by Jay Allan
“No, Admiral. He suspects the vessel reentered the atmosphere and landed almost immediately after liftoff.”
“Perhaps they detected Drax’s vessel and returned to the surface to avoid interception.” But maybe it was Blackhawk’s ship, he thought, trying to escape back to the planet after scanning the pirate ship. It made sense, at least as much as any other explanation.
I hope . . .
But there was reason to hope. Kharn hadn’t expected to find any ships at all in the system. Saragossa was the only inhabited planet, and it was redlined. The locals didn’t have any vessels of their own, so finding anything at all in orbit was a surprise, one that aroused justifiable suspicion.
He sighed. The question was: Did Drax actually spot the Wolf’s Claw? The logic was sound. He knew he’d hit the Claw in the last skirmish, and Saragossa would have been a short jump for a wounded ship to make from Kalishar.
But it still didn’t feel right. For one thing, Blackhawk wouldn’t have run from a single ship. Indeed, Drax’s Black Lightning wouldn’t stand a chance in a one-on-one battle against Wolf’s Claw. Kharn knew its capabilities dwarfed those of any one—or even two or three—of his own vessels. If it was indeed the Claw that Drax had spotted, why hadn’t it simply destroyed him and escaped into hyperspace? There would have been more than enough time.
So why run from one ship he could easily defeat and slip back down to the planet where he would be trapped?
The admiral couldn’t be sure. But this was the first real lead they’d found in weeks, and time was running out. It was a risk, but a calculated one. He cued up his comm.
“Order all ships to assemble at”—he paused, looking at the system plot on his workstation—“coordinates 347.652.111.” That was far enough from the planet to avoid any surprises. If he was dealing with Arkarin Blackhawk and Wolf’s Claw, he wanted everything he had concentrated and ready.
Hope gave way to a rush of excitement. He’d had a cold pit in his stomach for days, wondering what fate awaited him if he was unable to find Blackhawk. He had considered his task to be a hopeless one, searching the vastness of space for one of the most elusive smugglers in the Far Stars. Now he began to wonder if luck was finally on his side. Kharn sat and thought. He knew it was still a long shot that Drax had detected the Claw. Maybe he’d picked up some kind of natural anomaly. Or maybe the Saragossans did have a ship of their own. Information on backwater worlds like Saragossa was often inaccurate and outdated. It could even have been a smuggler or freighter making a special run. There was always someone willing to carry goods if the price was high enough. Perhaps it was a cargo ship that detected Drax’s pirate vessel and rushed back to the relative safety of the planet’s surface.
But Kharn had been a pirate a long time, and he had gotten there by instinct as much as skill. Those instincts were telling him now that Drax had found Wolf’s Claw. Yes, the scanning data was incomplete. But the estimated mass was in the same range as Wolf’s Claw, and coupled with everything else, Kharn was hopeful this was the break they needed.
He stared over at Nimbus. “Captain Drax is to enter Saragossa orbit and scan for any liftoffs.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Entering orbit put Drax in a difficult spot if Wolf’s Claw did launch from the surface. He might not be able to pull away in time to avoid combat, and a one-on-one fight withBlackhawk’s ship was not one Drax was likely to survive. Unless, of course, the Claw was still damaged, its weapons systems offline. None of that mattered to Kharn, though. He wasn’t about to let Blackhawk escape again, and Drax and his ship were expendable if need be.
Kharn stared down at his screen, at the projected courses of his ships. It would take a little over six hours to concentrate the fleet. Then he would position them to cover every angle of escape from Saragossa. Arkarin Blackhawk had gotten past him once, but not this time. If that had been Wolf’s Claw Drax detected—and there was less and less doubt it was—its flight back to Celtiboria would end right here, in the empty space around Saragossa.
General Mak Wilhelm hated hyperspace. Hate was barely a strong enough word to describe how much he detested every faster-than-light journey he’d ever taken. Many people found the alien nature of the alternate space uncomfortable, with symptoms ranging from headaches to nausea, even death in a small percentage. Most of these effects were physical and, at least in the 99 percent who survived the transition, they were relatively tolerable.
