by Jay Allan
They ran across the wet pavement, putting as much distance between them and the imperial ship as they could before the charges blew. Blackhawk pointed toward a pile of crates stacked up near the fence, and they both ran for it.
“Stop!”
Damn!
The shout had come from behind them, somewhere near the ship. They hadn’t seen any guards nearby when they’d first approached. Whoever this was, Blackhawk realized, he must have come from inside the vessel.
“Run, Ace,” Blackhawk yelled. “Now!” He spun around, whipping out his pistol as he did. Before he could fire, a blinding beam of light ripped right past his head, and for an instant the spaceport was lit up like day. The beam was so close, he could feel the staticky charge, like hundreds of tiny insects crawling on his face. He fired his pistol, but the shock from the beam’s near miss made his arm twitch, and his shot went wide. He was shaken and disoriented, struggling to focus. It had been a long time since he felt so disoriented in combat, but he quickly got himself under control. He was about to fire again when the charges blew.
The rear of the ship erupted into a firestorm, a massive blast of flames blasting out of the exhaust port. A huge plume of smoke billowed out of the stricken vessel, rising quickly into the night sky.
The shock of the explosion hit Blackhawk, throwing him back into a pile of crates. He landed hard, but his combat instincts took over and he slid his arm down, deflecting most of the impact. He rolled around on his back and then up to his feet again, bringing his pistol to bear.
But his adversary was gone.
He whipped his head around, first to the right then the left, scanning the entire area. He could see Sarge’s men silhouetted in the fading light from the explosion, moving quickly toward the ship. A few seconds later there was another flash, as they used one of the captured particle accelerators to blast open the door.
Ace came running around from behind the wall of crates. “You okay, Ark?”
“I’m fine, Ace.” He took a deep breath. He was still a little disoriented by the near miss, but he ignored it, nodding to his companion. “Now let’s get to that ship and give Sarge and his boys a hand.”
Ace returned the nod, gripping his rifle tightly. “I’m with you, Ark. Let’s go get ourselves a hyperdrive core and get the hell out of here.”
“Keep moving, all of you.” Carano waved his arm forward, urging his exhausted men onward. Vulcan’s tanks had blown a five-kilometer hole in the enemy lines, and the strike force had slipped through, passing one abandoned defensive position after another and meeting almost no resistance.
Carano didn’t know how long that would last, so he’d driven his people mercilessly forward. The revolutionaries could bring up reserves and launch a counterattack at any time. Vulcan’s men—and the troops from the other companies—were mostly veterans, more than a match for their enemies in an even fight. Hell, he thought, they could handle the revolutionaries outnumbered two to one. But the Saragossan rebels had shown a willingness to sacrifice huge numbers of conscripts, and if they launched enough wave attacks, even the Tiger Company and the Black Helms would be driven back.
And Carano and his team would be trapped behind enemy lines.
They were on the outskirts of the city, working their way around toward the spaceport. The area appeared to have been a once-thriving district of industrial facilities, mostly basic materials plants, but now it was heavily damaged from fighting and mostly abandoned. It didn’t look like any of the factories had been active since the revolution began. As such, the infrastructure had begun to decay. In some areas, the street had collapsed and underground pipes and electrical lines lay exposed and crumbling. There was no power or lighting, and from the looks of the shattered but dry conduits, there was no water service either.
Carano pushed his men farther.
They’d run into two patrols and a few groups of civilians, but they’d scragged them all before anyone could call for help. As far as Carano could tell, their secrecy was still intact.
The night had started out brightly lit by the moons, but the weather had begun to cooperate. The storm front that had been threatening all day was finally moving in, and the moonlight had become obscured by the thickening clouds. Carano’s force crept forward, quickly but quietly, cloaked in the near darkness.
Suddenly, a bright flash illuminated the night sky. Carano held up his hand, but his people had already stopped. They were looking around, trying to figure out where it had come from.
“What was that? Lightning?” Kal Riktor was one of Carano’s oldest veterans, a grizzled sergeant who’d refused every effort to promote him to the commissioned ranks.
