by Jay Allan
“No, you did the right thing, Lucas.” Blackhawk was leaning over the pilot, punching keys on the workstation. “Until we know what we’re dealing with, better to stay hidden.” He hadn’t expected any contacts in a redlined system. There was no normal traffic to and from the planet, so whatever it was, it was probably dangerous.
He turned toward Graythorn. “Ace, let’s push some power into a long-range scan. I want to know what we’re dealing with here.”
“You got it, Cap.” Ace slid into his seat and flipped on his station. He punched in a code, activating the ship’s AI and directing it to scan the contact. Wolf’s Claw had an exceptional scanner suite, another feature no one would expect to find on a normal smuggler’s ship.
“Feed the data over here once you get anything.” Blackhawk had moved over to the command chair, and he was activating his own workstation. He was edgy. There was something about that ship contact he didn’t like. It was a nagging thought, a familiarity he couldn’t confirm, at least not without better scanning data. He was trying not to jump to conclusions when the familiar voice in his head chimed in.
The vessel appears to be an imperial special operations ship. Probability 81 percent.
Yes, I think so, too, he thought back. But we’re taking wild guesses without better imaging.
I do not make “wild guesses.” I analyze data and create valid hypotheses based on my observations.
Blackhawk ignored the AI’s banter. He’d learned long ago the voice in his head could wear him down in any exchange. Still, he thought, it does look like an imperial ship.
“All right, Cap . . . sending you data now.” Ace was staring at his scope as he spoke. “I’ve never seen anything like this thing.”
Blackhawk stared at the information coming into his station, and all his doubts were gone, replaced by fear. “I have.” He turned to look over at Ace. “That’s an imperial Rapier-class special ops ship, used mostly by the intelligence services.”
You are correct in your identification.
I know I’m correct, he shot back. And you only know that because you can read my memory. Blackhawk knew damned well the AI’s original data set did not include classified imperial spy ships.
Ace stared back at Blackhawk, a surprised look momentarily passing over his face. The ship’s AI had drawn a blank, declaring that the contact was unidentified. He opened his mouth, but then he closed it again without saying anything.
Blackhawk saw Ace’s fleeting expression. He knew his friend had a million questions about his strange bits of knowledge. He was just as sure Graythorn would never ask. “I’m sure, Ace. It’s an imperial spy ship.” He paused. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
“I always do. So what does that mean?”
Blackhawk took a deep breath. “I have no idea what that ship could be doing out here in the middle of nowhere, but I’m sure it’s nothing good.” His frown slowly faded as an odd smile crept across his face.
“But that vessel does have a first-rate hyperdrive core in it . . .”
Ace smiled and nodded. “Sam’s got the weapons back online.” He started to get up. “I’ll warm up the laser turrets.”
“No.”
Ace froze and looked back at Blackhawk. “No?” There was a confused look on his face. “Don’t you want to grab that core?”
“Not that way. That ship packs a hell of a punch.” Blackhawk motioned for Ace to sit. “We might win, but it would be a close fight—especially with the Claw not at her best.” Blackhawk knew his ship at full strength could beat the imperial vessel, but the Claw was nowhere near that. “Taking that ship on now would be too big a risk. With our systems jury-rigged like they are, we could lose, too. Besides, even if we won, we’d stand a good chance of frying the core in the battle. We need it intact.”
“So what’s the plan?” Ace was clearly skeptical. Blackhawk knew his sidekick would prefer a straight-up fight.
“We let the ship land, and we find it on the ground.” Blackhawk made it sound like a simple task, locating one small ship on a war-torn planet. He turned toward Lancaster, who’d been silently watching the exchange. “Lucas, can you plot a course to follow that ship in without showing ourselves?”
The pilot turned and looked at the plotting data for a few seconds. “I think so, Skip, but we’re going to have to let them get a lot closer to the planet before we slip in behind.” He turned back toward Blackhawk. “We can do it, but they’ll get there ahead of us.”
“How far ahead?” Blackhawk had an idea, but he wanted to hear Lancaster’s figure.
