by Jay Allan
“I guess so, Captain.” He still had a frown on his face. “But I’m gonna keep a close eye on them anyway.” Sarge had seen most of his friends and allies killed fighting a losing war, one where their side had been beaten more by treachery than force of arms. Blackhawk had saved the five survivors of his platoon from certain death, getting them off-world before their enemies managed to catch up with them. Sergeant Carrock was cynical and suspicious, but he trusted Blackhawk with his life.
Blackhawk gave Carrock a slap on the shoulder. “You do that, Sarge—I wouldn’t expect anything less. Where would I be without you watching my back?” He turned to walk back toward the ship. He’d arranged to meet Arn and his people about five klicks from the Claw, and he was anxious to get started. He was on his way back to the ship to get his gear when he heard a commotion. He could see Astra Lucerne standing just outside the airlock in front of Ace, giving him hell.
Blackhawk tried to remember the last mission they had where things had gone smoothly. Nothing came to mind.
“You can tell Ark there’s no way I’m hiding in this ship while you all go out prowling around the planet.” Astra’s voice was loud and angry, and Blackhawk knew that meant trouble.
“Astra,” Blackhawk shouted as he approached the ship, “get over here and talk to me.” He wasn’t sure scolding her was the best way to get her to comply, but he was going to give it a try. He jogged the rest of the way. “Ace, go get your stuff. We’re leaving in a few minutes.” Ace nodded gratefully and ducked inside the ship.
Astra Lucerne was fuming, but she was silent, staring at Blackhawk with her arms crossed. “Astra,” he said, “I need you to be reasonable. Our mission is to bring you back to your father, and you need to cooperate. I’m asking you. Please.”
“But what if you get killed, Ark? I couldn’t live with myself if you got yourself blasted to bits while I was cowering in the ship.” Her voice was soft, almost pleading. She looked up at him and reached out, putting her hand gently on his face.
The softness of her voice surprised him; the touch of her hand on his cheek distracted him. He pulled back abruptly, and her hand slid off his face. He hadn’t wanted to move away, but he’d forced himself anyway. He could see he’d hurt her feelings, but that couldn’t be helped. He knew she cared for him, but he’d promised himself he would never let her know he felt the same way.
He decided harshness was the best recourse at the moment. “Do you have any idea how many people have tried to kill me, Astra? After everything I’ve been through, I’m not going to die on this shithole of a planet.” She was staring back at him intently. He could see the hurt in her ice-blue gaze, but also the iron resolve. Astra Lucerne had inherited her father’s stubbornness; she was immovable, like a block of granite. And that’s when he saw his opening.
Blackhawk put his hand on her arm. “Unless you insist on coming, Astra.” He felt bad even as he said it, but he knew guilt was the only chance he had of convincing her. “I need to stay focused, and if I’m worried about you I won’t be. You’ll only put me—all of us—in greater danger if you come.”
“You are a bastard, Arkarin Blackhawk, do you know that?” Her eyes were moist, and Blackhawk could see how hurtful his words had been, though he knew she’d never show the weakness of tears. A lifetime as Marshal Lucerne’s daughter had taught her to hide vulnerabilities. She’d grown up in the shadow of the battlefield, amid the horrors of war. Astra’s beauty was obvious, but it took a closer eye to see the iron toughness behind it.
“I’ve been called worse, Astra.” He struggled to maintain his discipline, fighting the urge to take her into his arms and apologize for what he had said. There was nothing he wanted more than to touch her, to pull her close to him. But that was a road he wasn’t going down.
She stared at him silently for a few seconds, her expression a mix of anger and sadness. Then she sighed softly, and Blackhawk realized he’d won. He didn’t feel good about it, and he knew he’d hurt her. But at least Astra would be safe—as safe as she could be on this war-torn planet in a damaged ship without a functioning hyperdrive.