Carano hushed him, staring up at the sky. That looked like lightning, but it might be something else too. Unlike the rest of his people, he’d seen imperial troops in action once, and that flash looked a hell of a lot like a particle accelerator.
“Let’s be on our guard.” Carano started moving again, motioning for the group to follow. “We’re getting close. Stay sharp. I want everybody ready for whatever happens.”
Sarge burst through the shattered hatch, holding his assault rifle in his hands. It was an old weapon, one he’d carried for years. The grips were worn smooth, and it was notched in a dozen places, including one large gouge where it had blocked the massive stroke of a tribesman’s scimitar on Taurus, saving his life. The mission on Taurus had been a difficult one, and the Claw and its crew barely escaped from that barbarous world.
The particle accelerator was slung across his back. Its barrel was still hot from the shot that blasted the door, and it stung every time it slapped against his bare neck. Blackhawk had been clear about not shooting the imperial ship to pieces before Sam got the hyperdrive core out, and Sarge took the order seriously, as he did every word the captain uttered. The particle accelerators were indiscriminate weapons, extremely powerful, but also hard to control in close quarters. A shot in the wrong place could have unpredictable results. Sarge opted for the tried and true instead, the weapons that had become almost an extension of his arms during a life spent at war. This was going to be close-quarters work anyway, and he didn’t need any fancy imperial weapons to get it done. His trusted rifle would do the job and, if things got really close, he had his knife—thirty centimeters long and razor sharp.
The main lighting was out. Blackhawk and Ace must have successfully severed the main power conduit with their charges, cutting off the flow of energy from the reactor. Sarge had no idea how quickly the enemy could reroute their power grid, and he wasn’t about to wait and find out. It was time to take the ship.
He spun around, turning ninety degrees into a corridor. It was dim, lit only by the reddish glow of the emergency lamps, but he caught a glimpse of a figure ducking around the corner at the far end. He fired a burst in the target’s direction, but even as he depressed his finger on the trigger, he knew it was too late.
“Ringo, cover us. Then bring up the rear. The rest of you, let’s move. The bridge is this way.” Blackhawk had given Sarge a detailed description of the ship’s interior. Sarge had the usual burst of curiosity about how Blackhawk knew what the inside of an imperial ship looked like, but he’d long ago gotten used to the captain’s bizarre storehouse of knowledge. The captain was almost never wrong about this kind of thing, and Sarge took every word from his mouth as an indisputable fact. If he said the bridge was this way, the bridge was this way.
If he’d had a larger force, Sarge would have tried to secure multiple locations simultaneously, but he only had five men, including himself, and he had no idea what was waiting deeper in the ship. Better to be cautious, he thought, than have his men picked off one at a time.
He pressed his back against the far wall of the corridor, presenting as small a silhouette as possible as he advanced. He held his rifle at the ready as he crept down the hall. From the looks of things, the crewman he’d spotted had bolted, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. Carelessness got soldiers killed. He
took a quick look back.
Ringo was peering around the corner, covering the corridor as the others advanced. He was a massive hulk of a man, almost two meters tall and muscular from head to toe. He had a long scar running from the base of his neck up to the top of his head. The line of whitish skin traced its way across his scalp, leaving a bald line through his otherwise thick brown hair. At first glance, he looked like a bruiser, a strong but stupid ape of a man, deadly in a brawl but useless for anything requiring more sophistication or subtlety. But looks were deceiving, and Ringo was a sly and canny warrior—and the best shot in Sarge’s squad.
Sarge wouldn’t have wanted anyone else covering his ass. He took a breath and swung around the corner, his rifle at the ready. It was a long hall, and it was totally empty. Whoever he’d seen leaping around the corner was long gone. “C’mon, men. On me.”
He moved swiftly down the corridor. He knew there were surveillance cameras everywhere, and he was doing his best to avoid them. If he gave the enemy too long to track his people, they might be able to organize an effective defense. Speed was his ally.
“Von, Drake—cover the door.”