“At least a day and a half.” Lancaster turned back toward his screen for a few seconds. “Maybe two days. We’ll need to have the baffles on full and come in on the right vector. A lot depends on their final course.” He looked back toward Ace and Blackhawk. “But we can do it.”
“All right, Lucas—do it. Get us in as close as possible without them spotting us. Got it?”
“Got it, Skip.” Lancaster spun around and began working on the plot.
Blackhawk turned toward Ace. “You look tired.”
“Well, Cap, it’s been a busy couple days now, hasn’t it?”
“That it has, Ace, but now I want you to get some rest.” He motioned toward the ladder to the lower level. “Because we’re going to have to get into that ship wherever it lands and steal the core.” He forced a weak smile. “And I’d expect a fight . . . ’cause I doubt they’re just going to give it to us.”
Ace nodded. “Probably not.” He got up slowly. “I could use a few hours of sleep, I guess.” He yawned and started toward the ladder, but he stopped and turned back toward Blackhawk. “You too, Ark—two hours of sleep isn’t gonna cut it.”
“I’ll get some rest, Ace; don’t worry about me.”
Ace flashed him a skeptical look, but he turned and headed toward the ladder without another word.
Blackhawk sat in his chair, staring at his screen lost in his own thoughts. Finding the ship on the ground and getting on board to steal the hyperdrive core was a tough enough proposition. But that’s not what was really bothering him. What’s going on? he thought nervously. What the hell is a first-rate imperial intelligence ship doing out here in a backwater system deep in the Far Stars?
CHAPTER 7
THE KA’AL’S AUDIENCE HALL WAS A CAVERNOUS ROOM LOCATED exactly in the center of the great palace, between the two massive wings of the structure. The vaulted ceiling rose thirty meters from the polished marble floors, and the glass dome in the center allowed the bright light of Kalishar’s sun to stream into every corner of the room. The walls were covered with ancient paintings, the works of long-forgotten masters, now chipped and faded from lack of care. The palace was a magnificent structure, built centuries earlier, when Kalishar’s crown had been held by local warrior nobles instead of immigrant pirate kings. The more recent occupants, buccaneers more accustomed to brothels and taverns, had cared less for the splendid art and architecture, and much of it had fallen into disrepair.
“You had ten ships to their one, Captain Kharn.” The ka’al sat on his throne, his enormous bulk clad in flowing silk robes. His face was red with anger, his hands clenched into shaking fists as he faced the cowering pirate captain. “Ten to one!” he roared, grabbing a golden goblet from the table at his side and throwing it across the room, splashing red wine all over the priceless rugs and tapestries.
To say Kalishar’s ruler was outraged that Blackhawk and his people had escaped would have been the grossest understatement. He had summoned the captains of the vessels that been part of the failed effort to intercept Wolf’s Claw. One by one, the terrified pirate commanders appeared before him to explain the abysmal failure that had allowed a small band of adventurers to steal a valuable hostage and escape from the system. It was an outrage, and he was nearly apoplectic with fury. He swore to himself that Blackhawk would pay. He would see the freebooter nailed to a board, dying slowly as he watched, savoring every moment of his enemy’s agony.
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Belgaren twisted uncomfortably on his throne, the pain from his wounded leg only increasing his rage. Blackhawk had dared to attack him directly, almost killing him despite the guards deployed throughout the arena. The fools had allowed their ka’al to be injured. Indeed, had his personal bodyguards not intervened, Blackhawk’s deadly throw would have killed him. The arena sentries had earned the monarch’s wrath, and his anger was fueled by his own pain and humiliation. Those unfortunate enough to survive Wolf’s Claw’s attack had been impaled, their rotting corpses still hanging from the spikes along the outside of the arena as a grotesque warning to others. They had failed, and they had paid the price of that failure.
