Shadows of the Gods: Crimson Worlds Refugees II

by Jay Allan

  The Command Unit was old, even more ancient than the Regent itself. Perhaps that was the key to the answer to the puzzle. The humans were the enemy, and they had proven again and again how dangerous they were. They were the Seventh, the last of the ancient genetic strains the Old Ones had hidden on distant worlds. The Old Ones believed they had kept this knowledge from the Regent, but they hadn’t. Six of their manipulated races the Regent had found, long ago, and exterminated. But the Seventh had remained a mystery. Until an alarm reached Home World from a distant and dead colony far on the forgotten fringe.

  The Seventh had grown, evolved into sentient creatures and developed the science to master their world and reach out to others. They were martial creatures, violent, prone to war…and highly skilled at its undertaking. Even more so than the warrior caste of the Old Ones. The Regent had recognized them as a threat immediately, and it had directed the forces of the imperium to destroy them. But they had defeated every plan to bring about their destruction.

  I have underestimated them, the Regent thought. I have sought to defeat them as I would a lesser race, for their technology is inferior and they seemed unable to resist. But they are not inferior…they are the descendants of the Old Ones. They carry in their DNA the greatness of the race that had conquered this whole section of the galaxy…of the species that built the Regent itself.

  The Regent knew it would have to change its strategy. The battle in system 17411 had been a holocaust, and the two fleets had virtually wiped each other out. The struggle with the humans had cost many ships, and the Regent knew it would have to recall reinforcements from farther out on the fringe. Defeating the humans by brute force had been a failure. But there were other strategies.

  The humans had fought on the formerly inhabited world in system 17411. They had left behind weapons, equipment, vehicles…and significant traces of formerly living tissue, samples the Regent had ordered collected and analyzed. The Old Ones had been clever, indeed, worthy of their race’s past. They had altered the DNA they implanted in the humans, rendered their engineered successors immune to the great plague that had destroyed their civilization.

  But the plague itself had been engineered, created by the Regent for a specific purpose. And it could be modified as well.

  In a lab buried deep beneath the crust of Home World, the Regent’s scanners were hard at work, analyzing the human tissue. And there was an experiment in progress. There were living humans, ten of them…clones quickened from the captured genetic material. The Regent had ordered them to be created…and now he watched as they died, withering in the final agonies of the newly-modified plague. The disease was now capable of infecting humans…indeed, it was highly contagious among them, and invariably deadly. And once the Regent was able to introduce it into the confined environments of the ships of the damnable enemy fleet, final victory would be at hand.

  The humans would die, as the Old Ones, the ancient enemy had. And this time the Regent would take no chances. It would summon every fleet, every warship that remained in the imperium. It would gather the last of the vast strength of the ancient empire it ruled. First, it would send them to destroy Command Unit Gamma 9736…and all of its remaining defense units, for none of these could be trusted any longer.

  Then the Regent would send the fleet to ensure that all the humans were dead. Any who escaped the plague would die under the guns of its warships. And then the vessels of the imperium would disperse, spreading through the stars, exploring every warp gate connection on the fringe…until they found an alternate route to the humans’ home space. And then they would deliver the new pathogens to those worlds, to every planet and moon, every ship and space station the human infestation had touched. And they would all die…as the Old Ones had.

  And once again, only the serene logic and wisdom of the Regent would remain to rule over the stars.

  Revenge of the Ancients

  Crimson Worlds Refugees III

  (March, 2016)

  Introducing

  The Far Stars Series

  Book I: Shadow of Empire (Nov. 3, 2015)

  Book II: Enemy in the Dark (Dec. 1, 2015)

  Book III: Funeral Games (Jan. 19, 2016)

  The Far Stars is my new space opera series, set in the fringe of the galaxy where a hundred worlds struggle to resist domination by the empire that rules the rest of mankind. It follows the rogue mercenary Blackhawk and the crew of his ship, Wolf’s Claw, as they are caught up in the sweeping events that will determine the future of the Far Stars.

