Enemy in the Dark

by Jay Allan

  “Nice bluff attempt, Ace, but you’re not fit for duty yet, and you know that well.”

  “You’re making a move on the king of Nordlingen, aren’t you? You’re planning on slipping through their defensive perimeter using the field—and then pulling a quick snatch and grab. Am I right?”

  “Yeah, Ace, you’re right. But you’re still going back to bed. Now.”

  Ace wobbled a bit, but he caught himself. “Look, I’m not saying I’m ready to hit the ground, but I can still help.”

  “Ace . . .”

  “C’mon, Ark. I’m on board anyway. I can at least make myself useful.”

  “I was going to leave you with General DeMark. It will be a lot safer in his main field hospital than here on the Claw.”

  “Leave me behind?”

  “Ace, you’re still recovering. We almost lost you, and we want you to be safe.”

  Ace looked up. So did Blackhawk. It wasn’t his voice.

  It was Katarina’s.

  “The wife is worried about me,” Ace said. He winked at her. “It was a pleasure playing your husband, my dear, even if you were in the next room seducing some local gangster. But I’m afraid now that our little fiction is over, you don’t need to pretend so much concern for me.” He looked right at Katarina and smiled—but then he saw something in her eyes, a look he’d never seen before. Was it hurt feelings?

  Ace paused, distracted by Katarina’s reaction. He’d been infatuated with the cold, beautiful assassin since the day she’d boarded the Claw—he suspected most men reacted to her that way. But he hadn’t imagined she’d felt anything for him beyond basic camaraderie.

  “I may be a little worse for wear, but I’m not useless,” he finally said. He turned his head, looking out over the whole group. “And I’m damned sure not going to sit in some field hospital while you all go into action.” His voice strengthened, and he pulled his hand away from the wall, standing without support. He looked a little unsteady, but he stayed on his feet.

  “All right, Ace,” Blackhawk said. There was amusement in his voice, but concern as well. “You can stay on the Claw. But you’re not seriously suggesting we hand you a rifle and drop you into the palace, are you?”

  Ace let out a short laugh, followed by a wince. “Of course not. Do I look crazy?” He smiled, holding back the laugh this time. “Okay, don’t answer that. But Lucas will be at the controls, and Sam will be in engineering trying to keep the field and the engines running at the same time. And the rest of you are going to hit the ground, right? You’ve got to get in, secure the route back out, and find the king, taking out any guards you run into along the way. So the way I see it, you’re going to need all the firepower you can get.”

  Blackhawk nodded. “True enough, Ace. But I’ve got half a crown that says you couldn’t even lift an assault rifle now. So what do you propose?”

  “The needle gun, Ark. Lucas and Sam will be too busy to man it, and everybody else is going to be in the palace. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to have the Claw on standby, for when—sorry, if—things go to hell?”

  “You sure you can manage it, Ace?”

  “What’s to manage? Just strap me in my chair before you go.”

  Blackhawk nodded. “All right, Ace. You’re back in the game. But just the needle gun. I don’t want to get back here and find out you moved from your seat on the bridge. Agreed?” He stared right at Ace, and his expression was clear. He wasn’t kidding around.

  “You have my word, Ark.” Ace was always joking, but everyone could tell from his tone he was dead serious. “Who knows? Maybe things will go to shit like they usually do, and I’ll get the chance to pay you guys back for saving my ass on Castilla.”

  “Maybe so, Ace. It wouldn’t be that unusual for us, would it?”

  “Ark, have I told you how insane this plan is?” DeMark was shaking his head, as he had been almost since Blackhawk had laid out the plan for him. “It’s not too late to call it off.”

  Blackhawk shook his head. “We can’t, Rafaelus. I promised the marshal I’d expose imperial involvement. And I can’t think of another way to do that. If we wait until your people win the battle, it will be too late, just like on Rykara. Imperial agents don’t leave loose ends behind. If the Nordlingeners fall, I guarantee you the king, and anyone else in his court who knows anything about the empire’s part in all this, will disappear. You won’t even find the bodies.”

