Enemy in the Dark

by Jay Allan

  She was glad they were shipmates.

  One thing Katarina often wondered about was what Shira would have been like if she’d gone through the guild training on Sebastiani. She suppressed a shudder at the thought of what fifteen years of indoctrination would have done to someone so naturally cold. She might have been the greatest assassin ever graduated from the celebrated ranks of the millennia-old school.

  Or the most dangerous psychopath ever loosed on humanity . . .

  For all her training in human behavior and psychology, Katarina had never been able to completely figure Shira out. But one thing was clear. Like the rest of the odd assortment of characters Blackhawk had assembled, she had found a home on the Claw and a family in her shipmates.

  Katarina took another look across the wide expanse of grass and leaped out from her position next to the wall. It was probably a risk running across the open ground, but hugging the wall would take a lot longer, and she had a feeling time wasn’t their ally.

  Shira was close on her heels, though Katarina doubted anyone but she would have heard her companion’s soft steps. The two of them had their assigned area. Blackhawk and company were here for the king, but the truth was they had no idea where he was. He could be in his apartments or a throne room—or in a bunker in the subbasement. So despite the likelihood of heavy resistance, they were forced to split up and cover as much of the huge complex as they could.

  Katarina put her hands out, stopping her momentum as she ran right up to the wall. She crept along the rough gray stone, moving toward a small door. She took another step and froze.

  Shira was just behind her, and she could feel the tension in her companion’s body. They’d both heard it. The door creaking slowly open.

  Katarina’s eyes were focused like lasers, watching the heavy wooden door swing slowly. She was listening, concentrating. Her actions would depend heavily on how many enemies were coming out of the door. Her ears were sensitive, and years of training had taught her to screen out background noise. Footsteps, she was listening for footsteps, and her mind screened everything else out.

  Just one, she thought, as her hand moved to the leather strap hanging down her body. Her fingers felt the cold metal of the throwing knife. Her other hand moved back behind her, waving Shira off. She would handle this herself.

  She was silent and stone still, waiting like a predator for her enemy to expose himself. Her prey walked slowly, his footsteps loud, clumsy. She saw his shadow in the crack between the doorway and the wall, silhouetted against the light coming from inside.

  Her arm moved like a cobra, pulling the knife from its place and throwing it toward her victim in one smooth motion.

  He let out a single gasp then he fell hard to the ground. Her blade had found its mark, and it was buried to its hilt through his neck. Blood poured from his severed carotid artery, and one look confirmed he was already dead. His leg was stretched out behind him, holding the door half open.

  Shira lunged forward and jumped in front of the door, bringing her rifles to bear in case anyone else was there. “It’s clear,” she whispered to her comrade. “Goes about ten meters and ends in a T.”

  Katarina reached down and retrieved her blade, cleaning it off on her victim’s coat. “Let’s get him inside. There’s too much chance someone will see him out here.”

  Shira hopped over the body and threw her rifles over her shoulder. She grabbed the dead man’s legs while Katarina held his shoulders. A small pipe fell from his hands as they moved him. Katarina looked down and shook her head slightly. She’d imagined he was a guard on his rounds, that he’d heard them or seen them on a monitor. But he was just walking outside for a smoke. That’s how little it took to get killed sometimes.

  The man with the pipe might have been an imperial agent, a mass murderer responsible for incalculable suffering. Or a Nordlingener who worked at the palace to feed his family. She didn’t know. She didn’t need to know.

  She didn’t want to know.

  In a few seconds, they had the body through, and the door closed behind them. The hallway was lit with small fixtures, placed every three meters or so.

  They were in.

  “Let’s go. Move your asses!” Captain Gregor Zel stood next to the ruins of a large building, urging his men forward. They’d been in the thick of the fighting all day, and now they were pushing into the central zone. After hours of intense combat, the enemy was finally giving ground, falling back slowly through the dying city, and Zel wasn’t about to give them time to regroup.

