by Jay Allan
The Far Stars had long been a thorn in the imperial side and, when Vos delivered it, broken and obedient, into the emperor’s hands after so many others had failed, the rewards would be immense. He would attain heights he couldn’t have dreamed of before—perhaps even a path to the chancellorship itself. The man from nowhere, who had reached the pinnacle of power, who stood at the right hand of the emperor. It was a pleasing image, one he intended to make a reality.
“The earlier reports are now confirmed, Excellency.” Mak Wilhelm stood before the governor’s chair, his scarlet-and-white uniform spotless and perfectly pressed. The uniform was gaudy and ornate, but it was nothing compared to the hat he held under one arm, black and red with gold lace trim and a ludicrous feather protruding from the top. No one had ever called imperial military uniforms understated.
He bore the rank of general, though he rarely went by it. The imperial military forces stationed in the Far Stars were a joke, a ramshackle fleet of old rust buckets and a minuscule army recruited mostly from rejects and castoffs. All of it together wasn’t a force fit for a general to lead, and Wilhelm’s other position as an imperial spy was of far greater use to Vos than any halfhearted efforts at military command. The empire had its share of inbred nobles looking for any opportunity to flaunt their pretensions of rank and their ostentatious uniforms, but neither Vos nor Wilhelm had the patience for such fools. They were both manipulators: more than soldiers, meticulously developing plans within plans, weaving a web that would snare those who defied the empire.
It was why the governor kept Wilhelm close. He and his general/spy were similar creatures: calculating, patient, and deadly. Success was all that mattered to them, achieving their goals and advancing their own power. They’d come to the Far Stars together seeking the same thing: a path to the corridors of true power for men born outside the tight fraternity of the imperial nobility. They’d worked together for many years, Wilhelm following in the wake of Vos’s brilliant successes and working alongside his mentor. Both knew their victory in the Far Stars, if they were to achieve it, would be won by stealth and manipulation, not by military power.
And Vos would accept nothing less than total victory.
“It would appear that a group of adventurers has liberated Astra Lucerne from the ka’al’s agent and escaped from Kalishar.” Wilhelm’s voice was strong, clear. “The ringleader was apparently captured in the operation, but it seems he, too, later escaped. They apparently fled in a single vessel, destroying several of Belgaren’s warships as they fled. They were able to jump from the system, though there are reports that they sustained heavy damage before they did.”
“The damned fool.” Vos was seething with anger at the ka’al’s failure, though his measured tone betrayed none of his rage. The career bureaucrats in the Capitol were used to bitter and disgraced nobles occupying the governor’s chair, and they had been shocked at the restrained temperament of their new master. The previous governor had been prone to throw trays of food across the room when his delicacies were not seasoned to his liking. Vos, by comparison, was quiet, professional. He’d brought a sense of calm to the Capitol that had been long absent.
Vos stared at Wilhelm. “Perhaps the ka’al is not as useful an ally as we had hoped.” He paused menacingly. “Nor a fit leader for Kalishar.” His mind was weighing various plans and contingencies. There were others on Kalishar who wanted the ka’al’s scepter, and some who could manage the deed with enough imperial coin behind them.
“With respect, Excellency, I believe the ka’al may still prove worthy . . . or at least expedient. By all accounts, he was once an exceptionally successful pirate and, in the early years of his rule, an effective monarch. Despite several accounts that he has become sodded and soft, I submit that he still has far more useful off-world contacts than any of the would-be successors currently gathering like carrion birds. And now he’s going to be motivated.” He locked his eyes on Vos’s. “If our plan is to leverage our control of Kalishar to the neighboring systems, a declining monarch with a lingering reputation may be more useful than a younger maverick full of ambition.” He paused. “Easier to control as well.”
“Perhaps you are correct, General, though I wonder how many of his contacts remain active and useful. He is an old fool now, and his rivals can see that as well as we. Others may pay lip service to ancient commitments at no cost, but does he retain any true power off Kalishar itself? Is he still feared by his neighbors or do they secretly laugh at his weakness and folly, plotting against him, even while making empty promises of continued loyalty?”