  “But can your people do this? It sounds almost impossible.”

  Blackhawk smiled. “Almost impossible we can do. As long as it doesn’t slip over into plain old impossible. I’m just sorry your men have to bear so much of the burden, Rafaelus.” Blackhawk had asked DeMark to launch a major offensive, a diversion to keep enemy attention away from the daring raid. It was an essential part of the plan, but it pained him to basically use the Celtiborian soldiers as cannon fodder. And yet, without the distraction, this mission wouldn’t have a chance.

  DeMark probably knew he felt this way, but he was a veteran commander, and he understood what was at stake. “We would be attacking soon anyway. Moving the op up a couple days is no big deal.” This was Blackhawk’s one consolation: DeMark had to hit those lines eventually anyway. His army was too far from home, his supply line too long and tenuous for a protracted campaign. He had to end the war on Nordlingen soon one way or another. If attacking now helped Blackhawk expose the empire’s interference, all the better. The cost was going to be heavy no matter when he made his move.

  DeMark reached out and put his hand on Blackhawk’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about our attack, Ark. This fight’s a bloody mess no matter what we do. If you can get the evidence you need, you might save some of the other invasion forces from facing what we have.”

  “I hope so.”

  “So we are agreed, then?” DeMark’s voice was deep, firm. “I will launch my attack tomorrow at dawn, all across the line. We will hit them hard at every point and do all we can to fix their attention. Then, just after nightfall, you and your people will go.”

  Blackhawk nodded. He stepped forward and embraced DeMark. “Fortune be with you, my friend, and the brave soldiers you lead.”

  The Celtiborian general threw his good arm around Blackhawk. “And fortune go with you and your crew as well . . . and bring you safely back.”

  “All right, Sam, just be careful with those power feeds.” Blackhawk was standing on the bridge holding on to the back of his chair as the Claw raced toward the target. It was a windy and rainy night, and that wasn’t making the ride any smoother as the ship zipped by, barely above the tree line. Not many pilots could fly a vessel the size of Wolf’s Claw through an atmosphere with such a light touch. But fortunately, Blackhawk and the Claw didn’t have just any pilot. They had Lucas Lancaster.

  “Yes, Captain. I know.” Sam tended toward a touch of petulance, especially in any discussion involving the ship’s engines and reactor. But not usually with Blackhawk. Sam was a master at what she did, and if she was nervous, he knew they all had something to worry about.

  “Okay, Sam. You run your engineering section.”

  “Thanks, Captain.” The line cut off.

  “Lucas . . . ETA?”

  “About four minutes, Skip. You better get down to the hold.”

  “Okay, hold the ship at the designated position, and keep the field up no matter what.” He flashed a glance over toward Ace. “Unless I order you to open fire . . . or you decide it is absolutely necessary. Understood?”

  “Got it, Ark.” Ace paused for an instant. “Be careful, Ark. You all make it back, you hear me?”

  Blackhawk smiled and nodded. “Don’t we always?”

  He turned and walked halfway toward the ladder, stopping to look back across the bridge. “You sure you’re up to this, Ace?”

  “Damn straight, Cap. Hell, I might just hop over there and take the stick from our young friend and see what this ship can really do.” He looked up at Blackhawk, and the smile slipped off his
face. “Seriously, Ark. I’ll be fine. You worry about the mission, not me or the Claw.”

  “Roger that.” Blackhawk turned and slid down the ladder, his boots slapping hard onto the metal floor of the lower level as he landed. He walked down the corridor toward the hold.

  He opened the hatch and stepped through, closing it behind him. The rest of the crew was standing along the wall, gripping the handholds as the Claw bounced around in the heavy air. Everyone but Katarina. She stood in the middle of the hold, her balance perfect as always. She wore the form-fitting jumpsuit she favored for operations like this. It looked like a little scrap of nothing, but Blackhawk knew better. The high-tech material was infused with tiny tubes of polymer. A blow of sufficient force ruptured them, causing the suit to instantly harden at the point of impact. The result was a highly effective defensive system. He’d seen her suits stop bullets.