  Above the battlefield, the heavy gray of dusk was giving way to the darkness of night. And yet there was plenty of light, the chaotic landscape lit in places by the fires all around the combat zone. It seemed like half the buildings were ablaze, and dense clouds of smoke hung low over the field.

  The Celtiborian veterans advanced methodically, half of each squad moving forward while the others stood firm and covered their comrades. They leapfrogged from building to building, dashing across the empty streets.

  Zel was moving with one of his squads, on the front edge of the advance. Officers in Marshal Lucerne’s army led, they didn’t follow their men into battle. He watched the first half of the squad running down the street to the next position. They were halfway there when he heard a shot. One of his men fell forward to the ground. His squadmates halted and looked up, aiming their rifles, looking for the sniper.

  “Team two, hold.” Zel listened to the squad leader firing out orders. “Scan the area. Find that fucking sniper.”

  Zel was already looking himself, scanning the buildings across the street. Another shot rang out, and another of his men fell. His head snapped to the origin of the sound.

  “Fourth floor, third window from the left,” he shouted to the men around him, whipping his assault rifle from his shoulder as he did. He jumped up to his feet, a risk, but one that would give him better positioning to aim, and he cut loose on full auto.

  He couldn’t see if he’d hit the sniper, but he knew he’d put about thirty rounds into the space the enemy soldier had occupied. A few seconds later, one of his own men leaned out the window and gave a thumbs-up—Zel had gotten the bastard.

  The sniper had taken out two of his men, but he was an amateur—no veteran would have stayed in position after firing two shots. The enemy troops on Nordlingen were dug in and equipped with highly advanced weaponry, but they were still novice soldiers. Which was why, in the end, Zel knew he and his Celtiborian comrades would win this war. Whatever the cost.

  And it’s been a hell of a cost so far.

  “All right, looks like the sniper’s down. Let’s keep moving.” Colonel Martine had been clear: Zel was to keep up the intensity of the attack until further notice. No matter what. Those had been Martine’s exact words, and Zel knew what they meant coming from a veteran like the colonel.

  There was something going on, some reason his men were hitting the enemy so hard. He didn’t know what it was, but that was no surprise. He was sure it was something well above his pay grade. All he had to know was what he’d been ordered to do.

  Attack.

  Blackhawk was pressed flat against the wall, creeping closer to the corner. He and the Twins had made it deeper into the palace than he’d dared to expect, but they’d finally run into resistance. There were two guards down the hallway to the right, maybe three. They had Hellfire assault rifles. Blackhawk had run into those terrible weapons too many times, and he knew he’d never forget their distinctive sound.

  “Be careful, guys. I know you think nothing can take you down on one shot, but those guns are no joke. Sarge caught one of those rounds in the shoulder on Saragossa, and he came a hairsbreadth from losing his arm.”

  “Got it, Captain.” Tarq was standing right behind Blackhawk, his brother a few meters farther back. Blackhawk was no one’s idea of a small man, but the hulking warriors towered over him. It felt comforting knowing that two giants seemingly plucked from some primitive world’s mythology had his ba
ck.

  Blackhawk pulled a grenade from his belt and sighed. “Well, I guess surprise is out the window already anyway.” He leaned forward and tossed the weapon around the corner. “Down, boys,” he yelled to the Twins, and he hunched lower, putting his hands over his head.

  The explosion was loud, and a jet of flame burst down the hallway from the direction of the guards. The fire had stopped.

  Blackhawk swung around the corner, whipping his rifle from his back as he did. He was ready to unload on full auto, but he held his fire. The guards were gone, blown to bits by the heavy incendiary grenade. He looked around as he ran down the corridor. Three, he thought. There had been three guards.

  At least that’s what it looked like from the body parts.

  “Let’s go, guys,” he yelled back to the Twins. “We’ve damned sure announced our presence, so we better keep moving.”