Vos wanted to be clear, and his tone conveyed that: he had no faith in the ka’al, and he was reluctant to rely upon an ally who had already failed so spectacularly. “I remind you that he allowed a smuggler with one small vessel and a ragtag crew to sneak through his defenses and steal Astra Lucerne from his grasp. He then failed to prevent their escape from a planet where he is the absolute ruler, where his available resources dwarfed those of his adversary.” This time he locked onto Wilhelm with a withering gaze. “Based on what has transpired, I see little reason to continue to rely on the efforts of Tarn Belgaren. Indeed, the stench of his weakness will attract predators without our intervention. The last thing we need is a monarch on Kalishar who is not our creature, one who seizes the throne without our aid and, in so doing, incurs no debt to us. Need I remind you that it was the dire state of economic affairs on Kalishar that allowed us to gain control over the ka’al in the first place?”
Vos was frustrated. He detested having to rely on allies of dubious capability, but he knew he had no choice. He also knew that if he was going to succeed where his predecessors had failed so miserably, he would have to learn how to manipulate allies with less than optimal abilities. Bringing the Far Stars to heel was going to be vastly more complex an endeavor than dealing with troublesome systems in the rest of the empire. Things were far simpler on the other side of the Void, where imperial power was orders of magnitude greater than that available to Vos. Rebellion and disobedience were easily crushed there, but success in the Far Stars would require a far subtler game, one Vos would have to play carefully.
The governor of the Far Stars lacked the awesome resources of his imperial counterparts in other sectors. Distance from the capital, difficult and unreliable communications with the rest of the empire, and second-rate personnel all weighed against the efforts of even a gifted governor. The empire was ruled by fear and intimidation, maintained by the awesome might of the imperial fleet. But the Far Stars lay beyond the Void, where only the barest fraction of the fleet’s power was projected.
None but the greatest navigators could safely jump through the Void, and then only in the swiftest and most maneuverable craft. The crossing was too dangerous for the imperial battleships, great behemoths five kilometers long and bristling with weapons. Those awesome ships of war were too large and too unwieldy to make their way through the great emptiness—at least not without prohibitive losses—and the empire couldn’t afford to risk its great battlewagons in the empty depths of the Void. A battleship took twenty years to build, even in the great imperial shipyards at Cestus Magnus, and its cost was almost beyond accounting.
Vos would have no help from the emperor, and that meant he had to make do with what he did have. Even if it meant someone worthless like Tarn Belgaren.
“Nevertheless, General,” he continued, “I shall defer to your assessment regarding the ka’al—at least for the time being.” There was no enthusiasm in Vos’s tone, only the dull acceptance of a lack of better options. “But we will keep a much closer eye on him from now on. Send your best man to Kalishar immediately. He is to advise our esteemed ally, the ka’al, that we remain confident he will recover the hostage and deliver her to Galvanus Prime. And be sure there is no doubt of the manner in which failure will be addressed.” Wilhelm’s eyes widened slightly, and Vos knew he had made himself clear.
“Yes, Excellency.” Wilhelm snapped to attention, slapping
his arm across his chest then outward in a textbook imperial salute. “It shall be done as you command.”
“Very well.” Vos nodded. “You may see to it now, General. Dismissed.”
“Sir!” he snapped crisply.
Vos watched as Wilhelm left, his shining black boots echoing loudly on the polished marble floor. At least he had one subordinate in the Far Stars who was competent.
The governor knew Wilhelm was considering which agent to dispatch to Kalishar. It took a special kind of diplomacy, mixed with sadism, to encourage an ally while also subtly threatening death. Vos had a candidate in mind, and he was certain Wilhelm would come to the same conclusion. He was just the man for this job. And the sick bastard would enjoy it.
CHAPTER 6
BLACKHAWK PULLED ON A TUNIC. IT WAS SOFT LINEN, CLEAN AND fresh, and it felt good sliding down his freshly showered torso—his second since the rescue. It wasn’t easy getting the smell of stegaroid off his body. He wrapped a plain cloth belt around his waist, tying it snugly and clipping his holstered pistol to one side and a sheath for his well-worn shortsword to the other. He felt naked without his weapons, even in Wolf’s Claw surrounded by his crew. Blackhawk’s life had been one of conflict, of almost constant war and strife, and his sufferings had left their scars, both on his flesh and in the depths of his mind. He passed a weary hand over his eyes—and it wasn’t from exhaustion.
