The Emperor's Fist

by Jay Allan

  He also knew Ignes Inferni and his guards were enemies the likes of which his crew, veterans that they were, had never faced. They had seen him at his worst, but they had never had to fight him. If one of them came up against Inferni . . .

  His sword slashed out, one blow severing the arm of an attacking trooper, another sending one to the ground amid a spray of blood, almost decapitated. He dropped low as he swung yet again, reaching his hand out and scooping up his pistol as he ran by it.

  He leapt back up, his eyes darting around, tracking targets. He shot another imperial, and then another. But he wasn’t looking for foot soldiers.

  He was looking for Inferni.

  His feelings were still a jumble, but he kept coming back to the thought that killing Inferni would almost certainly save millions of people, his future victims.

  Or would it?

  The empire’s evil didn’t radiate from Inferni. The general was merely a tool. Those he might one day kill would almost certainly die anyway, at the hands of another minion of the emperor. Such ideas had stayed his hand before, kept him in an unsettling limbo about what to do with Inferni.

  But now his crew—his friends—were at risk. Inferni was capable of killing them all, every one of them, and that was enough to push him forward. This was made even more urgent when Blackhawk realized Inferni would see them as a key part of what held the rogue in the Far Stars, impediments to enticing him back to the emperor, to once again be Frigus Umbra. Blackhawk had to find Inferni—now. He had to kill him . . . and kill off Frigus Umbra once and for all.

  He fought his way through the imperials, his pistol and sword claiming his enemies as they had so many times before. But Inferni was nowhere to be found.

  He looked to the right, spotting another imperial. He raised his pistol, but he was too late. He saw the almost blinding motion, a figure sliding in from behind a rock outcropping—lithe, elegant, a thin blade of warrior wielding a thin blade, slicing it across the soldier’s throat with a practiced hand.

  Katarina Venturi pushed the corpse of her enemy away as it fell. “Ark . . . I am pleased to see you.” The words were almost serene, the volume moderate. Next to him, Kat was the coolest of his people in combat. But his practiced ear could hear the timbre in her words, and in spite of the battle still raging and her own Sebastiani-schooled demeanor, she moved swiftly across the ground between them and embraced him.

  “Let’s get you back to the Claw, Ark. She’s ready to go.” She pulled out her small comm unit, and she put it to her mouth. “Ace, I’ve got him. We’re heading back now.”

  “No.” Blackhawk wanted to go to the ship, almost more than he’d ever wanted anything. But he had to find Inferni first. “I have to find someone before I go. You get everyone else and get back. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but he was far from sure he would win a fight with his brother.

  Even as Katarina was about to argue with him, they both looked up, their attention diverted by a loud roar.

  It was an imperial attack ship.

  Inferni’s ship.

  Blackhawk brought his pistol around, firing a series of shots at the small vessel as it streaked upward through the sky. He knew it was ineffectual, that he didn’t have a chance of damaging the ship with the small weapon. It was as much a display of his frustration as anything else.

  He almost grabbed Kat’s comm and ordered Lucas to take off, to chase down and destroy the attack ship. He didn’t doubt Lucas could catch the vessel, but without Ace and Shira in the turrets, there wasn’t much the Claw could do against Inferni’s ship.

  He shook his head, uncertain and concerned what Inferni might do when he got back to his battleship. Then realization dawned. His people had come to find him. That meant the battle must have . . .

  “The battle?” He turned toward Kat, staring anxiously.

  “The imperials retreated, Ark. They lost three battleships, and although they still had four and the Celtiborian fleet is badly battered, the odds must not have looked so good, especially with the virus Alion sent.”

  Blackhawk felt a wave of relief. Whoever was in command of that fleet was already in big trouble. The empire didn’t lose its battleships, and certainly not to Far Stars upstarts. Inferni clearly wasn’t in overall command, but he was pretty sure that was about to change, and then the current imperial commander would be lucky to come out of the debacle with his life. Blackhawk doubted any imperial commander in the situation would risk losing more ships in a fight to the finish—the empire’s tactics were those of a bully, and imperial commanders were used to overpowering strength—but that didn’t mean this decision would be seen as the right one.