  “DeMark’s troops seem to be making serious progress. They’ve advanced almost twenty kilometers since the attack began.” Ace sat at his station on the Claw, trying to hold his exhausted body upright. He’d taken half a dozen stims already, and he didn’t dare pop another one, not unless things got really hairy. He was pretty sure if Doc knew he’d taken this much, he’d be in trouble. He’d argued so hard that he was capable of manning his post, he’d half convinced himself. But his body was delivering a harsh reminder that he was far from recovered and ready for duty.

  None of that mattered, though. His friends were down there, and he was going to stay at the needle gun controls until everyone was back on board.

  “I thought they were just mounting a diversion.” Lucas was leaning back in his chair. He’d pulled the Claw up a couple of kilometers and engaged the nav AI. The field was keeping them effectively invisible, but it did nothing to mask sound. And the Claw’s engines were working hard to keep the ship airborne, not a quiet undertaking by any measure. They’d be a lot harder to detect up here where no one could hear them, and if Blackhawk needed help, they could still be ten meters above the palace in a few seconds.

  “That’s what I thought, too.” Ace leaned over his board, wincing as he did. His chest felt like someone had hit it with a hammer, and the rest of his body wasn’t much better. Just about every movement hurt.

  He pulled up a series of maps on his screen, superimposing the scanner data on top of them. “This definitely isn’t a diversion—it’s an all-out attack.” He started to turn to glance over at Lucas, but he winced at the pain and decided it wasn’t worth it.

  “Well, if anything, it will only get more of the enemy’s attention. If the Celtiborians are really breaking through, that will give the Nordlingeners something to focus on.”

  “Let’s hope.” Ace’s voice was edgy. Diversions aside, he knew how dangerous a mission this was. The chance of the others making it back—all of them—was pretty damned poor. He knew he couldn’t go along, but sitting on the Claw, waiting to see if his friends survived the next few hours, was torture.

  They’ll make it. Blackhawk will bring them all back. I know he will. Ace tried to convince himself, but the doubt still tugged at him. Visions of the mission on Castilla kept going through his head. He knew they’d barely made it out of there, and ever since he’d been unable to get it out of his mind. He’d been in tough scrapes before, more than he could count, but it was different this time.

  Maybe you can only laugh at death so many times . . .

  “Where is the king?” Blackhawk wasn’t shouting, but his voice was threatening nevertheless. He was pretty sure the man cowering in front of him was some kind of low-level palace staff, a cook or member of the cleaning crew. But this prisoner was what he had to work with. He and the Twins had run into over a dozen guards, but they hadn’t managed to take any live prisoners. Until now.

  They had managed to find the king’s apartments, but the rooms had been empty, and from the layers of dust on the furniture, they hadn’t been used for some time.

  “I don’t know.” The man was kneeling on the floor, trying to summon the courage to look up at Blackhawk. “They took him. They took him away.”

  Blackhawk grabbed the man by the shoulder and jerked him up hard. He felt a small wave of guilt for tormenting the poor servant, but fear—unlike time—was his ally. If he could scare the captive into telling him everything, he wouldn’t have to hurt him. I’d much rather release the poor bastard instead of gutting him like a fish.

  “Took him where?” He stared into the man’s eyes, almost melting the miserable captive with his glare. Blackhawk listened to the man whimpering unintelligibly for a few seconds, and then he grabbed harder and yelled, “Where?”

  “T-t-to the lower levels, the . . . the old d-dungeon.”

  “Where is it?” Blackhawk loosened his grip on the man’s shoulders. “How do I get there?”

  The man cowered miserably, but he didn’t say anything.

  “How?” Blackhawk pulled his sword from its sheath.

  “My people have served the royal family for over a century.” The man was clearly trying to summon his courage, with only moderate success. His eyes locked on Blackhawk’s well-worn blade. “No . . . please.”

  “I am not here to harm your king. And I don’t want to hurt you.” He glared at the sobbing man. “But I will if I have to. Now tell me how to get to the king.”

  The man was crying piteously, barely able to speak intelligibly. “G-go down the h-hallway. Turn left. There is . . .” The man slid down slowly, falling into a heap at Blackhawk’s feet.

