Shadow of Empire

by Jay Allan

  “My wife and I are going to New Vostok. Our farm was burned, and I have come to find work in the factories.” There was an odd tone to his voice, a perfect Saragossan peasant accent, courtesy of the ever present AI in his head. He glanced back toward Katarina, noticing for the first time that she had a sack tucked under her robe. He fought back a smile. Not just my wife, he thought, but my pregnant wife. Nice touch. Not for the first time, he was thankful he’d never had to face the beautiful assassin as an enemy.

  “Come forward. Slowly.”

  Blackhawk moved forward tentatively. He felt the adrenaline rush, the beat of his heart loud in his ears. He maintained a calm outer expression, even as his body was preparing for combat. After so many years of battle, it was almost an involuntary response.

  His eyes focused on the guard’s rifle, waiting for the right moment. The other two sentries were a few paces behind their comrade. They had their weapons in their hands, but they weren’t aiming; they were just holding them out in the general direction of the two newcomers. Blackhawk looked up to the small hill behind the guards, and he listened for any sounds from the building. He couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think there was anyone else there.

  He walked up to the lead guard, stopping when he was about a meter away. He was alert, ready to make his move, but the other two guards were a couple meters behind. Could he kill the first and reach the others before they managed to start shooting? Maybe, he thought, but there’s no room for error. He felt his muscles tense as the guard reached out to search him. There was no more time—he had to go now.

  His right hand gripped the well-worn hilt of his short-sword under the robe. He lunged with his left arm, grabbing the guard’s rifle and pulling it hard to the side. His opponent managed to hold on, but his finger slipped from the trigger, giving Blackhawk an instant before his enemy could fire. He shoved the sword hard, its razor point slicing through his own robe and just under the guard’s ribs. He pushed, jamming the iridium-edged blade deep into his victim’s chest cavity.

  He yanked hard to free the blade, and his already-dead victim fell hard to the ground. He was about to lunge forward and tackle the two remaining guards . . . but they were already down. His momentum carried him forward a few steps, and he caught himself right in front of the two men. They each had a slender, black-handled throwing knife protruding from their necks. One was dead, the other nearly so, and after a few seconds of gurgling blood, he also expired.

  He turned back toward Katarina. She was standing exactly where she had been, but now the canvas sack was lying at her feet. She nodded to Blackhawk and took a few steps forward to retrieve her knives, casually cleaning each of them on her victims’ clothing before slipping them under her robe.

  Blackhawk just shook his head. Katarina Venturi played the role of a well-bred woman of high birth so well, even he tended to forget just how astonishingly deadly she truly was. Yes, he was definitely glad she was on his side.

  CHAPTER 13

  “THE OPERATION MUST SUCCEED, GENERAL CARANO. IT IS ESSENTIAL to our success. Even to our survival.” Elisabetta Lementov sat at the head of the table, an unusual place for a woman on Saragossa. But Lementov wasn’t a normal Saragossan woman. Eldest daughter of the planet’s most powerful noble family, Elisabetta Ataragin had been wed at age fifteen to the patriarch of the second-strongest family. For centuries, Saragossa’s government had been an often unruly oligarchy of the highest-placed families, but her marriage created a power bloc so untouchable, it had allowed Sergei Lementov to rule almost as a monarch. Until the revolution came, at least, and a mob of enraged peasants massacred him along with his entire escort, parading their burned and headless bodies through the streets for hours before casting them into the lake.

  Elisabetta had taken the news of both revolution and widowhood in stride, assuming immediate control of her family’s affairs and ordering the house treasury moved to a secure location. She rallied the guards and the Lementov and Ataragin retainers, and she remained in New Rostov directing the defense of her palace until it was clear the city was lost. She then relocated to one of her country estates, collecting her nieces and nephews along the way and creating a rallying point for the rest of the disordered and terrified Saragossan nobility. Many credited her coolness and courage with saving the cause of the nobility and halting the momentum of the early revolution.

