The Emperor's Fist

by Jay Allan

  Blackhawk heard the emotion in Inferni’s voice, and he believed his brother was sincere. Inferni missed him, and a part of Blackhawk missed his brother, too.

  But it was too late. He wasn’t what he had been, not any longer. They were brothers by the uniqueness of their birth, but too much time had changed them. The Void had separated them by more than just distance. In the Far Stars, light had finally found its way to the blackness of his soul.

  And all Inferni could offer him was a way back to darkness and brutality.

  “You’re right. I’m no match for you. And this may be pointless. But you’re wrong, too. There is no Frigus Umbra, my brother. He is dead, gone, purged forever . . . thanks to you. I am Arkarin Blackhawk, and the Far Stars is my home. The empire will never enslave these worlds, not while I still draw breath.”

  Even as he said those last words, he was lunging forward, converting what he knew was a last burst of energy into his attack. He struck hard, and he might have scored the victory . . . but he hesitated, as Inferni had a moment before. He was resolute in his loyalties, secure as he’d never been before in who he was—that he was Arkarin Blackhawk and not Frigus Umbra. But that assurance didn’t change the fact that the man standing before him was still one he’d long thought of as a brother, one who did the evil he did under the same imperial conditioning that had made him a monster.

  That could be me, save for providence. And if I could be redeemed . . .

  So when his blade found its mark, it wasn’t a fatal blow. He could feel the sword cut through the sleeve of Inferni’s robe and slice into the general’s arm. His distraction had cost him, reducing the stroke to a flesh wound. And, perhaps worse, even as Blackhawk pulled back to reset his stance he could feel the surge of energy fading away. He had lost his best chance, thrown away a hope for victory, perhaps the last he had.

  “It has been over an hour with no communications, Commander. We are too far away to get reliable scans. The general is down there alone. We must go to his rescue, without further delay.”

  Virgus Tamalak stood on the Exantallus’s bridge, next to the command station, the seat that had, until two hours before, been occupied by Ignes Inferni. Tamalak was one of Inferni’s Red Guards, his closest retainers and most loyal followers. He was also in command in his master’s absence.

  He’d already taken a terrible chance sending the two assault shuttles to take position in orbit around the moon. Inferni had been clear that he intended to go alone, and there was no room to claim confusion in his orders. But Tamalak had finally given in to the pressure from the other Red Guards, the demands to send something, anything, to support Inferni. The guards were loyal to their master, and perhaps even more important in the power-driven imperial system, they all knew Inferni was crucial to their own advancement. A rival, another general, such as Idilus, might secretly rejoice at a comrade’s defeat and death, hoping to take the place of the lost officer. But no general who replaced Inferni would trust his old retainers. If Inferni died, at best, they all sank into obscurity.

  At worst . . . well, there were numerous examples of generals “cleaning house” with ruthless thoroughness when they stepped into the shoes of a fallen commander.

  It seemed clear. Tamalak had to do all he could to aid Inferni. But he’d also seen the general’s rage at being disobeyed, and dispatching the shuttles had been a grave risk already. Actually sending them to the surface . . .

  He hesitated. He kept hoping he’d hear from Inferni, but there had been nothing. He didn’t know much about this “Blackhawk”—Inferni had been very tight-lipped about the Far Stars smuggler. Still, he guessed the man was dangerous . . . and every passing minute pushed Tamalak toward issuing the order his warriors were almost demanding.

  He turned sharply to the side, his hand tightening into a fist. He could barely contain the frustration, resist the urge to slam his hand down on the armrest. But he was in command while Inferni was gone, and he struggled to maintain his control, to look the part. The scanning reports from the battle far in-system weren’t helping his efforts. The imperial fleet was in complete disarray, some kind of systemic malfunctions plaguing the vessels. Three battleships had already been destroyed, and the Celtiborians were pushing hard, clearly smelling at least a chance at victory.

  Tamalak had never heard of an imperial battleship being destroyed, and the fact that he’d just witnessed three of the great vessels obliterated hadn’t really sunken in yet. Part of him wanted to head into the fight, to throw the fully functional battleship into the mix.