“Yes, Sarge.” The two men answered as one. They snapped their rifles up, aiming them chest high at the closed hatch.
Sarge pressed the button to open the door, but nothing happened. He worked at it for a few seconds, punching at the small keypad alongside the hatch. “Fuck it,” he finally growled. He waved his men back around the corner and took a dozen steps back, sliding the particle accelerator rifle from his back. “Be ready, boys!” he shouted and pulled the trigger.
The flash filled the dim corridor with blinding white light as the shot almost vaporized the door. Sarge slung the heavy weapon over his shoulder again, gritting his teeth as the hot metal of the barrel rubbed against his neck again.
“Let’s go.” He ran down the hallway, readying his assault rifle as he did. His men were right behind, weapons ready. He ran through the door, ducking to the side and rolling hard, firing as he did.
His men bolted through after him: Buck in the lead, with Von following right behind. Sarge was prone in the corner, his assault rifle now silent, but still at the ready. There were three crewmen on the other side of the room, all dead, riddled with shots from Sarge’s rifle.
Ringo ran over and checked the bodies. They all knew the men were dead, but Sarge had beaten it into their heads for years. Carelessness makes dead soldiers. “Yup,” he muttered. Then, more loudly, “They’re dead, Sarge. Good shooting.” A look of concern came over his face.
“You hit, Sarge?” He jumped up and moved toward the injured noncom. The others followed suit, and in a second they were all hovering over their commander, reaching out and trying to help him stand.
“Get off me, you apes.” Sarge pushed them all away, wincing slightly as he did it. “It’s just a fucking scratch. I’ve had worse from shaving.” He stood up and glared at them, as if daring them to make a fuss over it.
They could see it was a hell of a lot more than a scratch, but they knew Sarge well enough to shut up. They stood a few paces away and watched silently as he slid off his coat slowly, painfully revealing a nasty gunshot wound on his upper arm. His bicep and forearm were covered with blood. He looked up and saw them staring at him.
“You got better things to do than stare at me! Check those doors!” He waved toward the two hatches on the far wall. “And stay ready in case anyone comes in here.” He turned back toward his arm, tearing a long strip of cloth from his shirt and wrapping it tightly around the wound to stop the bleeding. In a minute he was done.
His men were all watching the doors with one eye and him with the other. He made a rude gesture, a disgusted look on his face. “I told you powder puffs I’m okay, so quit the bullshit. We’ve got work to do.” He pulled the particle accelerator off his back, gritting his teeth as he extended his wounded arm to hold it. He could have had one of the others blow the door, but he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.
“You apes ready?” He aimed the heavy rifle toward one of the doors without waiting for an answer. There was no time to waste. They had a ship to take.
CHAPTER 17
THE FANFARE BLARED ACROSS THE OPEN AREAS OF THE SPACEPORT. The band had just played “My Celtiboria,” the newly designated national anthem of the united planet. Now they were beginning “Glory of Antilles,” a show of respect for the delegation now making its way across the field toward the waiting leader of the new Celtiborian Republic. The Antillean officials moved forward slowly, with Celtiborian soldiers standing at attention to either side, swords held up along their sides. Behind the honor guard stood more soldiers, dressed in combat gear and holding back the throngs of cheering Celtiborian citizens.
Lucerne stood at the reception stand, a handpicked detachment from his personal guards standing behind him. They were clad in their ornate new dress uniforms: tight white breeches with knee-high black boots and dark blue jackets covered with a riotous mass of lace and silver. The soldiers were rugged veterans all, men who had served with the marshal for years in the mud and blood of a hundred fields of battle. They looked as out of place in their silver buttons and extravagant finery as their chief did. These were grim men, warriors, and the fuss and bother of diplomacy and politics was alien to them. Still, like their commander, they did what was required of them, and the men standing behind Celtiboria’s ruler were as perfectly arrayed as any monarch’s guard had ever been.
