by Jay Allan
As Blackhawk made eye contact with each, they slowly raised their own cups, mimicking their captain’s moves and chugging down the harsh liquor. Ace was an accomplished drinker who’d put more than one rival under the table, but Blackhawk could see him fight back a wince as the fiery liquid slid down his throat. Shira rarely drank, and when she did, it was invariably the very best and most expensive wine or brandy she could find. But she held her emotionless expression better than Ace, her rigid personal discipline taking control.
The leader raised his own cup, repeating Blackhawk’s motion, then he drained it and held it upside down in front of him. The rest of his men followed suit.
“We thank you for your hospitality, Arn, and we repeat our offer of friendship.” Blackhawk stared across the crackling fire at the rebel leader. The hunched figure gazed back at him with cloudy brown eyes. He looked old, deep lines tracing their way across his tanned and careworn face. Stringy hanks of greasy hair, mostly gray, hung about his head. It was obvious to the captain that years of hardship and war had aged him, and a lifetime of servitude in appalling conditions before that.
To casual observers, the rebel appeared at least four decades older than Wolf’s Claw’s captain, but Blackhawk knew that was misleading. He himself looked no older than thirty-five, though he was fifty-four—another benefit of the imperial breeding program that had produced him. He guessed Arn wasn’t as nearly as old as his battered appearance suggested. He’d have placed a moderate wager that his host was actually younger than he was.
He turned again toward his two companions. “Arn is the leader of the rebel forces in this entire area.” Blackhawk had spoken long with the rebel leader and his men before he’d sent for Ace and Shira. “The rebellion on Saragossa is in its seventh year. Arn was one of the original leaders of the peasants’ revolt. However, the rebels have since split into two groups that are hostile to each other.” He turned toward their host. “Arn, perhaps you would explain to my friends what you told me?”
The rebel commander nodded to Blackhawk. He turned toward Shira and Ace. “When we rose up, we did so to create a new world, one where our children could hope for something more than working the fields or factories every waking hour for the enrichment of their masters. We sought to overthrow the nobility, those who had kept us—and our fathers before us—in servitude and oppression.” There was a sadness in his eyes, as though he was remembering some past glory now gone.
“We roused the factory workers and drove the masters from the cities, though it cost us many dead to gain the victory. We liberated many also from the fields, the serfs who had been tied to the land as we had been to the factories.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Many others remained in bondage, and we continued to fight to free them.
“There was much death, and vengeance as well. We lost thousands in the fighting, and our hatred was inflamed. Many of the nobles we captured were brutally tortured and slain. Noble women were raped and murdered in the streets, their children beaten to death before their eyes. I do not defend such conduct, yet I would caution those not born into servitude to withhold judgment. My people endured many wrongs and injuries as terrible as these for generations.”
Blackhawk nodded slowly, his mind drifting back through the years. “I have seen much war and bloodshed, Arn. I know just what men are capable of when their passions are aroused. I have witnessed the brutality of the oppressor and the hopelessness of those who live under the iron boot. Many times. I’ve . . . I’ve even been party to such things. It is not our place to judge you, nor any of your people.”
The Claw captain went quiet for a moment. Ace and Shira were used to it, and they sat silently, respecting their commander’s privacy. Blackhawk wouldn’t talk about what he had seen or what he’d done. Someday, maybe. But not now, and certainly not to a complete stranger. He sat up straighter and looked across at Arn.
“So what happened to the revolution?” he asked. “What caused the schism and drove you, one of its leaders, out into the near wilderness?”
Arn was silent for a few seconds before he continued with his story. “It was after our initial successes, when we had driven the nobles from the cities. I pushed to arrange elections, to organize those who’d been freed to choose their leaders. But many of my comrades were against taking hasty action. There were still battles to be fought, they said, more people to free. The war was not over, and the greater good demanded that those of us in positions of power remain there to ensure the revolution was a success.” He took a deep breath, his eyes moving between Blackhawk and his two companions as he did.
