by Jay Allan
The autocannons on the tanks opened fire on the fleeing troops, cutting them down in huge swaths, trying to exploit the breakthrough as effectively as possible while they could. Carano knew the easy success wasn’t going to last. It was only a matter of time before the enemy got their artillery in action, and that could hurt the tanks. There were heavy batteries dug in all around New Vostok, and Vulcan’s tanks would face steadily heavier fire as he pushed them forward. Still, the attack was creating the confusion Carano and his people needed to slip through the battle zone and into the city.
He stared at his handpicked team. He had fifty of his most experienced veterans, men who had been with him for years, through dozens of battles. “All right, we’re heading out in five minutes. Once we go, we keep moving, no matter what. There’s no turning back, no stopping for the wounded. We must get those weapons.”
He could see fear in their eyes, and he wasn’t surprised. These were grim warriors, and they knew how dangerous a mission this was likely to be, but that wasn’t the only thing on their minds. Carano and his fellow commanders had tried to clamp down on knowledge of the enemy’s imperial weapons, but news had spread anyway.
The worlds and people of the Far Stars were mostly open in their defiance of imperial claims to the sector, but there was still an undercurrent of dread. The empire ruled its domains by terror, and no human was without fear of the enormous power it controlled, not even the residents of the Far Stars, protected as they were by the Void from the worst imperial reprisals. Even the grizzled veterans of Carano’s battle-tested Black Helms were afraid to see their enemies in league with the massive power of the empire.
Carano couldn’t help but agree with them. Unfortunately, they didn’t have any choice . . .
“You have all been with the Helms for many years. Together we have been in many fights, faced an array of dangerous enemies. And we have always prevailed. There is nowhere I wouldn’t go with men such as you at my back.”
He slung a rifle over his shoulder and turned forward, staring out at the gap Vulcan’s tanks had torn in the enemy line.
“Now, let’s go get those weapons.”
CHAPTER 14
BLACKHAWK CROUCHED LOW BEHIND THE WRECKAGE OF THE building. He guessed it had once been a warehouse of some kind. There were a few twisted steel girders still standing and one masonry wall, blackened by fire. The rest of the structure was rubble, piles of broken bricks and mounds of gray ash.
It was past midnight, but both moons were up, and the sky was too bright for Blackhawk’s tastes. Lunem Major was just a narrow crescent, but Lunem Minor was waxing, a few days from being full. The moonlight cast an eerie glow over the otherwise dark and deserted streets.
The spaceport was on the outskirts of the city, adjacent to an industrial area that had been hit hard during the initial uprisings. Blackhawk and his people had passed nothing but burned-out hulks and crumbled ruins.
Arn had led them around the main areas of the city, through the nearly abandoned northern sector. They’d run into one small patrol of guards since the first encounter at the checkpoint. Shira had helped Blackhawk take care of that group, leaping out of the darkness to cut the throats of two privates while Blackhawk broke their sergeant’s neck. Since then they’d prowled from one blasted neighborhood to another, and they hadn’t run into a soul.
They’d been hearing sounds of battle to the south since midafternoon. It had started with an occasional blast, but then the artillery batteries just outside the city opened up. They’d been firing ever since. Blackhawk had no idea what was going on down there, but whatever it was, it could only help their chances of success. If the Revolutionary Army was dealing with some threat to the south, they’d have more on their minds than worrying about an unexpected raid on the spaceport.
It didn’t mean they could just walk in, though.
“Stay back,” he whispered to Ace, signaling with his hands to the others. He gripped his rifle and crept forward slowly. He thought he could hear something up ahead, but for all he knew it was just a pack of minisauroids digging in the rubble for food.
He pressed his back against the building, sliding forward toward the corner. He stopped. There it was again. Someone was definitely there. He could feel the adrenaline flooding his bloodstream. He breathed slowly, quietly. There were no friendlies out here, so anything he ran into had to be bad news. He stopped just short of the corner, holding his breath as he spun around, rifle held out ahead of him.