  He felt a wave of excitement, of optimism. He was sure whoever was in command would skulk back to the empire and throw himself prostrate before the emperor, begging forgiveness.

  They’d done it. Somehow. He was sure.

  They had saved the Far Stars.

  Chapter 41

  Blackhawk stood on the pavilion next to Astra Lucerne. He’d been relieved to discover that she’d survived the battle, even more so when he saw the casualty lists for the Celtiborian fleet. Just over half the spacers who’d set forth to battle the imperial fleet returned, making the casualty rate the worst Blackhawk had ever seen in a space battle. Dozens of ships were lost, and the Celtiborian navy was almost crippled as a fighting force. It would take years to build ships to replace those lost, and longer to forge veteran spacers to fill the shoes of the dead. The plan to complete the unification of the Far Stars was in shambles, and the timetable had stretched out to a decade if not more. Even with the invasion repelled, the imperials had done major damage, and much work lay ahead to get things back on track.

  But the fact that they had that time—it was something to be truly grateful for. Which Astra was conveying to the assembled crowd—and those listening across the Far Stars—right now.

  “It is with deep and sincere gratitude that I thank these lost spacers, men and women who sacrificed all, and who, with their lives, held the line and saved Celtiboria. They will be heroes forever, held in our hearts and never forgotten.”

  Blackhawk listened as Astra spoke. The ceremony was vast, over a hundred thousand in attendance, and billions more watching the broadcasts. The day was a somber one. There would be rejoicing over the victory, over Celtiboria’s salvation—and that of the entire Far Stars—but this particular day had been set aside to mourn the dead and to decorate those whose heroism had gained the victory.

  Astra had been determined to place Blackhawk at the top of that list, to give him the credit for disabling the imperial ships. He’d politely declined, and then, when she’d pressed the matter, he’d repeated his protestations a bit more forcefully. Blackhawk had known glory and rewards and crowds screaming his name. He wanted none of that, never again. He knew his future would be full of obligation and duty, and he would see it all done. But he wanted no part of the adoration that went along with it all. That was for his people now, his crew and Augustin Lucerne’s loyal officers and grim, veteran soldiers. It was their time to be in the light, to hear the roar of the people.

  Blackhawk wanted only to be at Astra’s side, to help her in the battles that lay ahead. To protect her, and to spend the rest of his days with her. That had been impossible once, but something had changed in the aftermath of his showdown with Inferni. His brother’s efforts had come close to turning him back, to unleashing Frigus Umbra and destroying Blackhawk. But in the end, his new self had proven to be the stronger . . . and Umbra was cast out. He’d been nervous for a few days, hesitant to truly believe the voices that had plagued him for so long were gone. But it was true. Blackhawk wanted nothing of power, nor of rule. What he had to do, he would, but if the chance ever came to slip into the shadows, Astra at his side, he knew he would gladly cede the reins of control.

  He was reborn, and he looked to the future, full of struggles and work as he knew it would be, and he felt a calm he had never know
n.

  It would be difficult, he knew, to leave the Wolf’s Claw behind, and to dock his beloved ship, perhaps for a very long time. She was an old ship, but she had served him well, and he liked to think he had done the same in return. Certainly, the Claw was vastly ahead of any other ships of her type and vintage, practically rebuilt from her keel, and strong (overpowered if he was being honest). She deserved retirement, he was sure of that, but he was less certain a warrior spirit like that of his ship could long endure the safety and silence of such an existence.

  It would be even harder to bid farewell to his crew—his family—and he was glad he wouldn’t have to, at least not exactly. Ace and Shira had both announced their intentions to settle on Celtiboria, and Blackhawk had resolved to find places for them in the growing apparatus of the Far Stars Confederation. That was partly selfish, because he couldn’t bear to think of letting them go completely, but beyond his own desires, there was no doubt they were two of the most capable people the Far Stars had produced. They would serve the confederation well, and if the reunification succeeded, he knew they would leave their marks on that triumph.

