Shadow of Empire

by Jay Allan

  Tens of thousands were dead already, but still the army moved relentlessly forward. There was no point in retreat, nothing to be gained by fleeing. First Comrade Talin had decreed that any who failed in their duty to the revolution would be shot down like dogs, and the elite units of the Red Guards were positioned behind the advancing lines, their emplaced autocannons ready to deal out death to any who faltered. They had carried through on that threat several times, and word swept through the army. The soldiers knew they had two choices, victory or death.

  The Revolutionary Army forces were poorly trained and equipped compared to their mercenary adversaries, but Talin had ordered all reserves forward, and they outnumbered the forces of the nobles five or ten to one in many areas. Slowly, with great bloodshed, they pushed forward, driving against the mercenary lines until they were on the verge of collapse.

  Tellurin didn’t know if his manpower would hold out long enough to break the enemy position and win the battle, but he knew he had no alternative but to press the attack to the last man. The image of General Varig forced to his knees by Revolutionary Army operatives and shot in the back of the head was still vivid in his mind. He’d been Varig’s second in command, and he had numbered the general among his few true friends. But there had been nothing he could do to save Varig, and he knew he’d have faced the same fate or worse if he hadn’t followed the first comrade’s orders to the letter.

  He could hear the sounds of battle from the front lines, and he watched the columns moving silently forward. The soldiers moving up now were practically children; Tellurin would have guessed half of them were fifteen or younger. Talin was sending half-trained recruits up now, struggling to pour more numbers into the battle, whatever it took to break the exhausted and overextended mercenary armies.

  He turned and walked back toward the main HQ tent. There were three companies deployed in a small field just behind the headquarters. They were veteran formations, armed with the last of the imperial weapons remaining after the battles against the rebel splinter group. They were Tellurin’s reserve, the sharp point to lead the breakthrough that would win the battle. He’d been holding them back, waiting for the right moment, but he knew his army was almost out of strength, his exhausted soldiers driven almost as far as fear could push them.

  It was time for the final, all-out assault. He’d studied the map. The heaviest fighting had been along a line from the eastern edge of the field to the center, but the richest areas controlled by the nobles lay to the west. That was where he would attack with the last of his reserves. Along the western edge of the battle line and through to the rich estates beyond.

  Blackhawk walked slowly down the corridor, limping badly and gritting his teeth as he pressed forward. His captors had given him quite a working over, and his back hurt like fire. He held a blade to Carano’s throat, shoving the captive mercenary in front of him as he stumbled slowly down the damp, stone hallway.

  “Be reasonable, Blackhawk.” Carano’s voice was hoarse, and his stress was obvious. “You’ll never get out of here alive like this. But we can still make a deal.”

  “There is no time for deals, General.” Actually, he thought, I’ve probably got all the time in the world. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Sam had gotten the core installed. The Claw was on its way back to Celtiboria, and he was stuck on Saragossa. Blackhawk’s plan was sorely lacking in sophistication. He intended to get out of the château and find someplace to hide. That was as far as he’d gotten, and he had no idea what his next step would be. He probably had a month to kill . . . or more likely, be killed, since that was a long time to stay alive and out of sight in a war zone, with no supplies or equipment. Still, it would all be moot if he didn’t find his way out of this cellar first.

  Blackhawk shoved his captive forward and shuffled down the corridor to the next intersection. He was pretty sure none of Carano’s men had gotten off any kind of alarm, but he knew there had to be scanning and security devices emplaced in the cellar and, if there were, he was likely to have company soon. He wanted to get as far as he could before that happened. The place looked like an ancient dungeon, but he suspected that was an illusion. He was sure Elisabetta’s home and headquarters would be advanced in terms of security, and that would apply doubly to the prisons and torture chambers in the lower levels. Lady Lementov didn’t strike Blackhawk as the trusting type.

  “Where are my things?” Blackhawk followed up the question with a hard knee to Carano’s back.