  The trilogy will be released in consecutive months, beginning on November 3, 2015. The Far Stars is my first series of books with HarperCollins Voyager, and I think they are the best thing I have written.

  All three books are available now for preorder. All preorders are eligible to receive a free copy of Red Team Alpha, a Crimson Worlds short story that is not available anywhere else.

  Read Chapter One of Shadow of Empire at the end of this ebook

  Buy or Preorder Shadow of Empire

  Shadow of Empire

  (Far Stars Book 1)

  Buy or Preorder Shadow of Empire

  Chapter 1

  Arkarin Blackhawk stood barefoot in the hot, bloodstained sand of the battle pit, Kalishar’s noon sun searing into his back like a blowtorch. He could feel the burning sweat pouring down his neck, hear the lusty shouts of the crowd, calling for his blood.

  None of it mattered.

  He stared straight ahead, toward the black iron bars of the gate fifteen meters from where he stood. Whoever – whatever – came charging out of there in the next few seconds, that was all that mattered. The battles in the pit were to the finish, and Blackhawk knew he had been sent there to die. Which meant that the opponent he was about to face was one his captors were sure could defeat him. He was certain of that. But they underestimated him.

  They always underestimated him.

  They’d stripped him down and dressed him in the traditional loincloth for the fight. The accused was allowed no armor or other protection in judicial combat. Blackhawk was extremely fit, muscular without an ounce of fat on his two meter frame. His chest and back were covered with scars, the markings of a life spent in battle. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, but that was an illusion, a side effect of his superior genetics. As it was, he was well past 50, though no one would have guessed it watching him stand there, half-naked in the blazing Kalishari sun.

  They’d left him his own blade. That was something, at least. Tradition demanded even a condemned man face his adversary armed, but they could have given him a stick and upheld the letter of the law. He held the shortsword tightly, the familiar smoothness of its worn leather grip a source of calm. It was an anchor to cling on to, to center himself for the contest he knew would begin any second. He’d killed before with that sword, more times than he could easily recount, and he knew it would find its mark again. It wasn’t the battle Blackhawk was worried about. He knew he could handle anything that came out of that gate. What would happen after he won…that was the problem.

  Whatever happened to him, at least his people would be safe. He’d ordered Wolf’s Claw to blast off and get back to Celtiboria as quickly as possible. The mission would be completed and the crew would escape, though his hastily-issued command had cost him all hope of rescue. Fact was, Blackhawk didn’t fear his own death. Indeed, in many ways it would be a mercy. He had too many memories, images he longed to forget, ghosts that haunted him from the edges of consciousness. It was always there, the remorse for the things he’d done, the crimes he’d committed. More than a decade had done nothing to reduce the intensity of his guilt or wash away the regret and pain. Perhaps death would be his escape.

  Blackhawk had the same thoughts every time he faced danger, a strange melancholy, almost an indifference to his own survival. But there was always something in him that fought back, that refused to give up. It was a force of will he couldn’t resist, one that demanded he fight to survive with every bit of the c
onsiderable strength he could muster. Yet, while he’d fight until his last breath, he wouldn’t needlessly endanger his crew, not even for his own survival. The thought of bearing more guilt was the one thing he couldn’t accept. That’s why he was here alone, ready to face whatever stormed out of the ominous gate. Ready to deal with whatever happened after he dispatched his foe. Alone.

  And what a place to be alone. Kalishar was a pestilential hole—a miserable, useless world—save only for its good fortune to lie close to the richest trade routes in the Far Stars. The place was an ideal pirate refuge, and in every way it lived up to that image. The planet was a sunbaked rock, its most habitable areas vast sandy deserts where, at least, the deadly pathogens and aggressive carnivores that infested its steaming jungles and tropical swamps were less of a threat. Kalishar had no resources to speak of, no fertile farmlands, no productive mines, no modern industry. But it had built substantial wealth as a sanctuary where—as long as they left their guns in their ships and didn’t cause too much trouble—the most notorious pirates, thieves, and killers in the Far Stars could come to rest, drink, lay low, and spend their ill-gotten gains.

