by Jay Allan
“There appears to be a considerable movement of troops toward the front lines, Ace. It is a reasonable assumption that the intensity of the conflict has increased.” Katarina was walking behind him, and she spoke softly, for his ears only. “We may have great difficulty crossing between the two armies, especially if they’re heavily engaged.”
Ace nodded. “According to the coordinates Shira sent us, the manor house is behind the extreme left of the nobles’ battle line, just southeast of the primary combat zone. It looks like the troop densities are lower in that area.” He was walking forward, trying not to look out of place as he spoke softly. “If we continue to move west now instead of south toward the front, we may find an easier location to cross.”
“I agree, Ace, though we should be prepared in the event we are questioned about our destination.” She was right behind him, speaking softly into his ear. “Virtually all troop movements are to the south, and we may draw attention to ourselves by marching west.”
He hadn’t thought of that. “We’ll just have to deal with that if it happens.” He took a quick look around. No one seemed to be paying them any undue attention, at least not yet. Ace knew all his people would fight if they had to, but they were in the middle of an enemy army. If their cover was blown, he knew they were well and truly screwed.
Katarina slipped back to a more normal interval for marching soldiers. She had her hair tied up tightly under her hat, and her face was crusted with dried red mud. Her perfectly manicured fingers were hidden inside coarse woolen gloves, and she walked like a lumbering farmhand, with none of the graceful elegance with which she typically carried herself. She looked more like a Saragossan peasant woman conscripted into the army than Ace or any of the crew would have thought possible. It was easy to write her off as a woman of noble birth and few skills, since that was how she usually presented herself. But Ace was once again reminded that Katarina Venturi was enormously skilled and as deadly dangerous as a Delphian sand viper.
“Assuming we make it through and rescue the captain, have you thought about how we’re going to make it back?” Doc was walking next to Katarina, right behind Ace, looking uncomfortable in his brown fatigues. The Claw’s resident scholar tended to look more like a professor at an archaeological dig than a soldier, and he didn’t make a very convincing peasant-conscript on close inspection. “Do we even try? Or do we head off to the south, and find a place to hide until the Claw gets back?”
Ace hadn’t thought of that, either. He’d been focused on rescuing Blackhawk, and he realized he didn’t have a plan for what to do if the mission was a success. It would take Lucas at least three weeks to get to Celtiboria and back, maybe four. The small supply dump they’d hidden near the Claw’s landing area was hundreds of kilometers away, and on the other side of the two warring armies. The buggy was almost certainly in enemy hands by now. They had no supplies in place, no food but what they had in their packs, no camping gear. So even if they managed to link up with Shira, and by some miracle they got Blackhawk out, they’d be on the run, with no place to go and almost a month before they had any hope of rescue.
He sighed. There was no point in worrying about what he couldn’t change. There hadn’t been time to make better arrangements, and even if there had been, they had no way to get supplies across the battlefield. Ace had hoped to find Blackhawk hiding somewhere near the spaceport, not clear across no-man’s-land in some Saragossan noble’s château, but the gods of fortune were playing with them all. Getting Blackhawk out of that place, that was job one. He’d worry about what to do after that if they survived that.
“I’ve got a plan,” Ace said without hesitation, moving steadily forward to cut off any more questions from Doc.
He wasn’t the Claw’s resident con man for nothing.
“Shira?” Ace was creeping forward through the ruined farmland, the rest of the crew following in single file. They had been marching for hours, struggling to remain hidden as they slipped through the lines of both armies. He moved slowly, cautiously. They’d come too far to be careless now.
Ace and Sarge were in the lead, wearing gray-and-black camo fatigues, uniforms stripped from two dead mercenaries. They hadn’t had time to ambush an entire patrol as they had before, so the others still wore their Revolutionary Army garb. Ace had tied them all up—loosely—and they slipped through the nobles’ lines masquerading as two soldiers escorting a group of prisoners to the rear.