Now Captain Kharn knelt before him; the only sound besides the ka’al’s labored breathing was the snarling of his pets. There was a pit left of Kharn, three meters deep, where the ka’al kept his pet carnasoids. The hall echoed as the beasts devoured the last bits of a fresh carcass, becoming more aggressive as they competed for the last morsels. The lizards were two and a half meters long, with ten-centimeter teeth. Their jaws closed with the force of an industrial press, and they could snap any bone in a man’s body like a dried twig.
He loved that sound.
There wasn’t enough left of their recent meal to identify. But anyone would notice the remnants were covered with scraps of a uniform—the same one Kharn himself wore. The captain was trying to stay calm, but he couldn’t keep himself from glancing repeatedly toward the pit.
The ka’al noticed Kharn’s distraction. “Ah, I see you have noticed Captain Grax.” There was amusement mixed with Belgaren’s anger. “He was unable to provide a satisfactory explanation for his failure.” He glanced over toward the pit then back to Kharn. “I trust you will fare better than he.”
Kharn swallowed hard. “Your Majesty . . .” He paused. He was clearly about to explain his version of events, but something stopped him. Kharn was smarter than most of Kalishar’s captains. The ka’al appreciated that and motioned for him to continue. “I deeply regret that I have failed you, my ka’al. I offer no excuses. The enemy simply bested us.” He lowered his head in supplication.
There was a long silence, perhaps half a minute. The ka’al’s leg throbbed, and the seconds passed slowly—he could imagine how it seemed to the supplicating Kharn. Finally, the ka’al shifted his bulk and stared down at the prostrate captain. “Failure is intolerable, Captain.”
He hid his smile as he watched Kharn squirm, making sure to look at the pit often. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the captain’s quick glances, wincing at the slavering crunches emanating from the carnasoids’ lair. The ka’al relished his power, and he enjoyed tormenting his subjects. It had been the same with Grax, but this interview would end differently than that one had.
“However, your willingness to admit your own failing is admirable, especially as it appears that your ship acquitted itself better than the others.” The ka’al’s voice changed slightly, a bit of his fiery rage fading away.
It was true—Kharn’s vessel had performed better than those of his colleagues. “It appears from the reports, Captain, that your ship scored a significant hit on the enemy before they were able to transit. If the other ships had performed as well as yours—indeed, if any had performed as well—the enemy vessel might have been disabled and captured.” Belgaren paused. “Indeed, it almost certainly would have been. And a very valuable hostage would have been recovered.” He stared at Kharn’s subservient pose. Sneering, he said, “Rise, Captain Kharn.”
Kharn snapped upright, his expression one of shock. “You are the only one of my captains engaged in the pursuit who did not fail utterly.” There was still anger in the ka’al’s voice, but he had calmed considerably. “I hereby appoint you admiral of my fleet and task you with tracking down the vessel Wolf’s Claw.” He paused. “You are to return the hostage, Astra Lucerne, to Kalishar—alive and unharmed. All raiding activities are hereby suspended. All ships, without exception, will be deployed to the hunt.”
“Yes, my lord ka’al.” The captain tried to hide his surprise and relief, not entirely successfully. “It shall be done as you command.”
“You may go, Admiral Kharn, and carry out your duties.” Belgaren stared at him for an instant, then motioned toward the great double doors at the far end of the hall. “Fortune go with you. I shall await news of your triumphant return.”
Kharn bowed toward the ka’al. “My thanks, Great Ka’al. I shall do as you command.” He turned and walked toward the doors at the end of the hall, trying unsuccessfully to keep his boots from echoing loudly on the hard stone floor.
The ka’al watched his new admiral slip through the massive doors. Kharn had been a good captain, one of the highest producers of all the pirate commanders in his fleet. If anyone could find Arkarin Blackhawk and bring that accursed smuggler back to Kalishar in chains, it was Kharn.
More to the point, it had to be Kharn—the ka’al was running out of time.
He tried to embrace confidence in his new admiral, but all he could feel was fear. The young Tarn Belgaren had been the terror of this corner of the Far Stars, a daring pirate who—it was said—feared nothing. But age and wealth had worn down his courage, and years of too much drink and debauchery had whittled away at his mind. He was a shadow of what he had been, and he was deathly afraid of the imperial agents he knew were watching him. He had taken the governor’s coin, but he had not delivered what he promised. He was pompous and full of himself, but he knew the governor’s agents were not to be trifled with. They were men like he had been long ago, men of action. And he was afraid of them.