“I was not comfortable with so few having so much power, yet I understood the rationale, and I went along. The revolution was still raging. We had the cities, but the nobles most of the countryside—and most of the planet’s wealth, which they had carried off. The aristocrats hired off-world mercenaries to bolster their private armies, and everywhere there was war. I led my armies into battle, fighting meter by meter to free each group of serfs, to rally them to the cause and grow our ranks.
“Yet while we struggled on the battlefield, a cancer spread through our ranks. My old comrades had tasted too much power, too much wealth. They took residence in the old villas and began to live as those we had deposed. They gathered more and more power to themselves, and the senior officers in the field were drawn deeper within their web, seeking to attain for themselves positions of wealth and privilege. There were internal struggles, as my comrades began to scheme and fight each other for position.” His voice was hoarse and throaty, and his eyes were watery with emotion.
“Then the purges began, and even as we still fought the nobility, we fell upon ourselves like starving dogs. My old comrades, those who had stood with me in the factory where we made our first stand, had become the evil we’d set out to destroy. They were even worse than the hereditary nobility they replaced. Their greed was naked, their lust for power unquenchable. They spoke of freedom, of a workers’ paradise, but everywhere there was repression and terror. Those who objected were dragged away in the dead of night, never to be seen again. The evil was cloaked in propaganda. Those who were killed were branded enemies of the revolution, traitors to the new order.
“You have to understand that those of us who started the rebellion were educated, at least somewhat. We had worked on complex machinery in the factory, and we’d been trained so we could perform our duties. But most of the workers were illiterate and without understanding of freedom. Being freed from their former masters, they sought others to follow, as a child searches for a lost parent. They listened to my comrades, and to the commissars appointed to keep them in line, and they obeyed the commands of men no more fit to lead than the nobles we’d deposed.” Tears openly slid down Arn’s cheek now. He was staring directly at Blackhawk, but the Claw’s captain knew he was seeing something else.
That must be how I look to my crew sometimes, he thought.
“I went to my old comrades,” Arn was saying, “pled with them not to follow the path they were on, replacing one class of masters with another. I reminded them of why we had begun the revolt, the ideals we had all held dear. But they were comfortable in their new ways and defensive of their new powers and privileges. They ignored me at first, but when I continued my efforts, they turned on me. I was condemned by the Revolutionary Council, sentenced to die as a traitor to the revolution. Many of the soldiers I had led into battle had their minds poisoned against me. They accepted the word of those who used them, who threw their comrades’ lives away in pointless battles, who spent the funds they stole on luxuries instead of weapons to arm our soldiers and coats to keep them warm.”
Arn paused again. “But I was not without friends and allies. Not all the soldiers of revolution were so easily led by those who would be their new masters. I was able to escape from my prison and gather many to my banner. The rural estate areas were mostly occupied by the old nobles and their mercenary armies, and the cities were held by my former comrades, so we w
ere driven into the undeveloped areas. We struggled with supply and logistics, but still we grew in strength, and we won battles against both our enemies.”
His expression darkened. “Then the ships began to arrive. We don’t know where they came from, but we soon discovered they brought arms, weapons of a sort we had never seen before. Our forces were swept from the field by our former ally’s new firepower, the survivors driven deeper into the wilderness. Their new weapons were superior even to those of the old regime’s mercenary forces, guns firing blasts of deadly light that bore right through stone walls and bombs of unprecedented power. Now they are on the verge of total victory against us, and when we are destroyed, they will use their new weapons to crush the nobles and their mercenaries. They will impose a totalitarian regime worse than that of the old nobility, and Saragossans will be slaves forever.”
Blackhawk nodded to his host, but inside he felt a knot in his stomach. Arn had described imperial military ordnance, particle accelerator rifles, and other state-of-the-art weapons. Why, he wondered, was the empire sneaking high-tech weaponry to a group of rebels on a backwater world?