They’d been questioned by one suspicious officer along the way, wondering why they had taken captives when the orders were to shoot any revolutionaries who surrendered. Ace had been quick in telling the inquisitive captain they’d been sent out to bring back prisoners for questioning. He wasn’t sure the officer was buying it until he mentioned they were heading for the château and gave him the coordinates. Ace wasn’t sure why, but the officer accepted that right away and let them pass. Who else is at that château? he thought. What the hell have we stepped in?
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, at least by the standards of prowling around behind enemy lines. The grounds of the château were quiet. They’d seen two guard patrols in the distance, but they hadn’t had any trouble eluding them. They’d seen a column of fieldworkers walking back from the field south of the manor, but they turned off and headed toward a cluster of outbuildings.
He stopped every few meters and looked around. It was almost dusk, and a heavy fog was settling in. The reduced visibility was helpful for stealth, but it wasn’t making it any easier to find Shira. He took another dozen steps and stopped again. “Shira?”
“Ace, over here.” The soft voice came from inside a small building, probably an old well house or storeroom.
He turned and moved quickly to the building, ducking behind it and waving for the others to follow. There was a thin line of trees just to the south, making the ground right behind the structure a good place to hide.
The building was small, and it was in poor repair, but it was made of solid stone and it looked strongly built. His mind was constantly evaluating the defensiveness of their positions, even though he knew it didn’t much matter. Sure, they could hold out for a long time if they got into a firefight, but then they’d never get inside to rescue Ark. Stealth was still their best chance to stay alive, to get the captain back.
Ace motioned for the rest of the party to take cover behind the building, and he slipped around the side and through the small wooden door. He stepped inside and stopped dead. There was something hard pressing against his back. It felt like a knife.
“Shira, if that’s you, cut the shit.” He turned his head slowly, not wanting to make any sudden moves.
“Can’t be too careful, Ace.” Shira’s voice was raw, hoarse. “I’ve been dodging farmworkers and guards since I got here.” She pulled the blade away from Ace’s back.
Ace turned around. Shira looked like hell. She’d been up for three straight days, and her haggard expression showed her fatigue. Her face was drawn and haggard, and she was covered in dirt. “Chrono’s dick, Shira, you look like you’re about to fall over.” He pulled the sack off his back and opened the flap. He rummaged around for a few seconds and pulled out a stack of nutrition bars, handing them over to Shira. “Eat something. You’re not going to do us—or Ark—any good if you keel over.” He pulled the canteen off his belt and set it down next to her.
“Thanks, Ace.” She tore open one of the bars and downed it in two quick bites. “I didn’t expect to get dragged halfway across the planet chasing Ark.” She grabbed the canteen and took a long gulp.
“Eat them all.” He motioned to the two remaining bars. “We’ve got more, and you need the strength.” He turned and walked back to the door, taking a careful look before he stepped out and waved for the others to come inside. He held the door open as they ducked in, one after the other.
He came back inside and sat down on a large section of pipe. “So, Shira, did you manage to find a way in?”
She nodded, chewing quickly
and swallowing the chunk of nutrition bar she’d just bitten. “Yes,” she said, her mouth still half full. “I think I found one.” She stared at Ace, her eyes grim with determination. “And I think it’s high time we got the captain back, don’t you?”
Blackhawk stared back at Carano, his face expressionless. He was suspended from the ceiling by his arms, and his bare chest and back were covered with bloody marks where the barbed tips of Carano’s whip had torn into his flesh. He refused to scream or beg for mercy. None of it would change anything, and he wouldn’t give his tormenter the satisfaction. Arkarin Blackhawk knew he was likely to meet his end in this room, and if that was his fate, he’d resolved to die well. He felt fear of course—no one was immune to fear and pain—but Blackhawk had been ready to face death for a very long time.
Besides, his crew would be safe by now, and Astra on her way back to Celtiboria. At the thought of Astra, a smile crept on his face, pushing through the fear and pain. If he had to die for something, saving Astra was a reason that gave him contentment. It’s a cliché, but there are some things worth dying for.