Very, very afraid.
“Get those weapons loaded now, or I will have you whipped to death.” Kharn stood on the launch pad shouting at the workers hauling ordnance from the storehouses. Red Viper was in the first docking cradle. She was fully loaded with stores and weapons and ready to launch. But Kharn had more to worry about now than his single corsair. There were eighteen ships on Kalishar, and they were all under his command—and a number of them were now missing captains. There was much to do before the fleet would be prepared to launch and little time. Every moment wasted reduced the chances of finding Wolf’s Claw.
The dockworkers were Kalishari natives, fearful of the ka’al and his pirate followers. They knew Kharn could carry out his threat. He could have them killed for any reason. But laser cannon cartridges and ship-to-ship missiles were delicate mechanisms, and they had to be handled with care.
“Yes, my lord admiral.” The leader of the work crew turned toward Kharn and bowed low. “As you command.” He bowed again and turned back to face his crews, shouting to them in the native Kalishari tongue.
Kharn watched as a crew pushed a load of torpedoes past him, toward the ships farther down the line. Pirate corsairs rarely carried heavy weapons like that. Their purpose was to disable their prey, mostly lightly armed freighters. But Kharn had seen Wolf’s Claw in action, and he realized she packed a hell of a punch in battle. Her lasers outranged his own, and her acceleration was like nothing he’d ever seen. He was hoping to find her wounded, limping along in space with half her systems down. But he wasn’t about to bet his life on that. And if he found her fully repaired and spoiling for a fight, it was going to take everything he had to disable her.
His eighteen ships could easily overwhelm Blackhawk’s vessel, but Kharn wasn’t going to have his fleet assembled in one location. He had no idea where to look for Wolf’s Claw, and he would have to disperse his force to explore as many systems as possible. If one of his search groups found the Claw, they would have two, maybe three ships to face her, at least at first. He wanted those ships as heavily armed as possible.
“The whole fleet, Cap— . . . Admiral Kharn? I always knew you were destined for greatness, but this is extraordinary.”
Kharn was startled by the deep voice calling from behind, and he turned abruptly to see a hulking figure—two meters tall and heavily muscled—walking briskly toward him.
The new arrival wore an ornately decorated captain’s uniform, tied in at the waist by a wide black belt and all of it straining against the giant’s physique. A pistol hung from one side, in a well-worn holster, and a sword dangled from the other. Many pirates carried a blade, usually just a dagger or a shortsword, but this was a massive cutlass, its hilt covered with jewels. He looked like something pulled from another era, millennia ago, when pirates roved oceans rather than the depths of space.
“Yes, Captain Rhennus, every ship . . . including your own Black Witch.” The larger man scowled, but Kharn held his ground. Eventually, though, his serious expression slipped away, replaced by a warm smile. “Rhennus, you old dog! How are you?” Kharn extended his arms and embraced his longtime comrade. “I’m glad you made it in time to join the expedition—Your skills would have been sorely missed, old friend, and I fear I am in need of them as never before.”
“I am quite well, my friend. As always.” Rhennus returned Kharn’s gaze. “Though I’d rather been looking forward to some rest and a drunken binge after a long voyage. The plunder was excellent on this run, and I was expecting to spend a considerable portion at Mirage.” Luciana Corelia’s Mirage was the most exclusive brothel on Kalishar, a famous establishment, known throughout this section of the Far Stars. It catered to an exclusive clientele, mostly wealthy off-worlders and the ka’al’s senior officers and ministers. Kharn was rather inclined to agree with Rhennus, but keeping his head was the priority now.
“Those are worthy pursuits, my friend, but I’m afraid they will have to wait. We launch today.”
Rhennus frowned. “Yes, we received the ka’al’s orders.” There was concern in his face, and confusion. “Why the rush? What is so important?”