Arn stared across the fire at Blackhawk. “When we saw your ship land, we feared it was another of the mysterious vessels bringing even more weapons and supplies to Talin and his people.” He gazed at Blackhawk with moist eyes. “With two ships arriving in succession, we feared that the pace of shipments had increased.
“I am pleased we were wrong. We are very near to defeat. We cannot face Talin and the forces of the Revolutionary Army if they become any stronger. Still, even the one ship of weapons is of great concern. I know Talin, how he thinks. His forces will move to finish us first, for he perceives we are a greater danger than the remnants of the nobles. Once we are gone, he will finish off the mercenary armies of the old regime.” Hopelessness filled his voice. “Then Saragossa shall know a new level of oppression and despair.”
Blackhawk sat quietly for a few seconds, considering Arn’s words. He was still troubled at the imperial involvement, but he put that to the side. I’m not here to get involved in their war, he thought. At least not too involved. He began to realize he’d found an ally, that Arn’s soldiers could help his crew get to the imperial ship. A smile crept across Blackhawk’s face. “Arn, I think your people and mine can help each other. There is something in that ship we need, a component to repair our vessel. Obviously you want the weapons for yourselves. Or at least destroyed. If we work together, we can penetrate the enemy defenses and get to the ship, then we will take what we need, and your people can have the weapons and ammunition.”
Arn looked back across the fire, his eyes taking his measure of Blackhawk. The Claw’s captain could tell the rebel leader was slow to offer trust, but he also knew the man had little choice. His people had to have those weapons, and they would never have a better chance to get them than now.
Arn nodded gravely. “I accept your offer of friendship, Captain Blackhawk. We shall go to New Vostok together, and we shall take what we need from this enemy ship.” He stood slowly and stepped toward his guest, extending his hand before him.
Blackhawk smiled as he climbed to his feet, extending his own hand. “My thanks to you, friend Arn. May fortune favor us both.”
He grasped Arn’s firmly, sealing the pact.
CHAPTER 11
“WE HAVE BROUGHT A LARGER SHIPMENT THIS TIME, FIRST COMRADE Talin. New weapons, of even greater power than those we have already provided. Governor Vos is pleased with your progress, and he extends his congratulations on your battlefield successes. There is another shipment three weeks behind us. When it arrives, you will be able to equip a large portion of your army with enhanced weaponry.”
Andreus Sand stood before the leader of Saragossa’s Revolutionary Council, trying to hide his disgust. He was repulsed by this jacked-up Saragossan dictator, but he wouldn’t allow that to interfere with his mission. He knew Talin was a schemer of some ability, a man who’d managed to stab enough of his wog comrades in the back to become top dog, but his lack of discipline was offensive to a man with Sand’s iron control.
The room was impressive, at least for a frontier world full of former serfs and inbred nobles. The floors were polished granite, inlaid with a fairly intricate design—again, decent work for a world on the extreme frontier. The ceiling soared ten meters above, with a series of frescoes depicting scenes from Saragossan history. The building had been the winter residence of one of the planet’s great noble families before the revolution. It was surprisingly opulent, but it was still nothing compared to the Capitol on Galvanus Prime.
Of course, Andreus Sand wouldn’t say that to a pretentious factory worker turned freedom-fighting revolutionary turned brutal dictator. Not with the skulls of the former occupants still displayed on spikes outside the main entry hall, including four small ones that had obviously been children. It was apparent to Sand that the Saragossan revolution hadn’t discriminated in its murderous vengeance. All the nobles who’d fallen into the hands of the insurgents had been slain, even newborns ripped from their mothers’ arms . . . and sometimes babies from their wombs. That was before the revolutionaries turned on themselves and began murdering former allies. What had begun as a war for freedom had become just another series of brutal power struggles.
And it all turned Sand’s stomach. But he served the governor, and—for the moment—this savage had a purpose in Vos’s grander plans.
“That is excellent news,” the monster said. Talin leaned back in his massive chair and stared back at the imperial agent. Sand might have been on orders to aid this man, but there was no way he was going to let him stare him down. Eventually, Talin looked away—feigning indifference, but Sand could tell this Talin was like every other bully he met: all talk until he met his betters. His voice wavering momentarily, Talin finally said, “May I assume you have also brought the . . . ah . . . other items I requested?”