  “There is what? Finish.” Blackhawk softened his tone slightly.

  “A large metal door.” He sucked in a deep breath, struggling to hold back his sobs. “It leads down to the sublevels. To the dungeons.”

  “And where is the king? Those levels must be huge.” Blackhawk looked up at the Twins, motioning for them to start down the hallway.

  “I don’t know.”

  Blackhawk tightened his grip again and pulled the man’s face up toward his.

  “I don’t know, I really don’t know. Please . . .”

  Blackhawk raised his blade and brought the hilt down hard on the man’s head. He fell backward, unconscious, but very much alive. Blackhawk knew it was a risk leaving anyone alive, but he did it anyway. Murdering a servant in the name of efficiency was something his imperial enemies did, not him. Not anymore.

  He stood up and slid the sword back in its sheath. Then he took one last look behind him and trotted off after the Twins.

  Katarina slipped through the open door, quickly, silently. She and Shira had managed to remain hidden. They’d dispatched the few guards they’d encountered quickly and quietly. Katarina had taken two of them down with her throwing knives, and Shira had slit the throat of another with the heavy combat knife she carried on her belt.

  There was something about the guards that was bothering Katarina. They didn’t look much like the other Nordlingeners. The planet’s inhabitants tended to be very fair-skinned, with blond or light brown hair and slight of build. But two of the guards were markedly different, stocky with thick black hair. The observation probably meant nothing. Even on a planet with near-universal genetic similarities in the population, there were those who differed from the norm, often significantly. But she’d been trained to notice every detail of a situation and to separate out anomalies.

  She looked around the room carefully, her eyes moving across every millimeter. Sebastiani training covered many areas of discipline, but paramount over them all was irishu, the sense of awareness. Sight, sound, even the vague sensation of instinct—things like the proverbial bad feeling—were deemed important. A Sebastiani assassin might be bested in battle, but she should never be surprised by an enemy.

  The room housed rows of machinery, pumps and conduits that were part of the massive mechanical systems providing water and heat to the many chambers of the palace. There was a faint hum in the background.

  She turned and glanced at Shira, then she pointed toward a large metal box o
n the wall. “I think that is an electrical routing station. We may be able to cut the power to much of the palace, at least temporarily.” Unspoken was the question—would that be helpful or not?

  Shira walked up to the box and slid the small door open. It was indeed full of wiring and circuits. “I think you’re right. Should we blow it?”

  Katarina was silent for a few seconds. She wasn’t accustomed to indecisiveness, but now she didn’t know what to do. A power failure would alert the guards, though they might attribute it to mechanical problems and not an attack. Regardless, it might put them on a heightened alert. “As long as we’re undetected, I think we should leave it alone. Let’s see if . . .”

  She stopped abruptly and held up her hand. “There. Do you hear that?” It was distant, somewhere far away in the massive structure, but she was sure. Gunfire.

  “Yes, I think I just heard it too.” She turned to face Katarina. “Ark? Sarge and his people?”

  Katarina just nodded. There was no way of knowing, but the odds were it was one of the other teams. “So much for our surprise. Maybe we should rethink this circuit . . .”

  They turned simultaneously at the sound of a loud boom, an explosion of some kind. Whatever doubt Katarina had was now gone. The enemy knew they were there.

  She turned and glanced at her companion. Shira just nodded. Katarina pulled the carbine from her back, and she smashed the butt of the weapon into the circuit box.

  A shower of sparks cascaded around her, but the lights stayed on. She flashed a quick look back toward Shira, and then she hit the circuit board again, harder this time. There was a blinding flash this time, and then the room went dark.

  CHAPTER 16

  WILHELM SAT IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM, STARING ACROSS THE table at Danellan Lancaster. The patriarch of the wealthiest family in the Far Stars was white as a sheet. He looked like he might be sick at any moment, and Wilhelm realized the enormity of his predicament—and his own hubris—had finally sunk in.