His enhanced vision and genetically superior reflexes saved his life. He saw the crouched figure, and his instincts kicked in. He lunged hard to the side as a blinding flash of light ripped by where he had just been standing, lighting up the night sky like dawn for an instant. It was electric blue, and the air crackled around it, leaving a heavy ozone smell behind. He felt the heat of the beam as he swung out of the way, bringing his own rifle to bear as he did and opening fire.
His enemy had been turning too, bringing his deadly weapon around to shoot again, but Blackhawk’s fire caught him in the chest and head, slamming the soldier back into the wall. He seemed to stand there for an instant before he slid to the ground, leaving a gruesome red streak on the pockmarked gray concrete.
Blackhawk leaped forward, holding the rifle with one hand and drawing his sword with the other. He crouched next to his victim, holding the blade tightly, ready to strike. But his enemy was dead.
“What the hell was that?” Ace was scrambling up behind Blackhawk.
Imperial particle accelerator rifle. Mark V or Mark VI small-arms model. I will be able to provide specific identification once you examine . . .
Blackhawk ignored the AI. He knew exactly what the rifle was. He’d seen them used far too many times. “Imperial particle accelerator. A pretty modern one. Not what you expect someone to shoot at you on a backwater shithole like this.”
Ace moved toward the body, kneeling down. “This is no local, Ark.” He pulled open the jacket, revealing a vest made of a strange black material. Blackhawk could see that where his three shots had impacted, the material had hardened and turned gray. Each of the spots was only a little wider than the bullets they’d blocked. “It’s a good thing you hit him in the head, Ark. I’ve never seen body armor like this before, have you?”
Unfortunately, yes, he thought. “Imperial intelligence,” he muttered emotionlessly. “That’s standard-issue body armor for agents.” He shook his head, taking a quick look around. That particle accelerator shot was visible for kilometers, he thought. They had to get to the ship. Now.
“Let’s get moving.” The others had come up behind Ace, and he motioned to the group, pointing his arm forward. “We’re running out of time.”
Ace stood up. “We’re with you, Ark.”
Blackhawk noticed Sam standing right behind Ace. “Sam, stay in the middle of the group.”
She shot him back a sour look and pulled her tiny pistol from its hidden holster. “I can take care of myself, Ark.” A twinge of defensiveness gave her tone an edge.
Blackhawk stared back at her, trying to hold back a laugh. She was twenty-seven years old, but she looked at least five years younger standing there with her coppery-red hair tied back in a ponytail. Blackhawk tended to treat her more like a daughter than a member of the crew at times, but that wasn’t the case now. He’d seen her use that stubby little pistol more than once, and he couldn’t recall her ever missing with it. It was easy to forget that she’d survived on the streets alone for years. “I know you can, Sam,” he shot back with a brief smile. “But you’re the only one who can get that core out without blowing us all to hell or giving us a lethal dose of radiation. And that makes you the only one of us not expendable right now.”
“Fine, Ark,” she said softly as she dropped back between Sarge and his people. Blackhawk knew she agreed with him, but he also knew she’d never admit it.
“Okay, let’s go.” Blackhawk turned and moved forward, pausing at the side of the wrecked building to pee
r off in both directions. There was no room for carelessness. After he looked each way, twice, he jogged out into the rubble-strewn street, staying close to the buildings on one side.
The crew followed him: Ace and Shira first, then Doc and Katarina, and finally Sarge and his men, who were now taking it as their assigned mission to protect Sam—and probably annoying the hell out of her in the process.
Arn and his men followed, and the whole group headed slowly, cautiously toward the spaceport. Blackhawk knew the area was going to be swarming with soldiers soon. But there was no stopping, no turning back for any of them. Whatever happened, however many enemy troops were guarding that ship, this mission would go forward. It was success or death for them all.
“Dealing with these wogs is taking every bit of patience I can muster.” Andreus Sand was sitting at a table in Grenderia’s small wardroom, his face twisted into a frustrated frown. He had a cup of coffee in front of him, half drunk and stone cold. The steward had warmed it twice for him, but Sand was too distracted to pay any attention.