He’d managed to get a couple hours of sleep. With Lucas at the helm and Sam crawling around the ship’s innards, things were as under control as they were likely to be any time soon. He could go without rest for a long time if he had to, another benefit of the genetic engineering that had produced him, but he was still sharper and more effective when he’d had some sleep. Two hours wouldn’t have done much for a normal man after being up for three straight days, but Blackhawk felt refreshed.
The dreams had been there, of course, but they weren’t as bad as usual. Blackhawk’s past frequently revisited him at night. Even the AI in his brain couldn’t stop the nightmares. They were his penance, he knew, and he was sure the dead would haunt him until the day he joined them. Arkarin Blackhawk carried a lot of guilt for the things he had done in his younger days, acts he had told no one about, not Ace or Shira, not any of his crew. No one except Augustin Lucerne. He’d confided in Lucerne long ago, for reasons he still couldn’t explain, and his trust in the great marshal had not been misplaced. Lucerne hadn’t judged him, and he’d kept his secrets for more than a decade.
Blackhawk had come close to confiding in his people, but in the end it was fear that stopped him, dread over what they would think, of how it might change their attitudes toward him. The loyalty of his people was his most prized possession and, in the end, he didn’t have the courage to risk it by telling them who he had been and what he had done years before. So he remained silent, keeping the guilt and the pain to himself.
He could feel the g-forces pressing down on him, pulling him back into the present, and he knew that Sam had gotten the engines back online. Lucas was blasting against the ship’s vector, decelerating so he could change course and head for Saragossa. The Claw had force dampeners that reduced the g-forces the crew felt, but enough acceleration was still damned uncomfortable. It felt like a little under 2g, which was more than it should be.
Which meant something wasn’t quite right.
He walked over toward his workstation and hit the comm unit. “Lucas, what’s up with the thrust?”
“You don’t miss much, do you, Skip?” Lancaster’s voice was hollow on the small speaker. “The dampeners are damaged. I’ve got ’em up to 60 percent, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to run them full yet. Not until Sam gets a chance to make sure everything is okay. She was just about to suit up for an EVA to do some diagnostics, but Ace told her to hold off since we’re going to be landing anyway.” Lucas paused. “We didn’t want to wake you, Skip.”
“No—that’s the right call. I’m with Ace. No sense risking an EVA now.” It was dangerous crawling around a ship in the middle of space, and Blackhawk had always been especially protective of Sam. She was quiet and shy, and she gave the impression she needed to be looked after. Intellectually, Blackhawk knew that was nonsense. He’d seen her in action more than once. She wasn’t as volatile or quick to violence as Shira or Ace, but when she pulled out that little pistol she carried, someone almost always died.
Guess I’m just old-fashioned, he thought.
“We’ll just have a less comfortable ride in, I guess, and she can fix the dampeners after we land,” Blackhawk said. Assuming we land someplace no one’s shooting at us, he thought. “I’ll be up in a few minutes. Out.” He flipped the comm unit off and walked toward the door, sliding his hand over the sensor. The hatch slid open and he walked out into the corridor and down to the main area of the lower deck.
Ace was sitting at one of the workstations, and he smiled when he saw Blackhawk step out of the corridor. “Well, that’s ten platinum crowns for me,” he said, chuckling softly. “Shira bet me you’d sleep for three hours, but I told her no way.”
“It’s too bad she didn’t let me in on it.” Blackhawk returned the grin. “I’d have rolled over for another forty-five minutes for half that swag.” The two shared a short laugh. “What about Astra?” Blackhawk walked across the deck and sat at the workstation next to Ace.
“Shira checked on her about half an hour ago, Ark.” Ace turned to face Blackhawk. “She’s still asleep. She had quite an ordeal. I’d wager we don’t see her for another ten or twelve hours.”