“I’m sorry, Astra, but I need you to stay here with Lucas and the Twins.” Blackhawk didn’t want the Claw completely undefended, so he was leaving the two giants behind. Speed and stealth were going to be as important as strength on this operation. The Twins were like forces of nature in a fight, but they were as quiet as a herd of stampeding bulls.
“Okay.” She turned to walk back toward the ship, but she paused and looked back at him. “But don’t you expect to pull this shit on me again, Arkarin Blackhawk. You get one ‘but you’ll distract me and get me killed’ piece of crap, and that’s all. Next fight, I’m going with you. No matter what.”
“Fine.” He had a feeling he’d live to regret that one simple word.
He was planning a quick snatch job on the core and then a straight shot back to the ship. As soon as Sam could install the thing, they’d be on their way to Celtiboria. If all went well, there wouldn’t be another fight. He tried to draw comfort from that thought, but he didn’t feel any.
How often, he wondered, do things go well?
“The two of you should have stayed behind.” Blackhawk looked around the crowded hold. The Warcat was a hybrid vehicle, half tank, half troop transport. It had room to ferry a squad into battle and strong enough weapons and protection to engage enemy armor.
“And what happens when one of you walks into enemy fire?” Rolf Sandor’s voice was low, almost hypnotic. “You guys are not invulnerable”—he paused briefly, looking around the hold— “whatever you may think. Not even you, Ark.”
Sandor was a brilliant scholar, one of the senior lecturers at the great academy on Arcturon before he’d been expelled as a result of a scandal he’d never shared with anyone, not even Blackhawk. He’d wandered for years, his academic credentials stripped, earning his way however he could until he came upon a wounded Arkarin Blackhawk.
“And what about you, Doc? What if you run into a bullet? There’s not going to be any rear area on this mission.” His voice became grimmer. “Or any time to treat the wounded.”
The Claw’s captain had been lying on a street in Arkon City, almost dead from his wounds when Sandor found him. He managed to treat Blackhawk’s injuries and keep him safe until the rest of the crew came looking for him. Though he’d freely admitted that Blackhawk’s amazing genetics were as responsible for saving his life as any treatments he had administered, the recovering captain was enormously grateful, and he offered Sandor a place on the crew of Wolf’s Claw. Ever since, Sandor had served as the ship’s resident scholar on a variety of topics. He wasn’t an actual physician, but he was the closest thing they had, and from that moment on, he was known among them as “Doc.”
“I guess I’ll have to take that chance, Ark.”
Blackhawk just nodded. Doc wasn’t a fighter by nature or training, and the captain hated exposing him on such a dangerous mission. But he couldn’t argue with Doc’s logic—having him along might very well save one of his people. Or more than one.
He could, however, argue about the other uninvited person in the buggy. “What about you? What are you doing here?” He turned his eyes toward the woman sitting quietly next to Doc. Katarina Venturi was technically a passenger on Wolf’s Claw, one who had turned down an official spot on the crew and insisted on paying for her ongoing passage.
“I believe my skills may be useful during this operation.” Her voice was a slow purr, soft and elegant. She had many talents—stealth, seduction, linguistics—but they were all dedicated to her one true mastery: killing. She wasn’t a hardened warrior, a veteran of bloody battles, like most of Blackhawk’s people, but she was as deadly as any creature who prowled the Far Stars. Katarina Venturi was a disciple of the Assassins’ Guild on the planet Sebastiani, a stone-cold professional who regarded killing as an art. Her targets had been many and varied, including at least one head of state, and few of them had left the universe worse
off for their passing. Venturi, like all the guild’s students, rose above petty squabbles and disputes, accepting only contracts she considered moral. Those she killed were usually killers themselves, and often mass murderers. She had stopped more than one unjust war with a few drops of poison or a sharp blade in the dark.
And yet for all that, she wasn’t crew, and that meant she was risking more than Blackhawk was willing to accept.
Clearly she didn’t feel the same way, though, because she simply gazed at the captain seductively and smiled. “Besides—I would say I have the same stake as all of you in securing the hyperdrive core, wouldn’t you?”