Gravis Trent sat opposite Sand, taking a bite from a sandwich and laying the rest of it down on a plate in front of him. “You really should eat something, Andreus. I know you’re frustrated with Talin, and I don’t blame you. He’s a pompous ass. But it’s just a mission, like any other one. We do our jobs, and sometimes we need to deal with people we’d just as soon throw in a ditch.”
It was true; Sand had dealt with fools before and thrown his share of people into ditches too.
Trent had been Sand’s senior subordinate for years, and they’d completed missions throughout the empire, moving up steadily in the ranks as they did. They had both worked for Kergen Vos throughout his meteoric rise in imperial intelligence, and when that master agent accepted a posting as governor of the Far Stars, they were both stunned. Shock turned quickly to horror when he asked them to come with him but, despite their initial reservations, both eventually agreed. They knew Kergen Vos didn’t do anything without a good reason, so if he saw opportunity out here at the edge of the universe, they figured there must be something they didn’t know. In the end, they bet their careers on their brilliant chief, and they weren’t going to start doubting his judgment now.
But that didn’t mean Sand wasn’t going to vent some frustration. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. He was staring right at Trent, but his mind was wandering. “We brought that ungrateful sack of shit enough high-tech weapons to conquer all of Saragossa, and what does he want? Personal luxuries. So we unload crates of brandy and fine wines, and we sit here with a hold full of weapons.”
It was clear Sand didn’t agree with the directive to aid Talin. If he’d had the authority, he’d have shot the useless son of a bitch and replaced him already. But that was Vos’s decision, not his, and the governor was on Galvanus Prime several long hyperjumps away.
“He doesn’t trust his people, Andreus.” Trent scooped up the sandwich again, taking another bite, chewing quickly and swallowing. “He wants the weapons here because he knows they are safe until he is ready to use them. He’s worried one of his subordinates might try to grab them and seize power. Considering what a useless fuckup he is, I wouldn’t be surprised if that happened.”
“It would have to be an improvement.”
“That’s not our call, and you know it.” Trent’s voice was firm. “Vos calls the shots, and we do what he says. And he’s never been wrong before, has he?”
“No,” Sand admitted grudgingly. “Still, I hate being stuck on this shithole at the whim of a wog commander too afraid of his own people to let us unload the weapons we brought him.” It’s a shame, he thought. By all accounts, Talin had been a capable leader early in the revolution, one of the four or five prime movers who’d helped turn an outbreak of sporadic rioting and violence into a successful revolution. From what he’d heard, Talin had been a tireless dynamo, the primary organizer of what later became the Revolutionary Army. Then the power went to his head, and privilege turned him into a debauched sybarite.
Sand had seen it before, and he’d never known the condition to reverse itself. Capable men could lose their talent and ability as their egos and decadence increased, but he very much doubted anyone who’d gone down that road ever came back. In his experience, ability, once squandered, was gone for good.
He looked over at Trent. “Have the patrols reported in yet?” Sand was suspicious by nature, and he’d sent out half his guards to check out the grounds of the spaceport. If Talin was too afraid to have the weapons in his own storehouses, Sand figured he’d better take some precautions himself, especially with the sudden enemy attacks to the south.
“Not yet, Andreus. But I wouldn’t be too worried about that. We’d be more likely to get a report if there was a problem.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but I’d feel better getting a status update. Run up to the bridge and check in with them, okay?”
Trent nodded and stood up. “Not a bad idea.” He was about to turn when Sand stood as well. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to take a look outside. Just around the ship.” He walked over to a small counter where he had set his gun down. It was a small pistol, a high-powered slug thrower with iridium-jacketed bullets. He snapped it open to check the load and shoved it into his belt. “I think I could use a little fresh air.”