  Her throwing knives were lined up on a thin strap wrapped over one shoulder and stretching diagonally across her midsection. Everyone on the Claw knew how deadly she was with those tiny weapons. She’d killed dozens of enemies each with a single, blindingly quick throw.

  She had her pistols too, one on each side of her waist, and a light carbine strapped across her back. Blackhawk suspected she had a few other lethal surprises hidden on her somewhere.

  The Twins looked almost identical, as usual. They each wore a heavy carapace of body armor, and a matching pair of massive blades hung from their belts. Blackhawk had watched the immense brothers virtually cut adversaries in half with the heavy claymores. He smiled as he saw the autocannons in their hands. The heavy guns weighed almost forty kilos, and they were designed for use with a tripod.

  Tarq and Tarnan held them like rifles.

  Shira stood next to the Twins, gripping one of the handholds but looking like she didn’t really need it. She had an assault rifle slung over each shoulder, and a massive pistol in a holster at her side. A long knife hung down from her belt, and she had half a dozen grenades hanging from a shoulder strap.

  Sarge and his boys were on the other side of the hold. They were gripping the rail tightly, and a few of them looked a little green. They were foot soldiers to their very core, and years of Lucas’s wild maneuverings hadn’t done much to change that.

  The men were outfitted with identical gear. Their fatigues were dark gray, and they wore heavy body armor. They were holding their assault rifles, and each of them had a bandolier full of spare cartridges and, on a strap slung in the opposite direction, a complement of grenades identical to Shira’s. They had heavy knives—almost shortswords—and pistols on their belts.

  Sarge was equipped the same as his men, but he had a large weapon slung over his shoulder, one of the particle accelerators they had captured on Saragossa.

  Blackhawk tried to hide a smile. This op was indoors. They were about to infiltrate the palace, and Sarge was packing a gun that could blow half the building to debris with a single shot. There’s a lot you can say about Sarge and his men, but no one’s going to call them subtle.

  “You guys ready?” he asked, but he knew they were.

  They gave him a round of nods and yeses anyway.

  Blackhawk reached down to a small pile of equipment next to the door. He strapped on the belt with his pistol and his shortsword. The blade had been with him for years, the only vestige from a past he tried hard to forget. Its leather hilt was worn smooth, and he’d forgotten how many people he’d killed with it.

  Twenty-seven killed, nineteen wounded. That covers the period from my activation to the present. You already possessed the weapon when I was implanted, so I can only estimate prior numbers based on an assessment of accessible memories. Do you wish me to do so?

  God, no. Blackhawk tried to remember what it was like to just forget something, without some know-it-all in your head answering rhetorical questions.

  He reached down and scooped up the small pack lying at his feet, and he slung it over his shoulder. There was an assault rifle strapped to the side, and he pulled it off, taking a cartridge from his belt and sliding it home.

  He took one last look around, his eyes fixing for a second on each of his people. Then he slapped the comm unit on the wall.

  “All ready, Lucas. Take us in.”

  CHAPTER 14

  RAX FLORIN SAT IN THE THRONE ROOM, STARING OUT AT THE petitioners. Kalishar was a frontier world, a dusty planet with little industry and few resources. Its lifeblood was its reputation as a pirate refuge. The thieves and pirates spent their coin freely, overpaying for all manner of debauchery and recreation, and in return, Kalishar’s code of laws protected them from extradition to any other planet and ignored whatever acts they may have committed elsewhere.

  Despite the significant sums of ill-gotten gains flowing through its taverns and brothels and gambling halls, the natives themselves had always existed in considerable poverty. Originally desert nomads, most of them now lived in the ramshackle cities, seeking work in the establishments catering to off-worlders.

  And because of their miserable existences, they streamed into Florin’s daily levee, seeking the closest thing to justice in their oppressed lives. There was nothing new about this—the ka’al’s palace had always had its line of those pleading a case. The difference was, the latest ruler had proven to be more attentive to the plight of the people than any previous ka’al.