  To crush the Far Stars enemy.

  But Inferni had been utterly clear when he’d left. Remain in position.

  Inferni hadn’t known the fleet was disabled when he’d left, of course, and it wasn’t hard to imagine he might have sent the ship into the fight if he had . . . but Tamalak had seen the general deal with insubordination before, and memories like that never faded.

  He stood, for perhaps another minute, ignoring yet another wave of entreaties from the orbiting shuttles. It was far easier for officers there to rush to their commander’s aid. If Tamalak gave the go-ahead, it was on him. If Inferni was angry, if the intervention disrupted some vital operation only the general knew about . . . he easily could find himself thrown headfirst out of an airlock.

  But if General Inferni is in trouble . . . the airlock might be coming anyway.

  He picked up the comm unit. “Go in. Now.” The words came out, quickly, before his caution could intervene again and stop them. He didn’t know all that much about this Blackhawk, but what he knew was troubling.

  Too troubling to ignore any longer.

  Blackhawk stepped back a meter, perhaps two, and the combatants stood, facing each other. He was dizzy, his vision fading, even as he struggled to stay on his feet, to at least maintain a defense against what he knew was coming.

  He saw regret in his brother’s eyes as he stared back across the small battlefield, and, with cold certainty, he understood. Inferni had resolved, finally, to kill him. He could see his brother’s hand tensing on his blade, the movement of his opponent beginning, an ominous shadow closing on him, the imperial’s blade rising up, ready to come down in one titanic stroke . . .

  Then a shrieking sound filled the small valley, almost deafening, and a blast of wind separated the combatants, covering them in a billowing cloud of dust and nearly knocking them both to the ground.

  Blackhawk didn’t understand—for a second, at least, as he struggled to stay on his feet—but then, it was clear. Ships landing. Very close.

  For an instant, against all reason, he imagined Celtiborian landers coming down, Augustin Lucerne’s veteran troops coming to his aid. But as he turned toward the two shadowy vessels becoming slowly visible through the clearing dust, he recognized them at once.

  Imperial assault shuttles.

  Even as he watched, the hatches swung open, and ground troops swarmed out, weapons drawn. They wore a livery he’d never seen before, but there wasn’t a question in his mind. They were his brother’s guards.

  The end had come.

  It was over. He was as good as finished. His long journey, his bizarre and almost unfathomable life and all its unpredictable twists and turns was at its end. All that remained was to determine how he faced his death.

  There was no mystery there, not a question in his worn and exhausted mind. Arkarin Blackhawk knew only one way to die, weapons in hand, fighting to the last.

  He glanced over at Inferni, one last look, mostly to make sure his brother wasn’t attacking . . . but also a farewell of sorts. Then he lunged forward, racing toward the imperial troops, sword in one hand as the other dropped to his side—toward the pistol he’d left holstered during his contest with Inferni.

  He drew the gun and brought it up, even as the soldiers reacted to his charge and swung their rifles to bear. He knew his life was measured in instants, perhaps a second. But he was determined to take some of them with him.

  Even as he raise
d the pistol and took a shot, dropping one of the soldiers, he heard a loud shout from behind him. Inferni.

  Ordering the soldiers to capture him.

  Blackhawk felt his heart pounding. He’d been ready to die, as ready as one could be for such a thing, but he hadn’t imagined being overpowered, dragged back to the empire as a prisoner. It was unthinkable, whatever his fate there. Would he be humiliated and tortured, branded a traitor and executed? Or would they try to make him what he’d been. Umbra was gone, he was sure of that . . . but his imperial masters had turned him into that once. Could they do it again? Would age and experience protect him from having his mind warped and twisted, or were they adept enough to steal Blackhawk from him, to forge another Umbra?

  He had no intention of finding out.