“You are a brave man, Blackhawk, I will give you that. But why don’t you let all of this end?” There was exhaustion in Carano’s voice.
The general shook his head. “If you would just contact your associates and arrange for future weapons shipments to come to my men instead of the revolutionaries, we can stop this unpleasantness right now. You can remain with us as a hostage until the deliveries arrive, under much more comfortable circumstances, and then you will be released.”
Blackhawk just silently stared back at Carano. Throughout the hours he’d endured, the captain had yet to make a sound, and the only reactions were the occasional smile. He could tell the merc’s bitterness and desire for vengeance were waning, leaving an almost desperate tone to his words.
Blackhawk sighed, but remained silent. He knew Carano wasn’t going to believe anything he said.
He turned his head, looking around the room. Carano had been careless a few times, coming close enough for Blackhawk to make a move. The mercenary general had no idea of the physical capabilities Blackhawk’s enhanced genetics provided him. But the right moment hadn’t come. Killing Carano did no good, not as long as the guards had time to react. Sure, Blackhawk could have wrapped his chained legs around Carano’s head more than once, snapping the mercenary’s neck in an instant. But he’d never have worked his way out of his chains before the guards took him down with their fire.
Being gunned down in an escape attempt was certainly preferable to staying in place and being tortured to death, but Blackhawk didn’t think that way. From his earliest memories, he’d been trained, educated—even conditioned—to fight for survival, for victory. It wasn’t in him to give up, not when there was the slightest hope, not even to spare himself from pain and torment.
Carano shook his head again. “Your reputation for stubbornness is well earned, Blackhawk, but it will avail you nothing. You will break eventually, so why stretch this out? Just tell me how I can reach your compatriots, and we can work out the terms of your release.”
“Carano, I already told you I did not bring those weapons shipments to Saragossa. That is imperial ordnance, brought here on an imperial spy ship.” He stared at Carano, his eyes half-open slits on his swollen face. “You saw that ship. Did it look like the vessel of a Far Stars smuggler?” Blackhawk took a raspy breath. “Do you think I care who wins the war to control this festering shithole? If I was running imperial guns, I’d be happy to sell them to your side, especially since you’ve probably got more money to pay for them.”
Blackhawk paused, taking a deep, labored breath. “Did you think about that? If the revolutionaries are getting those weapons from a smuggler, how are they paying for them? You’re a military man. How much are those weapons worth? How did the revolutionaries afford them? With tons of concrete and lengths of steel?
“And if I had a shipment of imperial weaponry to sell, why would I bring it to Saragossa in the first place? There are buyers all over the Far Stars who would pay twenty times what anyone on this godforsaken rock could manage.”
Carano was silent, staring back at Blackhawk with an uncertain look on his face. Blackhawk knew he’d gotten his adversary wondering.
“If I were you, Carano, I wouldn’t be worried about me. I’d be worried about why the empire was equipping my enemy.”
Blackhawk saw his chance. Carano was deep in thought, considering what he had just heard. He was standing just close enough. Even the guards had strange expressions on their faces, probably fear from the sudden realization that their enemies might be backed by the empire itself. There would never be a better opportunity. He sucked in a deep breath and quickly swung his legs up and over Carano’s head, pulling the chain tight around the mercenary’s neck. The guards were taken by surprise, but they reacted swiftly, rushing forward with guns drawn.
“Stay back,” Blackhawk rasped. He pulled his legs back, tightening his grip on Carano. “Or I’ll break his neck.”
The guards hesitated, uncertain what to do. They were Black Helms soldiers, Carano’s men, and they didn’t want to take a chance on getting their leader killed.
“Step back.” Blackhawk stared at the guards as they ignored his command and stayed put. He pulled his legs up sharply, tightening the grip on Carano’s neck. The mercenary general let out a sharp gasp, and his soldiers moved back, obeying Blackhawk’s orders.