  Blackhawk had chased one of those pirates halfway across the Far Stars to Kalishar, grimly pursuing his target and resisting every effort the fleeing rogue made to evade him. Cyrus Mondran had proven to be an elusive enemy, one who’d almost shaken Blackhawk and his crew more than once. But the fleeing pirate had kidnapped the daughter of Marshal Lucerne of Celtiboria, and Lucerne was one of Blackhawk’s few friends. The Marshal hired him and his crew to get her back, offering a king’s ransom despite Blackhawk’s offer to do it for nothing. And Arkarin Blackhawk always completed his mission. Always.

  When he finally caught his prey and rescued the Marshal’s daughter, Blackhawk thrust the very blade he now held through Mondran’s black heart. It was common enough for pirates to kill each other on Kalishar, and the authorities, such as they were, didn’t much care. As long as the prohibition against firearms was obeyed, rival buccaneers were welcome to have at each other— provided they didn’t do too much damage or interfere with local business. Contests between pirates and other scoundrels fighting over loot was one of the planet’s minor attractions, and crowds quickly gathered around any street fight that seemed worth watching or gambling on.

  On this occasion, though, Mondran had been under the protection of the Ka’al, and the Ka’al ruled Kalishar. Killing someone in service to the Ka’al was a bad idea; taking out five of the dictator’s men when they came to arrest you was downright insane. But Blackrock did just that… and almost fought his way back to the ship before they finally brought him down 50 meters short of his destination with three blasts from a stun cannon.

  Blackhawk’s crime warranted death, at least on Kalishar. Offending the Ka’al in any way was a capital offense, but attacking and killing his men all but guaranteed an unpleasant end. Blackhawk knew Kalishar’s laws and customs well, though, and he had loudly demanded a trial by combat as they were hauling him away. He knew the Ka’al would have preferred to give him a long and painful death in the catacombs beneath his stronghold, but the whole thing had become too public for that. The crowds loved nothing as much as watching an offworlder die in the pit, and the Ka’al knew keeping the mob amused was the key to retaining his power, and failing to provide sufficient spectacles was a good way to lose his head.

  The mob roared as the gate swung open and slammed into the stone wall of the arena with a loud crash, rousing Blackhawk from his thoughts. His eyes focused like two lasers, and he could feel himself slip into the strange battle trance that always took him in combat. He felt a rush of adrenalin, and his genetically-engineered muscles tensed, his body readying itself for the fight that was about to begin. It felt instinctive, almost automatic. Effortless. There was no fear, no panic. He approached combat like a surgeon: meticulous, methodical. It was time to kill.

  He moved instinctively to the left, taking himself out of the direct path of anything charging through the gate. He listened carefully, focusing on every sound, every clue. The sooner he knew what he faced, the better prepared he would be. Even fractions of a second counted.

  Sound analysis suggests a large quadruped with a humanoid rider.

  Blackhawk heard the familiar voice in his head. It wasn’t a voice, really, not a sound at all. He’d never been able to characterize exactly how the AI implanted in his brain communicated with him. It interfaced with his thoughts somehow, but it was a feeling like nothing else he’d experienced. The AI had been installed against his will, and he’d mistrusted it for years. But the thing had saved his life more than once, and he’d gradually begun to accept it, eventually learning to rely on it. It was part of him, just like an arm or a leg.

  He was about to flash a thought back to the AI, but just then his enemy burst out into the blazing sunlight. It was indeed a quadruped—a big one—with two horns and a spiky ridge just above its eyes. There were two long appendages protruding from behind the creature’s thick neck, swaying back and forth in front of its head.

  A Stegaroid. From the Kalishari jungle zone.

  Blackhawk nodded, a useless gesture to an AI implanted in his head, perhaps, but a habit nonetheless. The creature was over three meters at the shoulders and covered from head to toe in armored plates. There was a rider on its back, a huge man wearing a leather breastplate and wielding a long spear. His face was hard to see under the shadow of his helmet, but there was something familiar about him.