  He aimed his pistol and fired again, then twice more. Three of the imperials fell, even as the others raced forward. He shot again and again, killing as many as he could, doing everything possible to force them to fire back. But even as he waged that great battle, he knew it was hopeless, that every soldier there was well aware they would face a fate far worse than death in combat if they disobeyed Inferni’s orders. Blackhawk pushed forward, raising his sword above his head as he continued to fire . . . and he plunged into the first rank of imperial soldiers.

  He could feel hands reaching out, trying to restrain him, even as he slashed wildly, cutting and stabbing every enemy he could reach. His tired arm was wet with blood, and even as he was forced down to the ground, he pressed his pistol against the midsection of one of his attackers. He pulled the trigger, and he felt the hot warmth of the imperial’s blood and guts on his hand, running over him.

  He was normally stronger than any of the soldiers, but there were at least a dozen of them all around him, grabbing onto his arms, his legs, and he was beyond exhausted. He struggled with all the might his genetically engineered muscles could produce, but finally his extremities were pinned down. First his pistol and then his sword were wrested from his grasp, and he lay helpless, surrounded by imperial soldiers—both those alive and the bodies of those he’d killed.

  “Please, Frigus, don’t struggle,” he heard Inferni say. “It is over. You are coming home with me.” Inferni walked forward and stood above him, looking down at the wild scrum that had, at last, pinned him to the ground. “You will thank me one day, brother. When you are cleansed of this Far Stars taint. It has controlled you for far too long.”

  Blackhawk struggled, trying to free himself, but he couldn’t escape. There were too many . . . they were too strong. He looked at Inferni, and he felt anger, but also an incredible sadness. In that moment, his hesitations were gone. He’d kill his brother right now if he could have.

  Then . . . he saw something. A glint in the dim sunlight reaching the moon. He discounted it as an illusion, but then he saw it again, closer. He just couldn’t figure out what it was.

  More imperial troops? He felt his stomach clench, but only briefly. Extra soldiers wouldn’t make any difference. The ones already there were more than enough to drag him to captivity. But what else could it be? Inferni had control of this space, so it must be more of his people.

  Whoever it was, it continued coming, ever closer. At this point, Blackhawk was resigned to his fate, and was almost indifferent to this new wrinkle. But he couldn’t bear to look at Inferni, so he watched it anyway. He could make out the shape, vaguely at first, but an instant later much better. It was a familiar form, and he realized he was almost certainly hallucinating.

  It couldn’t possibly be . . .

  The farthest of the two imperial shuttles exploded violently as bursts of concentrated laser took it amidships. All around, the imperial soldiers were running about, looking up, bringing their weapons to bear on the threat from above.

  Blackhawk still couldn’t believe it, but now he could see with his own eyes, and a burst of strength flowed through his body, even as the distracted soldiers holding him down let up just enough . . .

  Chapter 40

  “Keep firing, Shira . . . just make sure you don’t hit Ark. He’s down there, too, somewhere.”

  Ace was in one of the Claw’s two laser turrets, swinging the weapon around, targeting anything he could see on the ground . . . anything he was sure wasn’t Blackhawk. The first shuttle had been an easy target, and even as he watched, Shira’s shots from the other turret ripped open the second lander, sending flaming debris flying all around the area. The lack of a caustic reply to his last remark testified to just how focused she was. They’d all watched Blackhawk leave, and while they couldn’t fully understand what was driving him, it had been clear to everyone he was in grave danger.

  It had taken all of a few minutes before the rest of the crew decided that if he was in danger, then they’d go into danger, too.

  Which is exactly where they were. The barren moon’s air was oxygen rich, and the flames flared hot and bright, spreading all around. Anything remotely flammable ignited at the slightest spark, even as the ammunition inside the shuttle erupted in an explosion that made the first one seem like a single match flaring up.

  Ace stared down, picking out targets and pressing the firing stud whenever he got a bead on imperials. His eyes weren’t as sharp as they’d been years before in his youth, but he was still a crack shot, and he targeted individual imperial soldiers with the Claw’s laser. The range was close, and the Claw’s guns were designed to battle other ships, not individual people. Because of that, the soldiers were virtually disintegrated when they were hit, nothing left but a burnt spot on the ground, and a small pile of ashes.

