents numbered among those he’d killed. Umbra believed what he had said just now with conviction, and that might very well be impossible to break. Indeed, his arguments would sway many. There was only one thing protecting Inferni from their impassioned pleas and flawless logic.

  He didn’t care.

  He knew, on some level at least, that his feelings came in large part from imperial conditioning and not from his own judgments. He accepted that, and it didn’t matter to him which part of his views came from him and which from the areas the imperial specialists had manipulated. It had simply been too long, and whatever his creators had wrought, either in the petri dish where he’d experienced what had passed in his case for conception, or years later, strapped to a chair, enduring endless abuse and psychological torment . . . now he was what he was, what he’d been made to be.

  And he was content with that. Whatever grievances he may have harbored against the imperial authorities that had treated him so harshly, he considered his life of power and luxury more than fair payment. He had served the emperor, done terrible things for his master, and he’d been well rewarded for his loyalty. Blackhawk wanted to rescue him from what he was, from service to the empire.

  But Inferni didn’t want to be rescued.

  The problem was, he was pretty sure his brother was of the same mind . . . except he didn’t want to be rescued from being Blackhawk.

  The silence was oppressive, no sound save the occasional blast of putrid wind. The two of them stood a few meters apart, staring at each other. Inferni could see the pain in his brother’s face, the fatigue . . . and something more. Maybe he was wrong about Umbra wanting to remain Blackhawk . . .

  He is wavering. Just maybe, if I can just push him a little further . . .

  “There is no more time, Frigus. My brother. I will ask you once more, and once only. Return with me, reclaim your true self, and your position and power. I will help you, guide you back home. Serve with me, and together we will stand at the very pinnacle of power, alongside the emperor himself. It is where you belong, what you were born to do.

  “It is who you ar
e.”

  He paused, troubled by emotions he rarely felt: Compassion. Sympathy. Concern.

  Finally, he simply added “Please.” There was sincerity in that final word. Killing Umbra would be the most difficult thing he’d ever have to do in imperial service.

  He looked across the small stretch of ground, waiting for a response, his eyes boring into the identical pair staring back at him.

  Please.

  Blackhawk stood stone still, and in his mind, war raged.

  The Umbra side poured out from the darkest depths of his mind, energized by Inferni’s words, initiating a final battle, a last push to destroy the Blackhawk persona and seize back control. Images from the past were Umbra’s weapons: him shackled to a chair, electrical shocks that would have killed a normal human ripping through his body. Constant pain and torment, both physical and mental. And behind it all the endless voices—stern, commanding, and always manipulating his mind, as if from clay.

  Then, other scenes and sensations. The feeling of victory. Of defeated enemies groveling at his feet, begging for mercy. And the rewards. Tumultuous crowds outside the imperial palace, the emperor himself placing decorations on his robes, taking his hand and raising it into the air. Everything he’d had—gold, jewels, power, women—flashed before his eyes in an endless cycle, remembrance of all he’d sacrificed, all he’d left behind when he’d slipped away into the hazy darkness.

  For an instant, Blackhawk thought he was finished, his strength gone. For the first time in his life, he was on the verge of surrender. His years in the Far Stars had been mostly difficult ones, most of the first five spent wallowing among the detritus of humanity, his only solace in drink, his only sustenance coming from the meager funds he’d obtained by petty thefts and other crimes.

  Before he’d managed to pull himself up and make a new life.

  You did not do that yourself. Will you abandon those who helped you, who extended hands to you when you were nothing, less than nothing?

  He perked up at that a bit. It was a voice—a new one, yet familiar—calling to him, a last effort to hold on.

  He thought about the words and realized something important then: the voice spoke only the truth. He did not find his new self alone. Augustin Lucerne had found him, stumbling aimlessly across the Celtiborian desert, drunk, violent, lost. The marshal had seen something in him, though what that had been in those dark days, Blackhawk couldn’t imagine. Lucerne had treated him with respect and dignity, something he had not experienced since his flight from imperial service. Lucerne’s had been the hand extended into the darkness, leading Blackhawk to a new life.

  And now, Augustin is gone, Umbra’s voice growled.

  But Astra is still here, the other voice responded.

  He owed all he was to Augustin Lucerne, and if he faltered, if he became Umbra again, he would betray all his friend had spent his life to create. As important as they were, though, Astra loomed even larger. He couldn’t betray her. More, he couldn’t let Astra fall. His debt to her father was enough to compel him to remain at her side, but his love for her was stronger even than his obligation.

  He felt a surge of energy then, almost as if from nowhere, and he pushed back against the Umbra thoughts, straining with all the willpower and endurance he possessed . . . and sending the dark persona back into the deepest parts of his mind.

  And then further.

  The force of his fury, of the unfiltered rage against the empire, what they had done to him, made him, was accelerated by the power of his loyalty to those who had been at his side for so many years now. He was Arkarin Blackhawk, captain of the Wolf’s Claw . . . and he was content with that. No regrets, no wistful thoughts of lost power and rewards, nothing but utter contempt for the empire, and the brutal totalitarianism it represented.