He looked at her quizzically.
“I don’t relish a long and pointless stay on Saragossa,” she said. “It is quite a dreadful planet.”
“Yes, it certainly is a garbage heap. And I suppose you are in this with us, after all.” Blackhawk acquiesced. He’d learned a long time ago that arguing with Katarina was unproductive to say the least.
Venturi had booked passage to the planet Varangia on Wolf’s Claw two years before. Blackhawk and his crew were heading there to capture or kill a renegade gangster who had made the mistake of stealing a large sum from the Far Stars Bank. The bank didn’t take such things lightly, so they’d hired Blackhawk to make an example of the thief . . . and, it turned out, Venturi as well. When he realized she was a guild assassin from Sebastiani, he understood the failure to terminate her target would disgrace her, and he stepped aside, allowing her the kill and forfeiting the bounty.
He sighed softly and leaned back on the hard metal bench. He’d left the Claw in good hands. Lucas and the Twins would keep an eye on Astra, though he felt a twinge of guilt for leaving his young pilot in charge. He’d managed to guilt Astra into staying behind, but that was only going to make her angrier in the long run. He knew just how hard Astra could be to handle, and there was nothing she hated more than being told what to do. Lucas was going to have his hands full if this mission went on too long.
Even the Twins had grumbled at him when he told them to stay.
“We’re approaching the rendezvous point, Captain.” It was Sarge’s voice on the comm. “We should be there in two minutes.” They’d been driving for hours, passing one burned-out village and destroyed château after another. They’d stopped a few times to scout, and they’d seen the intensity of Saragossa’s revolution up close. There were corpses everywhere, too, mostly on the ground, rotted down to the bones, although plenty were hanging where they were nailed to walls and impaled on stakes months, even years before.
The fighting had moved on, and the devastated area was mostly deserted, its once productive fields fallow and barren. Arn had given them directions through the desolate zone, allowing them to get within forty kilometers of New Vostok without running into any scattered villagers or enemy patrols.
The rebel leader and his people had split off again, riding through the woods along both flanks, mounted on squat and sturdy Saragossan field horses. The stubby little creatures bore little resemblance, Blackhawk thought, to sleek Antillean thoroughbreds or gigantic Delphian Percherons, but unlike those more elite breeds, they could travel vast distances with almost no food or water. All the revolutionary forces on Saragossa had been driven to rely on animal transport due to a shortage of motor vehicles, and Arn’s splinter group even more than their better-equipped rivals.
Now it was time for Blackhawk and his people to ditch the buggy and hook up with Arn’s men. The road ahead was more hazardous, and the armored bulk of the buggy was too conspicuous. The Warcat was a piece of equipment from Celtiboria’s wars, far more advanced and powerful than anything possessed by either side on Saragossa, but it was far from inconspicuous. Blackhawk felt the buggy slow to a crawl, as Sarge navigated the heavy armored vehicle into an area of scrubby trees and thick underbrush. The sparse woods weren’t enough to hide the buggy well enough to defeat a strong scouting effort, but it was out of casual sight from the road, and they were still in the deserted zone, where patrols were almost nonexistent.
“All right, people.” Blackhawk hauled himself up from the hard bench and climbed toward the rear hatch of the vehicle. “Grab your gear, and let’s get going. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
He turned back and watched his crew climb out one by one. “And put on the clothes Arn gave us.” The rebel commander had provided them all with bulky Saragossan peasant robes. They weren’t perfect disguises, but it was better than his people trying to walk right into New Vostok in their naked body armor, bristling with visible weapons.
“C’mon, Ark. These things stink.” Ace was holding his robe in one hand, his arm extended away from his body.
“I don’t care if they’re covered in pig shit. Put the damned things on!” Ace had a bit of the dandy in him, but Blackhawk had seen him in battle too many times not to want him at his side when walking into trouble.