  Doc, also, would remain on Celtiboria. The Claw’s resident scholar had ended up with the other misfits after coming out on the bottom of political infighting in the academy on his native world. He’d served as the Claw’s doctor, though his medical training was, in fact, spotty and incomplete, and he’d contributed to their many adventures with a pool of knowledge that seemed enormously varied and almost infinitely deep. Astra had already appointed him the dean of Celtiboria’s central institution of higher learning, with a broad-based mandate: make the university, long neglected on a planet that had seen three hundred years of civil war, the greatest institute of learning and research in the Far Stars. It would be a herculean task, but Blackhawk was sure Doc would get it done, and far faster than anyone imagined possible.

  Sarge was bound for Arialus, a world already firmly part of the confederation, and completely pacified. The old soldier had been at war for half a century, and he was ready to settle down and perhaps grow some fruit trees and live his final years in peace and solitude. Blackhawk would miss his friend, but he didn’t begrudge the veteran a few quiet years.

  Sam had turned down funding and chances to run her own shipbuilding venture once before, and she’d done it again. But she’d accepted Blackhawk’s offer—more a desperate request—to take over procurement and ship design for the Celtiborian navy. The empire would be back one day, he was sure of that, and if he had the creations of his brilliant, if unorthodox, engineer to face them when they came, he was sure he’d have a far better chance.

  Belakov was the newest member of the crew by far, but in no way the least valuable. Blackhawk knew he owed his rookie a debt that could never be repaid. Without the hacker’s incredible abilities, the empire would have crushed all resistance. Belakov lacked the massive wealth his people had stashed all across the Far Stars, but he’d proven equally resistant to offers of wealth and payment. He’d accepted Blackhawk’s offer to supervise a revamp of all data systems in the Far Stars. That carried a salary, of course, but Blackhawk had already shifted a good -sized sum to a secret account in Belakov’s name. The programmer didn’t know it yet, and he was still poor by the standards of the Claw’s crew. But against any other benchmark, he was wealthy now, and he’d never again have to worry about money. And certainly not be compelled to take any jobs from unsavory types again.

  Lucas Lancaster had—hesitantly—decided to return home, to his enormously wealthy family, and to try to work together with his father. The two had come a long way since the friction between them had driven Lucas to an almost deadly descent into drug and alcohol abuse, but he was a different man than he’d been, toughened by a decade of service on the Claw. And his father had changed somewhat, too. Blackhawk suspected there would be a few fights, some perhaps animated enough to raise the roof off the two-kilometer-tall Lancaster Tower, but he bet himself the two of them would make it in the end . . . though he still had trouble thinking of his hotshot, and almost crazy, pilot as one of the Far Stars’ greatest moguls.

  Katarina Venturi was the only one who worried him. Not that she couldn’t take care of herself . . . she was, perhaps, the most dangerous person he knew, and vastly wealthy. He had some idea of her share of the profits from the Claw’s exploits, but he knew she had treasures hidden all over the Far Stars. But she was the most like him in one way. They were both lost, and for all their capabilities, there would always be something about them never quite at home anywhere. Venturi had been raised since early childhood as an assassin at the Sebastiani School, but she was estranged now from the elite and secretive society. Her trade was killing, and while most of her targets had deserved the ends she’d given them, it wasn’t exactly a résumé that opened doors in polite society.

  Blackhawk had discussed her working with Celtiboria’s nascent intelligence agency, perhaps even running it. He believed in her, but she was also used to working alone, and save for the last few years on the Claw, she’d always been on her own. Blackhawk knew, better than anyone, how difficult it was to change. He knew he couldn’t pressure her, so he just resolved to be there for her, to help as and when he could . . . and hope for the best.

  Blackhawk was deeply grateful for every one of them. Augustin Lucerne had been the first to come to his aid, to see in him potential where everyone else saw a violent and dangerous derelict. He’d never have survived without his lost friend, and he knew he would say his silent thanks every day that he lived. But he wouldn’t forget the crew of the Wolf’s Claw. For all that Lucerne had pulled him from the gutter and put him on the track to a real life, the pack of square pegs he’d pulled from various round holes had been just as vital. He’d saved them all, in one way or another, and they had saved him in return. Whether they stayed at his side, or wandered off to various planets across the Far Stars, they would be his closest friends, forever . . . and all any of them had to do was call for him, and he would come.