“Double or nothing?” Blackhawk smiled. “If you can sucker Shira into another bet.” Shira Tarkus was a deadly fighter and an utterly reliable friend, but Blackhawk had seen Ace Graythorn in too many gambling establishments to ever bet against him.
“No, not this time. I knew you, Cap. That was a sure thing. But Lady Lucerne is an unknown. It strikes me there’s more to her than just being a great man’s daughter. She’s got her own strength.” Ace was probing gently. Blackhawk knew what he was implying, but he didn’t take the bait.
“She’s very strong, Ace. She’s her father’s daughter, that’s for sure.” Blackhawk smiled briefly. “She’s not one to underestimate.” He was about to add something else when they both heard heavy footsteps from one of the corridors.
Blackhawk turned his head just in time to see Sarge walk through the door. He looked better than he had when Blackhawk had seen him skulk off to his quarters a few hours earlier, but he was definitely still a little pale. He wasn’t a spacer by nature, and the violent rolling of the ship had been a bit more than his otherwise iron-hard constitution could handle.
“Good to see you up and around,” Ace said, flashing a smile at the grizzled noncom. “I was just about to raid the food locker. Care to join me?”
Sarge stood in the hatch, staring back at Ace with a look of horror. A queasy expression crossed his face at the mere mention of food. “I’ll pass, Ace. But I did manage to keep down some water.”
“How are the guys, Sarge?” Blackhawk nodded at the veteran ground-pounder, motioning for him to take a seat. It wasn’t often Sarge looked weak, but this was one of those times, and Blackhawk wasn’t sure how long the old sweat could stand before he fell over.
“They’re all right, sir.” Sarge and his people were the only ones on the Claw who always addressed the captain formally. Blackhawk had told him a dozen times he could drop the “sirs,” but the stalwart old foot soldier was steadfast. Or pigheaded, depending on which member of the crew you asked. “I wouldn’t want to take ’em into a fight right now, but they’ll sleep it off and be as good as new.”
Sergeant Brin Carrock had been a soldier in the wars on Delphi III, a veteran who’d fought long and with great distinction but picked the wrong side to serve. He’d led a platoon during the fateful Battle of the Red Hills and the subsequent brutal retreat through the planet’s frigid northern steppes. The defeated army disintegrated, fragmenting into small groups, each
struggling to evade the vengeful enemy units pursuing them. The victors in the war had declared the defeated soldiers to be enemies of the state. They were rounded up and put into concentration camps—or simply shot outright.
Sarge’s crew held out for longer than most, but he was down to four men and almost no supplies when Blackhawk and his crew stumbled across them, fighting their way back toward Wolf’s Claw from a mission that had gone terribly wrong. The captain had convinced Sarge that his enemy’s enemy was as good a friend as he was likely to find, so he led his people into the battle, saving the day. A grateful Blackhawk agreed to get them all off-planet, away from the vengeful clutches of their enemies. They’d readily agreed.
Carrock and his people had been on the Claw for years now, and they were as loyal to Blackhawk as any of the crew. Still, they retained their own unit identity, and they stayed close together, somewhat aloof from the rest of the Claw’s complement. Carrock’s people never called him anything but Sarge, and after a while, no one else did either.
“Space travel can be unsettling at times.” Blackhawk leaned back in his chair. “Still, nothing was quite like the time we were trying to get away from those bounty hunters on Carmellon.” He turned toward Graythorn. “Remember that, Ace? It took weeks to clean up the ship.”
Ace was about to reply when the 1.8g they’d all been feeling suddenly vanished. There was an instant of 0g, then the artificial gravity generator kicked in.
Blackhawk was the first one out of his seat, racing toward the ladder to the bridge, with Ace close behind. He pulled himself up the ladder in an instant, forgetting to hide his enhanced strength as he usually did when he wasn’t fighting.
“What’s happening, Lucas?” He bounded onto the bridge, running over to the pilot’s station.
“We’ve got a contact, Captain. A ship inbound to Saragossa.” He turned to face Blackhawk. “I cut the engine power and took a chance on activating the field. It seems to be working. I don’t think they saw us.” With the engines off, the distortion field made the Claw nearly undetectable. “Maybe I’m paranoid, but . . .”