It was different for Wilhelm. He felt the effects in his head, experiencing waking nightmares that tore at his very sanity. He saw strange visions, unimaginable horrors, creatures he could only remember in vague terms afterward, as though they were impossible to perceive or render in normal space. He had never been able to comprehend if he was seeing creations of his own mind or images of something hideous and alien that dwelled in the alternate dimension humans used for faster-than-light travel.
He’d learned to handle the visions, to compartmentalize them to a point, but he still dreaded every jump. He’d gone fearlessly into battle, engaged in life-and-death missions as an imperial spy, fought in hand-to-hand combat with deadly enemies—all without a moment’s hesitation. But his hands shook uncontrollably when a jump was imminent. He clamped down on the terror he felt with iron discipline, but it was always there, just below the surface.
“Approaching the Saragossa system, General.” The comm officer’s voice was crisp, at least by the standards of interdimensional travel. No one performed at their best in hyperspace, not even hard-core spacers.
“I want all weapons stations manned, Lieutenant.” Wilhelm didn’t expect to encounter any hostiles, but he was a cautious man, one who became downright paranoid when he was fending off the demons that assaulted him in hyperspace.
“Yes, General.” The lieutenant leaned forward and flipped on the intraship comm. “All crews, man your turrets.” He flipped a switch, and the battle stations’ lamps came on, casting a red hue throughout the control room.
One at a time, six indicator lights on his workstation switched from white to red, signaling the readiness of each of the vessel’s weapons stations. “All weapon systems report ready, General,” the lieutenant said. “Estimated time to transition back to normal space, one minute.”
Wilhelm nodded and took a deep breath. One minute. Then he could bid the horrors of hyperspace good-bye, at least for a while. And he would see what was happening on Saragossa—and why his agent had suddenly gone silent.
CHAPTER 26
TALIN STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GRAND HEADQUARTERS OF the Revolutionary Army, looking out over the officers and soldiers at their various stations. He wore his uniform, but his appearance was messy and disheveled and he stank of brandy. He’d taken a cold shower and downed a pot of coffee, but he could still feel the fuzziness in his head. He’d been on an epic drunk the past few days, and he was still clawing his way back to mental clarity.
He looked up at the ceiling, thirty meters above where he stood. The walls were two meters of reinforced concrete. The structure had been an asphalt plant before the rebellion—a dirty, grimy, cheerless place where serfs like him had worked grueling twelve-hour shifts for their masters. The plant was a good reminder, he thought, of what had precipitated the revolution.
Its thick walls and sturdy construction also made it an ideal choice for its current use, and its location on the southern perimeter of New Vostok facilitated easy communication with the front lines fifteen kilometers to the south. There were other war zones on Saragossa, and other outposts of the Revolutionary Army, but the largest forces and bitterest fighting had been right here, in the vicinity of the capital. Whoever won the final battle here, all sides knew, would win the war.
“First Comrade Talin, General Varig reports that the enemy has begun to withdraw across the entire front line.” The communications officer stood at attention as he addressed Talin, a hint of fear in tone. Talin knew that there had been hushed whispers about him, that he had become erratic, violent .
. .
He did nothing to dissuade those rumors.
Just as he did nothing to dissuade the use of “first comrade.” In fact, Talin had created the new title recently to differentiate himself and the other leaders of the revolution from the rank and file. He’d used men loyal to him to spread the new appellation, and wisely, the soldiers had quickly adopted it.
Which is only right, he thought. It was my comrades and I who have fought the longest, made the greatest sacrifices. It is only fair and just we be recognized for our efforts. And me most of all. He was the first comrade, and the others among the inner circle were honored comrades. He’d considered the idea of numbering his senior subordinates as well, but he’d decided a second comrade would be too clearly defined a successor. He didn’t want to encourage any unhealthy ambitions among his subordinates, at least no more than he suspected existed already. He’d become more and more paranoid after Arn’s betrayal and the schism that divided the revolutionary forces, and he much preferred a murky command structure below him.