“Now put your guns down.”
The soldiers hesitated for another instant, but then they complied, leaning down and setting their rifles on the floor.
“All your weapons.” Blackhawk stared down at them, his eyes moving over their bodies. “Take off your coats, and drop your packs too.”
The two men followed Blackhawk’s orders, throwing down their packs and the pistols they had strapped under their coats.
“Now, turn around and face the wall.” Blackhawk waited a few seconds then added, “Do it! Now!” He pulled his legs hard again, and Carano gasped. The guards turned slowly. “Walk toward the wall.”
Blackhawk waited until the two men were standing against the far wall of the room, facing away from him. Then he pulled himself up hard, twisting his arms and pulling the chains up and over the hook that held him suspended in place. He unhooked his legs from Carano’s neck as he fell, spinning around and landing on top of the mercenary.
Carano tried to pull away, but the impact of Blackhawk falling on him pushed him to the floor. The two men scuffled for an instant, but Blackhawk looped his chained hands over Carano’s head and pulled his opponent back into a tight hold.
“Back!” he yelled. He had to give the guards credit—they had started to move to intervene as soon as they heard the commotion. They just weren’t going to be faster than Blackhawk, which he definitely counted on. “One move, and your boss is a dead man.” The two mercs stopped in their tracks, staring intently at Blackhawk, but making no moves toward him. Their eyes darted from Carano to Blackhawk and back again.
“Now go grab two of those sets of shackles.” When they didn’t move right away, Blackhawk pulled the chain tighter around Carano’s neck. “Now!”
The guards turned and walked over to the table, and each one grabbed a pair of the tempered steel shackles. They turned back and looked at Blackhawk. They knew what he was going to order them to do, but they waited to hear it.
“Throw the keys over here.” Blackhawk watched as they obeyed his command. He loosened his grip slightly, giving Carano a bit more air. “Now shackle yourselves to that column.” Blackhawk moved his head, gesturing toward a heavy masonry support in the middle of the room. The two guards looked at each other then back toward Carano, still held fast in Blackhawk’s grip. They moved slowly toward the support, clasping the shackles around their hands and feet and wrapping the chains around the column. When they were done, they looked back at Blackhawk, their expressions miserable, defeated.
“This is insane, Blackhawk.” Th
e mercenary general’s voice was quiet, raspy. “Where are you going to go? There are guards everywhere.”
Blackhawk smiled. “I know that, General.” He took a step, reaching for the keys to unlock his chains. “That’s why you’re coming with me.”
CHAPTER 27
“ALL UNITS ARE TO ADVANCE WITHOUT PAUSE.” GENERAL PETYA Tellurin stood outside his headquarters watching the lines of fresh troops streaming forward. It had been a bloody day, the most costly since the revolution began seven years before, but First Comrade Talin had been clear. “The orders are attack. Attack, attack, attack.”
“Yes, General.” Captain Josef Vernisky saluted sharply. Tellurin’s aide was disheveled, his uniform torn and covered in mud. He’d been up to the front half a dozen times, scouting for Tellurin and personally delivering important orders. “The batteries are running low on ammunition, sir. They have requested resupply from supreme headquarters several times, but no convoys have arrived.”
“Very well, Captain. See to relaying my attack order, and I will check on the supply situation for the artillery units.”
Vernisky saluted and ran toward the communications tent. Tellurin watched him go, but he made no move to contact headquarters. He knew why there were no resupply convoys coming. It was because there was no ammunition to bring up. The combat of the past several days had been unexpected, and its intensity unprecedented. The constant savage fighting had burned through the army’s entire stockpile of heavy ammunition. Soon, his batteries would fall silent, and his men on the front lines would have to continue their grueling advance without artillery support. Casualties would ramp up from their already catastrophic levels, but there was nothing to be done about that. He had his orders, and they were crystal clear. Attack.