  Really, the best look for an imperial.

  “Bring us around, Lucas . . . now!”

  He wasn’t sure if they were too late, though. If so, then he was going to turn every last imperial into a charcoal briquet.

  But Blackhawk wasn’t dead. He just knew it. It didn’t make sense, but he was sure he’d feel it if his friend was gone.

  Still . . . probably going to turn them all into charcoal. Just in case.

  He felt the ship swing about hard and come back over the same area. Both imperial shuttles were smoking debris, and at least half the soldiers were down. But there was still a dozen more, maybe as many as twenty, and he gunned down all he could find who were exposed enough that he could see they were alone. The nice thing was, they were so close, it was easy to find new targets. He often gave Lucas Lancaster a hard time, but it was all in good fun—for him, at least. The truth was, he’d never seen a pilot with Lucas’s touch, and the Claw ripped by no more than ten meters above the ground.

  Ace swung around, bringing the turret to bear to the rear as the Claw completed its second run, but he didn’t have any more targets. There was a cluster of soldiers off to the side of one of the ruined landers, but he couldn’t be sure Ark wasn’t there, too. It was time for more precise work.

  “Lucas, bring us down . . . as close in as you can get. Shira, meet me down at the airlock.”

  He got two quick acknowledgments. Then he flipped on the comm again. “Katrina, Sarge . . . we’re right behind you. Time to get Ark back.”

  “Roger,” Sarge said.

  “On it, Ace.” Katrina’s voice, and the deadly seriousness in her tone, almost made him shiver. He couldn’t imagine the effect it would have had if she hadn’t been on his side.

  He unstrapped from the chair and pulled himself up, squeezing through the narrow access tube back into the ship. He slid out and dropped to the floor, reaching down and picking up his combat kit as he ran toward the airlock.

  It’s a mission . . . just like a hundred we’ve done before.

  He tried to convince himself of that, at least, but he wasn’t exactly buying it. They’d all risked everything on missions before, but this time, Ark was already out there . . . and the imperials could kill him any second.

  If they haven’t already.

  Then it’s a slightly different mission.

  He slid into his kit, pulling the harness over
his shoulders, catching Shira out of the corner of his eye doing the same thing. The airlock was already open, Kat and Sarge gone . . . on their way to save their friend.

  “We’re coming, Ark,” he whispered.

  Ace leapt forward and practically dove out of the airlock as quickly as he could—but still a beat behind Shira.

  “Only if you can keep up, Graythorn,” Shira said.

  He grinned. This is why they did this. Blackhawk had turned them into a family, and family stuck together. More, he had saved them all.

  It was time to repay that favor.

  Blackhawk pushed with every bit of force his tortured body could exert. His people had come for him. He couldn’t quite believe it, but he wasn’t going to waste it. As exhilarating as the prospect was, though, there were still imperial soldiers on the ground, and that meant the rescue mission could still turn into a disaster, ending with not only his own death, but that of all his people, too. It was a fate he didn’t want to contemplate, especially after fate had given him another shot.

  He wasn’t going to let that slip away.

  That was easier said than done, though. He could feel pain in every centimeter of his arms and shoulders as he overexerted, pulling half a dozen muscles in the process, as he shoved his way free of the imperials. He reached to the side, grabbing the nearest soldier, slipping his arm under the man’s helmet, and, twisting hard, snapping the trooper’s neck. He let the lifeless hulk drop to the ground at his feet.

  His eye caught the glint of his sword, laying off to the side, half covered in the fine dust that passed for soil on the moon. He lunged forward, slipping under the attack of one of the soldiers, and he did a combat roll, grabbing the blade and hopping back onto his feet. The pain was almost unbearable, radiating intensely from a dozen injuries, but Blackhawk was in the combat trance, and he ignored the agony. This was life or death. He knew Inferni, brother or no, would order him killed before he would allow the Claw’s people to rescue him.