“That goes for all of you. The closer we can get by stealth, the less fighting we’ll have to do.” He realized that even in the best scenario he could concoct there would be plenty of fighting, but he was anxious to do whatever he could to keep that to a minimum.
Blackhawk strapped a heavy rifle over one shoulder, and a bandolier full of grenades over the other. Then he pulled the bulky garment over his head. Ace was right; it did stink. But it also covered the heavy battle vest and all his weapons. He wouldn’t say he made a terribly convincing Saragossan farmer, but he was certainly a lot less conspicuous than he’d been a moment before.
He looked out over his crew. They were in various stages of strapping on combat gear and crawling into the brown canvas robes.
“Let’s go. We’re on a schedule here.” He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out the map Arn had given him. It was hand drawn on paper. Blackhawk was more accustomed to electronic maps displayed on tablets, and he began to realize just how cut off from modern supplies Arn and his people had been.
He looked around one last time to make sure everyone was ready then he started back toward the battered and pockmarked pavement. “The rendezvous point is about a klick down the road. Remember, we’re a group of peasant refugees, so try to act the part. But keep your eyes open, too. These disguises are only going to get us so far.”
Blackhawk turned and took a look back toward the buggy. His trained eyes picked it out almost immediately, but he knew it was as well hidden as they were going to get it. The brush was thick right up to the road and the area nearly deserted.
He took a breath and started off down the road. It was time to steal a hyperdrive core.
“I make it three guards, Ark. One in the building, the other two standing just outside.” Ace was lying in the heavy brush, looking out over the checkpoint. They’d come about thirty kilometers since hooking up with Arn’s people, and they were getting close to the outskirts of the city. These were the first guards they had encountered. “Should we take them out from here?”
Blackhawk was surprised they had made it so far without being challenged. Arn’s advice had proven sound. The abandoned areas they had come through were so thoroughly laid to waste, even the crows were running short of provender. The true image of war was always a somber sight, one Blackhawk had seen far too many times.
Blackhawk stared intently at the checkpoint. “No, Ace. We can’t be sure there aren’t more of them in the building. Or over that hill.” He turned toward Arn. “Is this normal, Arn? Only three guards this close in?”
“I expected a stronger force here, but the nobles have launched another offensive to the south, so it is possible they have been forced to divert more troops to meet that threat.”
Blackhawk turned toward his own people. “Let’s try to do this quietly. We’re close in now, and there are probably more pickets ahead. We don’t need a lot of gunfire putting them on the alert.” He looked at Venturi. “Well, Katarina, you wanted to come. How do you feel about a little knife work?”
“I am ready.” The assassin was a master wi
th a blade. She pulled the hood of her robe over her silky black hair. No one was going to buy her as a Saragossan peasant if they got a good look at her.
“Good. The rest of you stay put.” Blackhawk walked a few meters, Katarina following right behind. He stepped up from the brush onto the road, just around a small bend from the guard post. The two of them walked forward, slowly, naturally.
“Stop! Hold out your arms.” The guard was clearly startled to see anyone coming down the road. His companion had been almost asleep on his feet, but he spun around and leveled his rifle on the two approaching figures.
Blackhawk did as he was ordered, and Katarina followed his lead. He stood stone still, his eyes focused intently on the guards. They had primitive assault rifles—better than the ancient weapons half of Arn’s men were carrying, but certainly nothing like modern imperial firearms. He wasn’t surprised. Blackhawk hadn’t expected to encounter any guards armed with high-tech weapons. Whatever imperial agent was interfering in Saragossa’s revolution, he would feed in the equipment slowly. His influence would be based on what the rebels still needed from him, not what he had already given them. From Arn’s description of the campaigns the Revolutionary Army had launched against his forces, they’d expended a lot of imperial ordnance. They probably didn’t have much left before this new shipment, and they certainly wouldn’t have deployed them to sleepy outposts on the edge of nowhere.
“Who are you? Where are you going?” The guard’s surprise had passed. Now his voice was harsh, demanding. The third man had come out of the building, and now all three had their weapons out.