Trent laughed, and Sand couldn’t help but laugh with him. Fresh air, my ass, he thought. If there was one thing New Vostok’s primitive factories produced, it was industrial stench that hung heavily over the city. “Enjoy the air,” Trent said as he made his way to the bridge. “And be careful.”
Blackhawk stood outside the metal fencing, looking across the ancient and pockmarked asphalt toward the sleek, white ship. He’d just cut a hole through the fence big enough for them to squeeze through. It had been tough, laborious work with a small pair of snips. They’d brought a plasma torch with them as well, and it would have sliced through the links like a knife through butter. But it was also damned near as bright as the particle accelerators, and they were way too close to be giving away their position now.
They’d encountered a single two-man patrol just before entering the outer perimeter of the spaceport. They were armed with particle accelerators like the previous sentry, but Katarina and Shira dispatched them both quickly and quietly, before either could get off a shot.
He’d been worried that someone would react to the flash when the first guard had fired, but so far they’d been lucky. Perhaps anyone who was paying attention had written off the single flash as lightning. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. The air was getting thicker, heavy clouds of a storm front moving slowly across the sky. A storm might be useful when they ran for it with the core. Anything that cut down on visibility or made it harder for pursuers to find them was welcome. At least, he thought, the cloud cover might block that cursed moonlight.
He turned back toward the group clustered around him. “Everybody has the plan down, right?” He panned his eyes around as everyone nodded . . . then he repeated everything one more time anyway.
“Ace and I will drop the satchel charges in the engine exhaust ports. They won’t do massive damage, but they should knock out the power conduits from the main reactor.” At least I hope they will, he thought. He’d been pretty sure, and Hans had confirmed his analysis, but he still wasn’t positive. If he was wrong, it could jeopardize the entire mission.
I do not make mistakes. If the charges are inserted at least three meters into the exhaust ports, the target vessel will suffer a temporary loss of all but emergency power.
Blackhawk frowned. The AI in his head constantly commenting and correcting his analysis was bad enough, but did the damned thing have to be so prickly and defensive?
“Sarge, as soon as the charges blow, you and your men get on board and take out the crew. Be careful if you end up fighting with anyone in the engineering spaces. We didn’t come all this way to blast the hyperdrive core into junk.”
“Yes, sir.” Sarge always stood out among the informality of the Claw’s crew with his rigid military discipline. He snapped a perfect Delphian salute to Blackhawk. “Understood.”
“Shira, you steal us a truck or some kind of transport. The fastest thing you can find. We’re not going to be carrying the core back on foot, so we need something we can drive back. We’re probably going to have to run for it, so try to be quick.”
“Got it, Ark. There should be a transport or a hovercraft in here somewhere.” She paused and smiled. “I’ll find it.”
Blackhawk nodded. “Good. When you’ve got it, bring it around the back of the ship. We’ll have to bring the core out through the cargo hold—it won’t fit through the airlock.”
He turned and looked at Arn and his people. “You guys go with Shira, and get whatever transport you can find. While we’re getting the core out, you take as many weapons as you can load.” He paused. “Then we’ll blow the ship.”
Arn winced at the prospect of destroying so much high-tech ordnance, weapons his men needed desperately. But Blackhawk had explained to him earlier that whatever they didn’t get now would end up being used against them anyway. “Yes, agreed.” He turned toward his men. “You are to disperse throughout the spaceport and commandeer any transports you can find.”
Blackhawk turned toward Katarina. “I’d like you to stay back with Sam and Doc. As soon as Sarge’s boys secure the ship, bring them forward.”
“Do not worry, Arkarin”—she was the only one who called him by his full first name—“I will make sure they are not harmed.”
“I don’t need a babysitter, Ark. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of . . .”
“Sam—we’ve been through this before. I need you to get that core out and then reinstalled in the Claw. You’re the only one here who can do that, and we can’t risk you getting hit on the way in.” Blackhawk appreciated the courage and independence of his engineer, but now wasn’t the time. “I promise you the most dangerous job next time.” He was joking, but it occurred to him she just might try to hold him to it. But that was tomorrow’s problem.