  Rax Florin had been a pirate just as Tarn Belgaren before him, and he’d amassed a considerable fortune from his dishonest gains. He’d retired to Kalishar, having left himself few other worlds where he could show his face.

  His retirement had been pleasant and comfortable, but he’d lived under the shadow of the ka’al. Florin hadn’t coveted the throne, but he knew Belgaren viewed him as a potential rival, and as Kalishar’s ruler became increasingly paranoid and unstable, the danger of Florin’s own situation pushed him to launch his coup. He was uncomfortable being indebted to the imperial governor, but he’d decided that course was the lesser of two evils, at least in terms of his own longevity.

  Belgaren had been a fool, a reckless sybarite who’d passed his days in the pursuit of idle pleasure while his corrupt ministers siphoned off the lifeblood of the economy, and the planet slipped closer to a peasant rebellion.

  Florin had seen what was going on for years. And while he’d treated his own servants well, striving to create a reputation for kindness to the natives, he’d always kept a small ship ready on his estate as a last-ditch escape option for him—along with his closest retainers and favorite mistresses—in the event things ever went completely to hell.

  When the imperials contacted him about replacing the ka’al, he’d driven a hard bargain. He’d had no intention of stepping into Belgaren’s shoes just to reap the bitter fruits of his predecessor’s mistakes. Florin was willing to take the power, but not at the risk of being crucified outside his palace, overthrown by those who hated and despised the previous ruler.

  So he’d demanded an enormous sum as the price of his participation, and the imperials had granted it. He had taken a portion of the payoff himself, of course, hiding it along with his existing fortune—reserves for a rainy day he hoped would never come. The rest of the money, though, went to securing his position.

  For buying the throne had cost a significant amount, payoffs to Belgaren’s allies mostly, bribes to ensure they would stand on the sidelines while their old ally was murdered and Florin took his place.

  Florin had always been amused by the strange workings of loyalty. The real thing was vanishingly rare and enormously precious. It was something that most people were incapable of providing, and even in those who had the potential, it took years of cultivation. But a reasonable short-term facsimile was often available for purchase.

  He had been surprised at how low the going rate was.

  In all, it had taken less than a million crowns to secure the superficial allegiance of almost all of Belgaren’s allies and retainers. And because of that, almost no one raised a hand t
o save their old patron. Even Belgaren’s old shipmates had abandoned him in the end—again for a shockingly small amount of Florin’s imperial coin.

  Florin knew that men like Belgaren—indeed, like most of the adventurers and cutthroats who had made Kalishar their home—would have claimed the vast hoard of imperial gold for themselves. But Florin, as greedy as any of them, was also smarter. He looked to his own future, to the security of his rule, and he poured funds into the development of Kalishar. He still welcomed the renegades and their free-spending crews, but now there were factories under construction and distributions of free food to the poorest of the planet’s inhabitants. None of it came from Florin’s altruism or his concern for the people. Rather, he saw prosperity as a way to cement his power, and feeding the poor as a cheap insurance policy against rebellion.

  Better petitions than knives in the back, I suppose.

  “Your Majesty, the imperial envoy has arrived.” The attendant was clad in the white-and-gold livery Florin had decreed for the palace staff. He was determined to make Kalishar a prosperous world, but that was a long-term goal, and in the meanwhile he felt there was no reason not to at least look the part. He’d allowed his favorite mistress to design the uniforms, and he’d been delighted to see how well they turned out. Now, at least, visitors to Kalishar would see the kind of court finery they witnessed on their own worlds. The old Kalishar was changing, and slowly—very slowly—a more cosmopolitan feeling was replacing primitive barbarism.

  “Clear the petitioners, and then you may bid him enter the hall.”

  The attendant bowed low and turned to walk back to the entry.

  The guards moved swiftly to get the Kalishari peasants out of the room, and Florin was pleased that only a few shouted their indignation. Progress. A year ago, that could have turned into a riot.

  A moment later the hall was empty and the attendant swung open the doors and spoke loudly, reading from an embossed card. “Announcing General Draco Eudurovan Tragonis, Count of Helos, Baron of Saraman and Thebes . . .”