The Celtiborian Republic, Lucerne thought, with a combination of guilt and disgust. He’d established a reasonable facsimile of republican government in the weeks following his final victory, but he knew it was a charade, a bit of blatant propaganda to soften the image of his regime. The truth was starker, more blatant. Augustin Lucerne commanded two million veteran soldiers—fanatically loyal and the only forces remaining under arms on Celtiboria. He could impose his merest whim on the helpless population, and nothing could stop him. That was the real truth, stripped of the lies and the republican propaganda.
Lucerne did not crave power for its own sake, as most men did. He was tired of war, worn out from the burdens of command. He intended to rule benevolently and step down once he’d forged the Far Stars Confederation, but he knew that was a weak defense of tyranny.
It would take years more of constant warfare, on an interplanetary scale this time, before his dream was realized. And for all those long and deadly years, Lucerne might call himself president or prime minister, or whatever other title he could invent, but he couldn’t fool himself. He might deceive the people; they were easily led. And his ministers and officers would obey him no matter what he became, out of loyalty he hoped, but if not, out of fear. But he would always know the truth. He’d fought three decades of war to make himself Celtiboria’s military dictator, and that’s precisely what he was.
The warlords he had destroyed were despots too, ones far more brutal than he. The people would live better lives under his rule, even as they worked ceaselessly to support war on a dozen planets. They wouldn’t be free, not by any reasonable definition of liberty certainly, but their ruler would be more benevolent than those he’d replaced.
Most important, he thought, the dream of the confederation would live on as a result of his triumph, and his iron rule would give the great plan its best chance of success. A weak and fragmented Far Stars would one day fall under the empire’s control. And, without his intervention, that day could be years away, perhaps even generations, but Lucerne knew it would come eventually. It might have come already had it not been for the succession of fools and imbeciles banished to the governor’s chair on Galvanus Prime. Lucerne’s greatest fear was that a capable man would inherit the governor’s chair and impose his imperial will on the Far Stars. Such a man would be worse than all the warlords combined, and the people would be bound by the shackles that imprisoned the rest of mankind.
If that dark day arrived, the people on Celtiboria—and one hundred other worlds—wou
ld know totalitarian rule at its worst. They would learn to grovel before their emperor, to beg his indulgence for each day of their miserable lives. They would learn to be slaves.
Lucerne wasn’t naive enough to believe he waged a war of light against darkness. Life was rarely so starkly simple as that. But he knew his regime was the lesser of two evils, and he had dedicated his life to ensuring that the Far Stars remained free of imperial domination. If the people cursed his name when he was gone, if they spit on his grave as they walked by, he would consider it worthwhile—as long as they remained free of the dark regime that held the rest of humanity under its bloody boot.
He had taken the first step by conquering Celtiboria. Now he was hoping to take the next step as he received the Antillean emissary.
Lucerne stood rigidly erect as his visitors approached, covering his discomfort with a show of military correctness. His tension and discipline created a reasonable facsimile of respect for the Antillean emissary now making his way forward through the cheering throngs.
He stepped forward as his guest of honor approached, smiling and extending his hand. “Welcome to Celtiboria, Lord Lancaster. We are greatly honored by your presence.”
The diplomat wore an exquisitely tailored black suit with a white vest and long tails, the height of Antillean formal fashion. He reached out and clasped Lucerne’s hand. “It is my honor, Marshal Lucerne, to finally meet you and to congratulate you on your great victory. I am certain that Celtiboria is at the dawn of a golden age now that she is free of the rule of the vicious warlords.”
Lucerne smiled. He felt a rush of cynical amusement. Lancaster was the wealthiest man on Antilles, and possibly in the entirety of the Far Stars. His many industrial concerns had made millions importing weapons and equipment for Celtiboria’s “vicious” warlords as well as Lucerne’s own forces. He bit back on a surge of anger when he thought of how many of his men had been killed by those imported Antillean—Lancaster—guns and vehicles. That rage would serve no purpose now, and without Antillean support, the confederation would be stillborn, and the sacrifices of all those who’d fallen would be for naught. He broadened his smile and said, “My humble thanks to you, Lord Lancaster, for your kind words.”