  The mercenary groaned, but he didn’t answer until he felt Blackhawk’s hand press the blade tighter to his neck. “Around the corner. Second door on the right.”

  Blackhawk held the knife tightly against Carano’s throat, and the mercenary let out a yelp as he twitched slightly and a small trickle of blood dripped over the blade. “Any guards in the room? There’s no point in lying. Nothing in that room can take me out before I slit your throat.”

  “There shouldn’t be anyone in there.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right.” He pushed ahead and peered around the corner before he spun around, shoving Carano in front of him. He walked slowly down the hallway, stopping at the second door. “Open it.”

  Carano reached out and turned the handle with his shackled wrists, pushing the door forward into the room. Blackhawk peered into the dimly lit chamber, looking and listening for anyone who might be hiding inside. When he was satisfied, he gave Carano another push, and the two slipped through the door.

  The room was small, perhaps four meters square, with a single light hanging loosely from the ceiling. There was an old wooden table in the middle of the room, and a series of chests with drawers along the far wall. Blackhawk was about to ask where his things were when he saw the hilt of his sword sticking out from under a pile of items on the table.

  He shoved Carano forward, and he grabbed his sword with his free hand. He used the blade to poke through the pile of items, finding his belt and holstered pistol on the bottom. He laid the sword down and pulled the pistol out from its place on his belt. He examined it, checking to make sure it hadn’t been unloaded or otherwise tampered with. When he was satisfied, he pulled the blade from Carano’s neck and threw the mercenary across the room.

  He aimed the pistol at Carano’s head. “There, I think that’s more comfortable, don’t you?” He sat down on the edge of the table and stared at his captive. “Now, you and I are going to take a little walk, General. So if you would be so kind, please describe the quickest way out of this château and we can be on our way.”

  “Chrono’s dick, it stinks in here.” Ace was in the lead, crawling through the twenty centimeters of muck pooled along the bottom of the heavy concrete pipe. The conduit was part of the ancient water system for the château, long since replaced with more modern facilities. Modern, by Saragossan standards, at least. He stopped and pulled up one hand, shaking off the slimy residue of fifty years of rotting leaves and rat shit.

  “Stop whining. It’s a way in with nobody shooting at your precious ass, isn’t it?” Shira’s voice was stronger than it had been an hour before. The nutrition bars had given her a jolt of energy, and Ace half regretted getting her all jacked up. There were times he suspected an exhausted, half-starved Shira would be preferable, but not when they were going into a fight.

  “At least it’s not a sewer. You could be crawling through a river of shit right now.”

  Ace flipped his hand again, sending a spray of black water and dark gray sludge flying into the walls of the pipe. “It stinks just as bad.” He took a shallow breath and started forward again.

  They had come at least a hundred meters, and Ace figured they had another fifty to seventy-five to go. None of them knew where the abandoned conduit entered the manor house, but it seemed like the best way in. Even if they had to blast open a sealed-off entrance, at least they’d already be inside when they gave themselves away.

  The pipe was only wide enough for one person abreast, so they were in a long line, with Ace in
the lead and Shira right behind him. Katarina was next, followed by Doc and then Sarge and his men. The noncom had pushed to take the lead position, but Ace insisted on being in the front. He knew Sarge was going to struggle mightily to crawl so far with his wounded shoulder, and he didn’t want him up front in case there was trouble.

  Ace had looked back a few times to check on Katarina. It was an involuntary response, one he knew was foolish. She was keeping up, no problem—if anything, he realized, she could run them all into the ground. She looked so much like a pampered noblewoman, it was hard to remember sometimes just what a deadly killer she was. Of course, he thought, that’s the point.

  He pushed forward into the covering darkness, only the small light stuck on his shoulder to show the way. The pipe was heading steadily down, into the lower levels beneath the château. With any luck, they’d come up in some mechanical area in the cellar, and they’d be able to sneak upstairs and begin the search for Blackhawk. Then they would grab him and make a break for it.