  Some also whispered that her calm acceptance of her husband’s death had been cold and unfeeling, but none dared say that to her face. She had become the most powerful noble on Saragossa, and the effective leader of the counterrevolution and the effort to reclaim the planet.

  In truth, she had mourned her husband, but in her own fashion and not for the eyes and ears of others. The marriage had been a difficult one for her at first. She’d gone to her wedding bed a fifteen-year-old virgin, quite distressed by the rough manner in which her much older—and fatter—husband mounted her, grunting and sweating for the several minutes it took him to finish.

  She had been distraught at first, missing her home and dreading the sound of Sergei’s footsteps approaching her door. But she matured quickly, and she came to appreciate other aspects of their relationship. Sergei denied her nothing and, as she came to understand the realities of political power, she began to enjoy the status the arranged marriage provided. She was even surprised to discover that Sergei was a pleasant conversationalist, well educated with an amusing sense of humor. She wouldn’t say she’d ever truly loved him, but she did come to enjoy his companionship. The sex didn’t improve much, but she got used to his visits, which were always short and became less and less frequent as he got older. She compensated for his failings by keeping a whole string of clandestine lovers at her beck and call.

  Including the mercenary general she was talking to now.

  “It is a difficult operation, Elisa . . . Lady Lementov.” General Carano was the leader of the largest mercenary force on Saragossa. Elisabetta had hired his company immediately after the nobles had been driven from New Vostok, and she wasted no time in seducing him when he arrived. She was a resourceful woman, perfectly willing to use sex as a tool to get what she wanted. In Carano’s case, it hadn’t been entirely unpleasant. The mercenary commander was a little rough around the edges, but he was a magnificent physical specimen, and she found his many battle scars to be strangely appealing.

  “We need to break through the enemy’s defensive line outside the city and create a significant distraction to allow us to push a picked force through to the spaceport. Even if we succeed, casualties will be enormous.”

  “Casualties will be enormous, my dear Vladimir, if we allow the enemy to deploy yet another shipment of high-tech weapons.” She stood up and ran her hand softly over the rough stubble on his face as she spoke. “I remind you they deployed the bulk of the first two shipments against their rival rebels and not your forces, virtually destroying the splinter group in the process. This latest shipment will almost certainly be used against you and your men.” She paused for a few seconds, amused that for all his concern about her plan to raid the shipyard in New Vostok, he still couldn’t keep his eyes off her breasts. She had chosen her dress carefully. She needed him at his best, and there was no harm in reminding him of the fruits of victory.

  “It will need to be meticulously planned. We have to scout . . .”

  “It must be launched immediately. There is no time. While you are scouting and planning, they will be unloading that ship and distributing the weapons. My spies assure me the bulk of the ship’s cargo remains aboard. How long will that continue to be the case?”

  She knew he’d come to the same realization. Yes, attacking the entrenched lines of the Revolutionary Army was a risky and difficult plan. But allowing the enemy to accumulate more high-tech weapons was suicide. She’d shared the scouting reports from the other front with the general, and the evidence of the weapons’ effectiveness was more than apparent. The Revolutionary Army’s troops had annihilated the forces of the re
bel splinter group, driving the few survivors deep into the wilderness.

  Elisabetta was confident that the mercenary forces on Saragossa were more experienced and better equipped than the defeated rebel group had been. They were motivated too, since the guild embargo had stranded them on the planet for the foreseeable future. If their enemies were able to deploy enough superior weapons against them, though . . . no, allowing that to happen was out of the question. Defeat was unthinkable, and it had to be prevented, whatever the cost. Carano was well aware of the fate that awaited his men if the Revolutionary Army won control of the planet. The streets of New Vostok had run red with blood since they had taken control. The nobles who had failed to escape had died first, but since then the revolutionaries had begun killing each other, one purge after another as the leaders struggled for power. He knew his people would be next if they lost the war.