“General Varig also reports that he has recovered all the ground lost to the enemy attack, and he is standing in place.”
“No.” Talin’s words echoed off the heavy concrete walls. Every head in the control room turned to look at the leader of the revolution. “General Varig is to pursue and maintain contact with the enemy.”
The room was silent, every eye focused on the supreme commander of the Revolutionary Army. Talin turned his head and looked around the cavernous chamber, his eyes wild with fervor. “I issued a command!” he roared. “General Varig is to continue his attack. He is to pursue the enemy wherever they flee, and he is not to stop until they are destroyed utterly.” He took a few steps forward, turning to look out over the thirty or more officers present. “It is time. Time at long last for the revolution to achieve its final victory.”
“Yes, First Comrade.” The communications officer turned and moved quickly back toward his station, putting his headset on and relaying Talin’s orders to the field headquarters.
Talin stood in the center of the room, watching the rest of the men and women present scramble back to their workstations. He could tell his presence unnerved them. He knew they were scared of him. That was one of the burdens to be borne by the leader of the revolution. There was no place for pointless mercy, no pity for those unwilling to sacrifice whatever was necessary to secure the victory of the people. He was willing to do all that . . . and more.
The communications officer pulled off his headset and walked toward Talin. “First Comrade, General Varig advises he has suffered massive casualties in repelling the enemy attack.” The communications officer spoke softly, his voice now openly quivering with fear. “He has over one hundred thousand killed and wounded, and he is low on supplies and ammunition.” The officer paused and swallowed hard. “He advises that a continued offensive is not possible at this time.”
Talin stared back at the cringing officer, his eyes wild with madness. “Contact General Tellurin. He is hereby promoted to field command of the Revolutionary Army. General Varig is to be arrested and summarily executed, and General Tellurin is to lead the offensive as per my previous orders.”
He looked around the room. Everywhere, the staff officers gazed back timidly, though Talin was blind to their surprise and revulsion. He saw them as fools, weaklings unwilling to take the steps revolution required. They couldn’t understand the burdens he bore, but that didn’t matter. None of them dared to oppose him for fear of being the next one purged.
“It is time!” he shouted. “After seven years of stalemate, after hundreds of thousands dead and the lands laid waste, our chance for victory is upon us.”
He walked around the room, waving his hands as he spoke. “The enemy suffered mightily to launch their great attack, expending vast quantities of their limited supply of weapons and ammunition. Now is our chance.”
He turned back to the communications officer. “All units are to move forward to reinforce our brave men and women at the front. The reserve units, the remnants of the enhanced units. All the training cadres are to advance. Let all who can carry a rifle march to the fight to win the victory for our great revolution. And all who fail in their duty, who falter when they are called to the great struggle, let them be crushed beneath our boots, condemned for all time as traitors and cowards.”
He stood for a moment, watching the staff rush to their workstations to carry out his commands. Yes, they are all afraid of me and they think me mad. He turned and walked toward the door. But they will follow my orders, he thought, for they fear me—and I am the avatar of revolution.
“Come now, Captain Blackhawk, surely we can be friends.” Elisabetta was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hand on Blackhawk’s arm. “It is so much more pleasant than the alternative, wouldn’t you say?”
She smiled warmly, but Blackhawk could see through the softness to the iron core below. This was no pampered noblewoman to be bedded and manipulated. She was intelligent, dangerous, a remorseless killer, he imagined, if it served her purposes. He had no doubt being Elisabetta Lementov’s ally offered considerable benefits, and he was just as certain crossing her would unleash the feral animal that lay behind the pleasant and seductive façade.
“Elisa, I desire nothing more than your friendship, but I assure you I had nothing to do with bringing those weapons to Saragossa.” It was odd, he thought, how often the truth seems so unbelievable while a lie appears extremely plausible. Elisabetta was convinced he was behind the flow of imperial weapons to the revolutionaries, and he had no doubt he’d be just as convinced in her shoes.