  They crawled forward for another ten minutes before Ace stopped abruptly. He flipped off the small lantern on his shoulder and stared straight ahead. There was a dim light about twenty meters forward.

  “Stay put, all of you,” he whispered back to Shira, motioning with his head for her to pass the message back. Ace had no idea where the light was coming from or if anyone was there, but he intended to find out.

  Shira stared back for a second, looking like she might argue with him. Ace knew she didn’t like staying behind—not after she’d spent so long waiting around outside and especially with Blackhawk’s life on the line. Just trust me, Shira.

  A second later, she nodded and turned to relay the command.

  Ace crept forward slowly, trying to be as quiet as he could. The light was getting a little brighter, and he could get a better view. There was a grate ahead covering the pipe, and it looked like a room beyond.

  He scrambled the rest of the way. The grate was loose over the end of the pipe, heavily rusted and bent at an angle. He looked through into the room. It was about four meters square, with a rough stone floor, and a small light in the ceiling. It was old and musty, and it felt deserted. There were standing pools of water in low spots on the uneven floor. He stopped and listened carefully, but the only thing he could hear was a steady drip of water streaming down out of the pipe.

  He gave the grate a gentle shove. It moved easily, and the top section ripped halfway out of the crumbling masonry of the wall, sending chunks of broken concrete tumbling down into the puddles below.

  Ace pulled his arm back abruptly, peering around the room again, satisfying himself it was empty. He turned as far as he could in the tight confines of the pipe and he flipped his small light back on, waving it around, signaling for the others to come forward. He turned back and peered through the grate until he could feel Shira move up behind him.

  “The room looks empty.” He angled his head and spoke softly. “I think the grate’s loose enough for me to knock off, but it’s going to make a lot of noise when it hits the floor.” He took a deep breath. “Get ready, and be on my heels.”

  “I’m there, Ace. Ready when you are.” Her voice was calm, serious. There was no banter between them now, no rivalry. This was it. They were going in there to get Blackhawk, and nothing else mattered. “Ready when you are.”

  Ace nodded and turned back to the grate. He gripped it hard with both hands and pushed. It moved easily at first, and two of the corners tore free of their mountings, sending a small avalanche of broken chunks of concrete to the ground. He shoved again, but one corner wouldn’t budge. The grate pushed out into the room, but the space wasn’t big enough for him to slip through.

  He took a deep breath and lunged forward, pushing himself against the grate as hard as he could. He felt it begin to give. He pulled back and lunged forward again. And again. He felt the metal sliding out of its mounting. One more good push . . . He threw himself forward with all the strength he could muster.

  The last bolt gave way, and the grate tumbled into the room, Ace following right behind. He threw his arms out in front of him, but he fell hard, landing in a puddle of putrid water about ten centimeters deep. He threw himself into a roll, trying to cushion the shock of the impact. He flipped around, coming back up into a prone position and grabbing the pistol from his belt.

  His hands and arms hurt like hell, but he was pretty sure nothing was broken. The grate had hit the ground with a loud crash, though, and Ace’s eyes panned around the room, searching for doors. There was only one, and he stared right at it, his weapon ready in case anyone had heard the crash.

  Shira was down now too, and Katarina as well. If anybody came through that door, they were going to have a hell of a fight on their hands.

  “They’re coming around both flanks, sir. We’ve got to pull back now, or we’ll be surrounded.” Captain Braden had been hit twice, and his uniform was covered with blood. He was in front of Colonel Vulcan, standing as close to attention as his battered and bleeding body could manage.

  Vulcan’s forces had fought like demons, but the revolutionaries just kept coming. They were pushing old men and boys into the lines now, but somehow they kept feeding the bodies forward. The Tiger Company had killed thousands, and the Black Helms and other mercenary forces had performed just as well. But the battle was lost. There were just too many of the enemy, and they kept coming. The only thing he could do now was try to extricate the remnants of the mercenary forces as close to intact as possible. Maybe they could regroup and launch a counterattack, or at least reestablish a strong defensive position, but they needed time. If he didn’t pull them back now, there wouldn’t be any forces left to continue the fight.