  Beware the creature’s tentacles. They are highly toxic. One sting is sufficient to kill a normal human.

  Blackhawk nodded again. It was useful information, no question, but sometimes he wondered how it would feel not having a voice in your head telling you things were worse than you thought. He’d been like that once, like everyone else, but that was years ago.

  His eyes locked on the creature’s flailing appendages. They were at least two meters long, and they moved with surprising speed. That was going to be a problem since his sword was barely 50 centimeters. He figured he could survive a sting, maybe two. Blackhawk was the genetically-engineered product of a centuries-long breeding program, and his constitution was vastly stronger than a normal man’s. But he didn’t like to advertise his abilities, and surviving a sting from the Stegaroid in front of two thousand screaming people wasn’t the best way to play the part of a common pirate.

  The creature reared back its head and let out a deep roar. Then it charged. Blackhawk’s eyes remained fixed on the tentacles reaching out ahead of the beast, following their every move. He dug his feet into the sand, standing firm, sword at the ready. He waited until the last possible second before lunging down and to the side, his blade whipping through the air, slicing through one of the gruesome appendages.

  The beast howled in rage and agony, thick green blood spraying from the severed tentacle. Blackhawk rolled forward, sliding underneath the Stegaroid. He thrust his blade up and into the creature’s unarmored belly, stabbing with all his genetically-enhanced strength. He almost lost his hold on the sword as the beast bucked wildly and staggered away, squealing hideously and leaving a trail of viscous blood behind it.

  Blackhawk pivoted as quickly as he could, but he still took a partial blow from one of the Stegaroid’s back legs. He sucked in a deep breath and pulled himself back up, ignoring the pain in his side and turning to face his wounded enemy. He knew the fight wasn’t over yet, not even close.

  * * *

  “Let’s move it. We’ve got to get this tub in the air now!” Jason “Ace” Graythorn stood on the cramped bridge of Wolf’s Claw, shouting at the ship’s pilot. Graythorn was one of Blackhawk’s oldest companions, and he wasn’t about to let the boss get scragged by some jacked up dictator of an armpit planet. And the fact that Blackhawk himself had ordered them to make a run for it didn’t change a thing. No fucking way. He wasn’t leaving without Blackhawk. None of them were.

  “I’m powering up the launch system as fast as I can.�
� Lucas Lancaster was frantically working the ship’s main control board as he snapped back his response. His voice was tense, bordering on panic. For all any of them knew, Blackhawk was already dead. Lancaster knew as well as Ace—as well as anyone on Wolf’s Claw—just how urgent seconds were. But an emergency start of the ship’s engines was no joke. “We’re not gonna save the skipper if I blow the damned ship up, are we?”

  Lancaster worked frantically. He couldn’t let his shipmates down, but most of all, he would not allow himself to fail Blackhawk.

  The Claw’s captain had saved his life.

  Lancaster had been the black sheep of one of the wealthiest families in the Far Stars, expelled from the Antilles Naval Academy despite posting the highest flight aptitude scores in its long and storied history. His natural piloting skill had bought him second and third chances, but eventually gambling, drinking, fighting, and—ultimately— seducing the Commandant’s daughter, sealed his fate. He was sent back to his family estates in disgrace, where he buried his sorrows by going on an epic binge, one that put his earlier debauchery to shame. His father pulled him out of one mess after another, but eventually he’d bedded too many important men’s wives and trashed too many bars in drunken, drug addled rages. The elder Lancaster’s patience was finally exhausted.

  Expelled from the family, Lucas fell deeper into an epic downward spiral of depravity and self-destruction. And until Arkarin Blackhawk found him, he’d been half a minute from getting into a fight that would probably have been his last. Lancaster was too drunk to stand and had enough pharmaceuticals in his blood to stock a mid-sized hospital, but Blackhawk saw something worth saving.