  But for right now, he looked forward to the one thing he’d wanted most and had been sure would always be out of reach. He’d stayed away from Astra, from her place at the seat of power, terrified of what would happen to him if he’d remained there, if dominion over the Far Stars was there to tempt him every day.

  All that had changed in his fight with Inferni. He felt no craving for the power, none at all. In fact, he finally saw the danger in it, and desperately wished there was someone other than Astra who could take it, shepherd the Far Stars to true freedom. She didn’t want that, though—or, at least, would never admit her desire to do anything other than follow through on her father’s dream. And, for that, he loved her all the more, because he knew she didn’t want the power, but merely accepted it, and reluctantly. And if she was willing to make that sacrifice, he would face that prison gladly as long as he got to stay at her side. True, he had begged her to cast aside her responsibilities, to come with him on the Wolf’s Claw and disappear to some backwater planet. But as strong as he was—as strong as he had always been—it turned out Astra was the stronger of the two.

  Which was why he was standing behind her, pride shining from his eyes.

  This was especially true knowing that the work here wasn’t done—not by a long shot. Many battles lay ahead. To complete the union of the Far Stars, certainly, but also to stave off another such imperial attack. Inferni was still out there. The battleships were still out there. The empire was still out there. And until he could be sure such a threat was eliminated, Blackhawk would labor tirelessly to build the sector’s defenses to meet the next imperial challenge.

  Tomorrow’s fight would come. He just wasn’t sure which tomorrow it would be. And so even as he tried to enjoy all the todays available to him, he was sure it was just a matter of time before they were once again called to arms.

  The Far Stars had been saved for a millennium by the Void, by the near impossibility of navigating ships the size of the monstrous battle
ships across its vast emptiness. But the emperor had finally managed to thrust ten of his massive battleships across that deadly nothingness. Blackhawk didn’t know how that had been done, but it had been . . . and that meant it could be done again.

  Amid his joy at being with Astra, and his hopes for the future, a single dark thought remained.

  A cold certainty.

  The empire would be back.

  Epilogue

  “Speak, General. I would hear your words on events in the Far Stars.” The emperor sat on his golden throne, resplendent in his flowing robes. The imperial court looked as it ever had, save only for the emptiness in the usually crowded hall.

  And also, Idilus’s head, freshly impaled on a stake barely a meter from the emperor, blood still dripping down the metal spike and pooling on the polished marble floor.

  Ignes Inferni was not a man easily unnerved, but it was impossible not to feel the emperor’s anger, and while he imagined it was not directed primarily at him, he also knew he had failed in his own mission, to bring Frigus Umbra back to the capital.

  “What is there I can say, my master, save that we failed? I was correct, Frigus Umbra is in the Far Stars, and by my negligence, he remains there. I failed to bring him back as I promised to do, or, failing that, to kill him. I offer no excuses, and I submit myself to your imperial judgment.”

  Inferni had always been amazed at disgraced commanders who’d come into the imperial chamber with litanies of excuses. The emperor was not a forgiving man, far from it, but anyone who’d watched him over the years could see cold honesty and supplication worked far better than endless excuses.

  “I am displeased, General Inferni . . . and, yet, you have never failed me before. Indeed, in retrospect, perhaps I should have placed you in overall command and entrusted you with viceregal powers.” The emperor paused, and his eyes moved to the severed head. “General Idilus has paid for his failure. But you, General Inferni, you shall have another chance. We are not done with the Far Stars—indeed, we are far from done. Humanity has spread there, and thus my rule must spread there as well. There are preparations being made, even now in the imperial laboratories, and when the work is completed, we will send a new fleet to the Far Stars, one vastly larger and more powerful than that Idilus commanded. You will lead that force, General, and your mission will be nothing less than the complete subjugation of the Far Stars.”