He’d been identified by an old adversary now in her pay. She knew he was a smuggler, an adventurer, one with connections all over the Far Stars. Sneaking weapons into a warring, redlined planet was precisely the kind of thing he might have done in other circumstances. The argument that this was a coincidence, that he was only there to steal the imperial ship’s hyperdrive core, was hard to believe, and no less far-fetched for its actual truth.
“You make me sad, Arkarin Blackhawk.” She gazed down at him, running her fingers across his chest. “We could be quite a team, I am sure. In so many ways.” She sighed, and he could hear a subtle change in her tone. “But it seems you turn your back on my offer of friendship.” She pulled her hand slowly away. “And you force me to use far less enjoyable methods.” She turned toward the door. “Vladimir, Bascilus.”
The heavy wooden door swung open, and Vladimir Carano stepped into the room, followed by one of Elisabetta’s bodyguards, a muscular man clad in white livery. Carano had shed the plain black fatigues he’d worn for the operation against the spy ship, and he was now clad in the normal field gray uniform of the Black Helms. His heavy boots rapped hard against the oaken floor as he approached Blackhawk’s bedside.
“I must thank you, Captain Blackhawk,” the veteran mercenary said. “Elisabetta insisted on making an attempt to reason with you, but I told her it would be to no avail. Indeed, I tried to warn her that you are an inherently unreasonable man, intractable to the last, but she insisted on trying to convince you to cooperate.”
Blackhawk sighed silently. He recognized the man at once. He and Carano had a past, and their interaction had come to a head with the shedding of blood . . . and that blood had not been Blackhawk’s. He hadn’t expected to run into any friends on Saragossa, but it was just bad luck to stumble on an old enemy with vendetta on his mind. Carano had probably been dreaming of vengeance since the day Blackhawk had taken a chunk out of his shoulder in a duel, back during the clan wars on Mycenia.
“I will repeat myself again for your benefit—what is it, general now?” The merc had commanded only a few hundred soldiers when he and Blackhawk had last crossed paths, and Carano had styled himself a major at the time. “That ship was not mine. It was an imperial operations vessel, and I was only there to steal parts I needed to repair my own ship. I had nothing to do with bringing that ship to Saragossa, and I have no ide
a who did.”
Carano smiled. “Thank you, Captain Blackhawk. I think part of me was afraid Elisabetta’s potent charms and persuasiveness would lure you into cooperation. I am glad to see my assessment of your character was correct.”
There was an edge to Carano’s voice, something beyond just his hatred of Blackhawk. Jealousy? Blackhawk wondered. Is he Elisa’s lover? The beautiful Saragossan noblewoman had virtually offered herself to Blackhawk in return for his cooperation. He suspected that didn’t sit well with Carano, and that would only make things more difficult.
Carano took another step forward. “As I was saying, I was worried Elisabetta might have denied me the pleasure of obtaining the information by, ah . . . other means.” The commander of the Black Helms had a caustic smile on his face, an expression of pure menace.
Blackhawk wondered at the strange nature of the universe, its ability to override the laws of probability to create one difficult situation after another for him to endure. “Well, General Carano, I guess we’re both in for a long day.” He sighed. “Because I don’t know a fucking thing about those weapons or how they got here.”
Ace moved forward deliberately, naturally, with the rest of the crew following behind. He avoided large groups of soldiers, but he didn’t do it obviously, nor did he turn away from every trooper in his path. He knew any suspicious move could give them all away and leave Blackhawk and Shira stranded.
They were wearing coarse brown uniforms, poorly made garments that matched those of the troops moving all around them. The clothing had been stripped from the corpses of the patrol they had slaughtered, and they carried their enemies’ weapons as well, having discarded any of their own gear they couldn’t hide under their coats or stash in their packs. They looked just like the various groups of Revolutionary Army soldiers marching up toward the front.