  “The Second, Third, and Fourth Squadrons will retreat immediately.” Vulcan’s voice was raw, his throat parched and scratchy. He was injured too, but it was just a flesh wound on his shoulder, nothing bad enough to drive him from the field, especially when his forces were on the verge of disaster. “Order First Squadron to find their best position and dig in. I want those tanks hull down and ready to hold while the rest of the line pulls back.”

  “Yes, sir.” Braden winced in pain as he lifted his arm and pointed to the east. “There’s a strong position half a klick east. Slowly rising ground, very rugged approach. And good ground to dig in the tanks.”

  “Perfect. Send those coordinates to Captain Timmons. And as soon as you relay the orders, get to the field hospital.” Vulcan stared at his aide. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

  “I’m fine, sir. I can . . .”

  “If you’re fine, obey my orders. Relay my commands, and go get yourself tended to, understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” The officer nodded and hurried off to the east.

  Vulcan sighed, looking around at the chaos of the battle. Oily plumes of smoke rose from the other side of the small ridge to his front. He knew what those black columns meant. Each of them was one of his tanks burning, its crew probably incinerated inside their stricken war machine.

  The Tiger Company had been renowned for its armor, and it possessed more tanks than any other mercenary force in the Far Stars. It had, Vulcan corrected himself. He had armed and equipped his troops so superbly, they were accustomed to quickly overwhelming the enemies they faced. He’d taken the contract on Saragossa because it seemed like just the sort of job for his Tigers. He’d expected his massive tanks to terrify and overwhelm the rebels, but by the time they arrived, the revolutionaries had taken most of the cities and industry, and they’d managed to put a real army in the field.

  When Vulcan received the original contract offer, Saragossa had been dealing with localized peasant rebellions. By the time he arrived, it had become a worldwide revolution, and the peasants he’d expected to sweep away had hundreds of thousands of troops under arms. The fast, profitable war he’d imagined turned into a protracted stalemate, and when the transport guilds redlined the system, his people were trapped. They’d become as
dependent on victory as the Saragossan nobles who had hired them.

  Still, for all the unexpected difficulties of the campaign, he’d never expected to see his men in wholesale retreat. They had lost many of their precious tanks already, and Vulcan had no idea how he would replace the casualties—either the veteran soldiers themselves or the expensive fighting vehicles. He wasn’t even sure the Tiger Company would get off Saragossa at all.

  He looked out to the east. His First Squadron would be forming up along the position Braden had scouted, following his orders to dig in and hold. He wondered if they realized he was sacrificing them to save the rest of the forces. There were good men in that unit, loyal soldiers who’d served with him for years. He hated the cold-blooded decision to expend them as if they were some inanimate resource. But if he didn’t buy time somehow, the entire army would be flanked and destroyed. In the end, it came down to numbers, as it always seemed to.

  He turned away. He could hear the enemy shells hitting the positions over the ridge. With any luck, it would take them a while to finish off the First Squadron. Long enough, he hoped, to get everyone else bugged out.

  He turned and headed for the communications tent. Someone had to warn General Carano and Lady Lementov that they had enemy forces breaking through. The château was no longer safe, and they had to pull back immediately. That call was his to make, his duty to his ally and his employer. He just hoped he got to them in time. The revolutionaries would probably just kill Carano if they captured him, but Elisabetta Lementov faced a far worse end, especially once they realized who she was.

  Ace took a deep breath. He’d been staring at the door for at least a minute, and he realized he’d been holding his breath. Shira and Katarina were standing next to him, their weapons ready, but no one came. Finally he walked across the room and put his ear to the door. It was thick wood, and he wasn’t sure he’d hear anything even if someone was out there. Still, the silence was reassuring.