  Elisabetta was right, Carano concluded. They had to steal those weapons. Or at least destroy them. “I will have to convince the other mercenary commanders to commit their forces. They will not wish to expose their forces to such heavy losses. They will resist.”

  “They are in the same situation as the rest of us.” She glided around behind him, running a fingernail across the back of his neck. “You will just have to be your usual persuasive self . . . and remind them that if they don’t want their heads to end up on pikes in New Vostok Square, they’d better do as they’re told.”

  She could see he was tense, but she also knew she had him. He didn’t have any choice.

  Elisabetta Lementov was a beautiful and nearly irresistible woman, but there was an icy coldness there too, a grim resolve not evident at first glance. She was fond of Carano, but that wouldn’t affect her decisions. Not one bit.

  Carano swallowed hard. “We will need the local troops too, the house armies and retainers. You will have to get the other families to consent.”

  “I will attend to it, my dear Vladimir.” She moved her lips closer to his ear, whispering softly, “I will make certain you have everything you need.” She paused, holding her mouth close to him for a few seconds.

  “And a suitable reward for your success when you return.”

  “The Tiger Company will attack first.” Carano stood in the command post, surrounded by the other mercenary leaders. He was pointing at the map projected on the table. “Here . . . and here. The Gold Dragons will follow in close support, along with most of my men and the house armies.”

  He looked up from the map, glancing at the officers clustered around him. He knew they were skittish. Mercenary companies tended to look for relatively easy commissions, fights that were beyond the capabilities of their employers, while remaining easily winnable for a well-trained and equipped force. There was no profit in fighting bloodbaths that got your company shot to hell. They’d all expected the Saragossan job to be an easy one, shooting down a bunch of uppity peasants, but when they got there, they found the peasants were much more formidable than anyone would have thought.

  The revolutionaries had taken the cities, along with the armories of the noble families’ house retainers. Worse, and even more unexpected, they had able leadership, at least until they splintered into two feuding factions. Carano almost broke his contract and pulled out, but Elisabetta’s bed—and then the guild embargo—kept him on Saragossa.

  “You are proposing that we mount an all-or-nothing attack, Carano.” Colonel Ariano Vulcan was the commander of the Tiger Company. The Tigers were the second-largest group after Carano’s own Black Helms, and the only one to deploy a significant force of armored vehicles. “With my Tigers in the forefront.”

  Carano’s command position was informal at best, and he noted Vulcan’s use of “propose” in lieu of “order.” “Indeed, Colonel, that is precisely what I am proposing.” He addressed his colleague again by his rank, though Vulcan hadn’t done so when speaking to him. This wasn’t the time for a pissing match between the two, and he’d sworn not to let Vulcan provoke him. “And I submit that we have very few options. We cannot penetrate the city’s defenses and raid the spaceport without a massive diversion along the front lines, and if we do not seize those weapons—or at least destroy them—we will find ourselves facing total defeat. I placed the Tigers in front because we need your armor to punch a hole through the enemy line as quickly as possible. We must create disorder in their ranks rapidly if we are to succeed.” He held Vulcan’s eyes with his own. “You are aware of the capabilities of the weaponry the Revolutionary Army employed against the rebel splinter group, are you not?”

  Vulcan nodded silently. Carano knew the rival commander resented his position as de facto head of the noble forces, but there was no time for that kind of bullshit now. Vulcan had seen the reports from the scouting parties too, and Carano knew the stubborn pain in the ass had to realize there was no choice.

  The Revolutionary Army had been fighting the war with a mix of obsolete weapons—assault rifles, shotguns, homemade bombs. But the new shipments were bringing them some serious tech, ordnance far in advance of anything even the mercenary companies possessed. The revs outnumbered the merc forces and house armies already. If they had particle accelerators and hypervelocity autocannons too, the war on Saragossa wouldn’t last another month. “Very well, General, I agree we do not have an alternative. So who do you propose to send to seize the weapons?”