  And with that final realization, he could feel Umbra—the remnants of his conditioning, of any thoughts he’d clung to about the past, the voice that had tormented him for so many years—thrust out of his mind entirely, and into the black depths of nothingness.

  Frigus Umbra was gone. Only Arkarin Blackhawk remained.

  He looked straight ahead, toward the only other human being on the barely hospitable moon. He didn’t care for emperor or empire, for general’s commissions or medals or rewards. Thoughts of the throne, of exalted positions beside it and the riches and unimaginable luxuries showered on those with imperial favor left him cold.

  But the man standing there, looking back at him, was still his brother, in every way that mattered. They were vastly different, now more than ever before. They were enemies in every allegiance they possessed, save for the connection they shared. The thought of harming Inferni was difficult, almost impossible. Almost.

  Whatever happened, however the showdown ended, Blackhawk was accomplishing one thing he’d set out to do. He was sure Inferni’s battleship had stayed in place, waiting for him . . . and that kept what Blackhawk hoped was the sole fully functional imperial warship in the system out of the fight. He couldn’t be sure Belakov’s virus had worked as planned, or that, even if it had, it would be enough to give the Celtiborians victory, but that—coupled with diverting Inferni—was the best gift he could give his friends. The rest was on them, on the mettle Augustin Lucerne had forged into them all.

  He didn’t know if any of it mattered. He didn’t even know if Astra was still alive. But he knew one thing. Alive or dead, he would never abandon her.

  Never.

  Except that meant fighting Inferni. And the idea of harming Inferni seemed almost inconceivable. He would be striking the only family he had, regardless of his brother’s sins. Almost nothing could have made him face off, challenge Ignes Inferni, kill him.

  Again, almost nothing. But there was one thing.

  Astra.

  His hand dropped to his side, feeling the familiar metal and leather of his shortsword’s grip.

  “I cannot let you leave here, Ignes. I am sorry, my brother . . .”

  The sound of the sword drawing out from the scabbard was familiar—too familiar—yet this time it cut at him deeply, opening a wound he knew would never heal.

  His eyes met Inferni’s, his sword in his hand, even as his opponent drew out his own blade.

  Inferni said nothing.

  The talking was over. All that remained was for one of them to die.

  Chapter 39

  The swords met, a loud clang echoing off the surrounding mountains, the walls of rock sending the sound waves back through the heavy atmosphere. Two reluctant enemies faced each other on this blasted landscape, each troubled by where fate had brought them, but certain of what they must do.

  Blackhawk bent his forward knee, dropping low as he thrust his blade below Inferni’s defenses. It was a move he’d used many times, one that had dropped a long series of adversaries in short order, but his brother saw it coming and his own blade swung down, not only blocking Blackhawk’s attacks, but coming a hairsbreadth from turning it about and securing his own deadly strike.

  Blackhawk was free of Umbra, for the first time in his life, and yet the relief he’d long imagined would accompany that momentous change had not come. His mind was in turmoil, and without the imperial conditioning, without Umbra, it took all he had to sustain the fight against Inferni. All he had now were his almost twenty-five years as Blackhawk and the memories of the friends and loved ones he’d met and lost over that time to urge him forward.

  He prayed it was enough.

  He stepped back, yielding the initiative, at least for a moment, but giving himself time to assess the situation. The two of them were almost identical physically, though Blackhawk suspected he’d seen more hand-to-hand combat than his brother. But he was entering the fight already half beaten, bearing the mental scars of his struggles to control the imperial battleship, not to mention the physical toll it had taken on him. He was putting all he had left into this battle, but if this contest continued much longer, he began to doubt his ability to prevail.

&nbs
p; Inferni was clearly sensing Blackhawk’s fatigue and gave him no time to strategize further, stepping up the attacks. The imperial general was seeking to gain all the advantage he could from his superior condition, and as the fight progressed, Blackhawk shifted more and more on the defensive. It was a losing strategy, he knew that. But it was all he had the strength to do.

  Blackhawk swung hard, trying to turn a parry into something resembling an attack, but the sword was heavy in his hand, and his motion was too slow. Inferni dodged it and brought down another vicious strike.

  Blackhawk felt the vibration up his arm, as he barely managed to get his sword in place in time. He stumbled back again, and this time, he lost his balance, falling hard to the ground. He tried to stay focused, but he could feel the fear building, the realization that he was simply too battered and exhausted to face an enemy like Inferni.

  But the battle was at least buying time, and that might be enough—if not for him, for Astra and her fleet. For those he was fighting for.

  Those he would likely die for.

  He sucked in a deep breath and dug down, rallying all that remained of his strength. He thought, for an instant, he was dead . . . but it was clear Inferni still didn’t want to kill him, or at least he felt some hesitation. Otherwise, the killing blow should have already come. That was enough, at least, to buy a little more time. Blackhawk leapt back up to his feet, ignoring the pain he felt almost everywhere on his body.

  Inferni wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “This is pointless, Frigus. You are clearly wounded and no match for me. More important, I do not wish to kill you. Let us stop this now. Return to my ship with me. It may not be too late to save your Astra.”