Sand nodded, holding back a sigh. “Yes, your personal goods are here as well.” Talin was on the verge of destroying his rivals and seizing total control of the planet, yet his first concern was for the wine and brandy and other delicacies he’d demanded.
Not to mention the hallucinogenics.
How, Sand wondered, did a man who was a bonded serf working in a factory just a few years before become such a useless sybarite so quickly? And that chair—it wasn’t a throne exactly, but it was close. What delusions was this puffed-up peasant harboring in that twisted mind of his? Talin was smart, at least in a devious sort of way, but Sand had seen many power struggles. He’d have bet a thousand imperial crowns that half a dozen of Talin’s men were scheming against him even now, waiting for the chance to follow his example and climb to the top of the whole foul heap themselves. A knife in the dark was a time-honored political maneuver, one that tended to sidestep the need for endless debate and discussion.
I’d save them all the trouble right now, if I could. His fingers itched for his own knife.
Now wasn’t the time, though. His orders were to secure Talin’s cooperation—and if Talin were to fall, to do the same with whatever successor managed to seize power. Kergen Vos wanted to secure effective control of Saragossa, and he didn’t care what local puppet held titular power. Still, whoever ruled the planet would need a steady stream of supplies to maintain his position, and that ensured future cooperation. And if it didn’t, a simple assassination would throw the planet into chaos again and allow Sand to play kingmaker once more to secure the right puppet.
A scenario that becomes more and more tempting . . .
“My people are ready to unload the cargo, First Comrade. Where would you like the weapons delivered?”
Talin looked down from his quasi throne. “I think, Agent Sand, that we will leave the weapons in the secure hold of your ship until the units scheduled to receive them are assembled.”
Sand was an experienced imperial agent with years of service and a strong ability to read expressions. Talin was afraid one of his pe
ople might make a play for the weapons. That’s why he wanted them to stay on board. Sand was sure of it.
“Certainly, First Comrade.” Sand nodded respectfully. “I will delay unloading until you instruct otherwise.” He disliked Talin, but if one of the bastard’s lieutenants got ahold of the weapons—and not from the hands of Sand himself—total chaos would erupt. There were already three sides in this bizarre civil war. The last thing Sand needed was another claimant to power, one equipped with a shipload of first-rate imperial equipment.
He nodded again. “If that’s all for now, First Comrade, I believe I will return to my ship until you are ready to receive the cargo.” Sand was a veteran agent, and he did whatever duty required, but he had no wish to endure Talin’s company any longer than necessary.
“That will be satisfactory, Agent Sand,” Talin said imperiously. “However, if it is not too much trouble . . .”
Sand fought back another sigh. “You would like your personal goods offloaded now.”
Talin offered the agent a fleeting smile. “Ah, yes, Agent Sand. As I said, if it is not too much trouble. I’m afraid I am down to my last bottle of Antillean brandy.”
“It shall be done immediately, First Comrade, as you request.” Sand tried to imagine the orgy of looting and drunkenness that must have taken place when these rebelling factory workers first pried their way into the larders and wine cellars of the deposed nobles. Looking at the repulsive Talin and picturing that scene, it was all he could do to keep from shuddering. “Send your men to the docking area in one hour. It will all be ready for you.”
“My thanks to you, Agent Sand.”
Sand turned and walked slowly toward the door. Once he’d exited the chamber he let his guard down for an instant and shook his head. This is the material we have to work with out here, he thought grimly. He’d willingly followed General Wilhelm to his posting in the Far Stars, and he still believed that Governor Vos’s plan to subjugate the sector was a brilliant one. Success would enhance the careers of all those involved far more than any routine duty back in civilized space. He knew he’d made the right choice, but sometimes he got exhausted dealing with the wogs out on the frontier. Just part of the job, he thought with a sigh. Just part of the job.