  Carano took a breath. “I propose to go myself, Colonel Vulcan. If you feel you can handle overall command along the front, that is.” He didn’t like leaving most of his men under Vulcan’s orders, but he needed the Tigers’ commander to be 100 percent on board, and stroking his ego was one way to achieve that. Besides, as much as he disliked the man, Carano had to admit that Vulcan was a strong tactician and a veteran combat commander.

  Vulcan was silent for a few seconds, clearly surprised by Carano’s words. “Indeed, General Carano, I would be pleased to take command while you lead the mission to capture the weapons cache.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. I am sure you will execute the attack with your usual skill.” You’ll also probably try to recruit as many of my men as you can, if I get myself killed. Go ahead, try. If he underestimated, Major Zoran, the Helms’s second in command, was likely to blow Vulcan’s head off, especially if he came sniffing around trying to poach the men. “We need to launch the attack immediately, Colonel. Today.”

  “That’s insane,” Vulcan roared. “It will take days just to plan the operation and maneuver the troops into position.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have days, Colonel. Once that ship is unloaded and the weapons are distributed, it will be too late. You’ve got to attack with whatever you can get in place, and feed in the rest of the troops as you can move them up.”

  Vulcan stood silently, staring at the map on the table and shaking his head. He was about to say something when one of the other officers spoke first.

  “There is little need for debate, gentlemen.” Xavier Garza was the commander of the Silver Swords. His voice was low and gravelly, and he spoke with a heavy Varangian accent. “General Carano is correct. We do not have a choice.” He stepped forward from the small cluster of officers standing behind Carano and Vulcan. “I will say what no one else has wanted to say: these are imperial weapons.” The room was silent, every eye on Garza. They had all known the source of the sophisticated weaponry, or at least suspected it. But no one wanted to acknowledge that the Revolutionary Army was getting help from the empire.

  “These are imperial weapons,” he repeated, “and we are trapped here. With the guild embargo in place we have no chance of arranging transport off-world.” The commanders of the smaller companies stood behind him nodding. “So we must win this fight, and we must do it soon. Because if the empire is indeed aiding our enemy, this will not be the last shipment. Our superior discipline will be overwhelmed not only by numbers, but also by superior technology.”

  “Exactly, Xavier.” Carano panned his eyes across the assembled officers. “Some of us
have been allies before, others enemies. But none of that matters now. Here we are brothers, and we will prevail as one—or we will die as one. We must stand together. I will lead the mission to seize the weapons, but first we must attack the enemy and smash through their lines. We are ill-prepared, but we will have surprise on our side. And I believe we can succeed if we all fight as I know we can.” He held his hand out in front of him.

  Garza reached out and placed his hand on top of Carano’s. “General Carano is right. Will you all stand together?”

  One by one, the officers standing along the wall moved forward, placing their hands on top of the others. Finally, Vulcan nodded and thrust his hand forward, slamming his huge palm on top of the pile. “Together!” he roared.

  Carano watched the heavy tanks of the Tiger Company crash forward, moving directly for the enemy trenches. They’d covered half the distance to contact before the revolutionaries realized what was happening and opened fire. Their machine guns and small arms were ineffective against the armored war machines, and the defenders, unable to stop or even slow the attacking forces, began to fall back.

  It was an orderly retreat at first, but the Revolutionary Army soldiers were poorly trained and only driven by harsh, almost terroristic discipline. Standing up to heavy armor was more than they could handle, even with their officers shouting threats of execution at the men who ran. They had suffered enormous losses in the war, and the Revolutionary Command had squandered its most experienced troops in pointless wave attacks against the superior mercenary forces, thinking they could replace them with fresh drafts, sent to the front after two weeks’ rudimentary training. Clearly that wasn’t the case, and Carano watched as the entire front line was in a wholesale rout, its soldiers throwing down their weapons and running for their lives.