Enemy in the Dark

by Jay Allan

  Either one of his allies, one of the other Primes, was conspiring against him, dangling support in his face as a distraction, while supporting his opponents secretly—or it was the empire. He found it disillusioning, though not really surprising, that one of the Primes would stab him in the back, despite assurances of solidarity. They were the strongest worlds in the Far Stars, and a successful confederation would foster sectorwide development. The lesser worlds would gain prosperity, and they would lose their dependence on the six great planets that dominated the economy of the Far Stars.

  He’d even wondered if it was Antilles. The economic powerhouse had the most to lose in terms of dominating commerce, but Lucerne had addressed that, offering Danellan Lancaster and his planet the lead role in developing the lesser worlds. He’d given them a virtual license to steal, the price of their support. It made him sick to do it, but he’d long ago realized that sacrifices were essential to greater success.

  It didn’t make it any easier to swallow. He was trying to free the Far Stars, not replace military dictators with economic ones.

  Perhaps his one comfort was that, as far as his intelligence had been able to confirm, none of the Primes had the technology to produce the weapons his soldiers had faced. He obviously couldn’t be 100 percent sure, but his gut told him it wasn’t one of the Primes, or even an alliance of several. Which had his mind drifting back over and over to the same ominous thought: the empire was trying to oppose the confederation before it even took shape. He had always feared that the empire would one day look again to the Far Stars and seek to bring its people under the emperor’s heel, and that was why he had started this war in the first place. But if the empire had already begun its campaign, before he was ready to stop it . . .

  Blackhawk will discover what is going on. He brought Astra back to me, and he will help me yet again.

  Lucerne rose slowly. Sleep was truly over for the night, that much was clear to him. He walked across the room to the large table in the corner. It was the field desk he’d used on campaign, and now it was set up in his room, an odd sight amid the splendor of the great palace.

  He had a massive office elsewhere in the building, surrounded by attendants and support staff, but he did much of his work here. He’d acceded to the demands of his position in almost every area of his life, but he’d made one concession to himself. In his inner sanctum, the room where he slept, where he worked when he needed solitude, all but a few close associates were banned. When he toiled in his refuge or took a meal as he worked at the old field desk, only men who had served with him in his wars attended his needs. It was the last special relationship he had with them. Ambassadors and political hacks had claimed much of his time, but he had reserved at least some of his moments for those who truly mattered to him.

  He punched a small button on the table, and his screen came to life. Another report from General DeMark. Blackhawk had arrived on Nordlingen. He had been too late on Rykara. Whoever was behind the intervention there had already covered his tracks. Lucerne tried to imagine what his enemies had said to the feuding nobles to convince them to cast aside their arguments and join against the Celtiborians. It was a war they could never have won, even with the advanced weaponry their backers provided.

  It doesn’t really matter, I guess. They were always pawns in the struggle, useful but expendable, but they’d listened to lies, and they’d paid the price.

  The battle on Nordlingen was still raging, though, and those in command would still be there, directing their armies. Perhaps Blackhawk would have more luck there.

  He looked back at the report . . . and read about Blackhawk’s plan. Lucerne reread the passage three times, and he stared at the screen in disbelief.

  I knew Blackhawk was daring, but this . . . it’s downright reckless.

  And yet, if anyone can manage it . . .

  “Callas!” he yelled loudly for his aide. He turned and walked across the room, opening a door and walking into his dressing room.

  “Sir!” The surprised officer was rushing through the door. He stopped and stood at attention.

  Lucerne was pulling on a pair of uniform trousers. The council of advisers had retained a valet for him, a man named Dumont, who had served one of the now deceased warlords for a decade. But Augustin Lucerne had been dressing himself for almost sixty years, and that was not about to change anytime soon. He’d tasked the attendant with keeping his laundry clean and pressed, but that had been the extent of the duties he’d assigned.

  “Callas, advise Admiral Desaix to prepare a ship. I am going to Nordlingen. Immediately.” He pulled a perfectly pressed shirt from the rack and put it on.

  “Marshal, sir, the council will . . .”

  “Callas, the day I ask the council for permission to do what I feel I must is the day I blow my brains out. Understood?”

  “Yes, Marshal.” Callas paused for a few seconds. “Shall I awaken Dumont and have him pack for you, sir?”

  “Yes, Callas. Thank you.” Lucerne was buttoning his jacket. “And tell the admiral he may assign an escort squadron, but I do not want him dispatching the entire fleet to nursemaid me. There is enough already for them to handle.”

  “Yes, Marshal.”

  “And Callas?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I want to leave today. And I’d like to slip out without Astra knowing if possible. She’ll insist on coming, and after what happened, I’d really prefer she stay here where it is safer.”

  “Yes, sir, I will try to keep it quiet. But you know Miss Astra, sir.”

  An odd smile crept onto Lucerne’s face. Astra had been a handful since the days when she’d followed him around his command post, sharing her chocolate bars with him. His daughter was headstrong, and intelligent. And she damned sure didn’t take no for an answer. She was a colossal pain in the ass sometimes—and he couldn’t be prouder of her.

  But he still intended to try and slip away.

  “I know the Repulse left orbit this morning. And I can’t find my father anywhere. Or Callas, either.” Astra Lucerne’s voice was loud and deadly serious. She didn’t carry an official rank, but there were few in the Celtiborian military with the courage to defy her.

  The duty officer was entirely out of his depth trying to stand up to the marshal’s fiery daughter, but he had his orders and he was doing his best to carry them out.

  “I am sorry, Miss Lucerne, but I have no information on that at present.” His voice was a little shaky, but he was doing as good a job stonewalling her as any of her father’s officers could manage.

  Which isn’t all that good.

  “Then I suggest you log into the network and access the Repulse’s flight plan.” She stood less than a meter away, staring at him with ice blue eyes. She wore the usual pistol, hanging low on her hip like some gunslinger’s weapon, and her hand was on her waist, just a few centimeters above. Everyone in the army knew she was a crack shot.

  The officer took a step back, but he just repeated what he had already said. “I am sorry, but I am not authorized to release that information at this time.” His nerves were clearly strained. Still, he stood his ground.

  Astra held her stare. She wasn’t about to shoot one of her father’s officers, or even threaten one at gunpoint. She’d done that to Lucas Lancaster on the Claw, but that had been an extraordinary circumstance, and Ark’s life had been on the line. And even Lucas had been sure she wouldn’t really shoot him, just like the officer standing in front of her now knew she wouldn’t.

  “Aaagh!” she yelled, voicing her frustration. She knew she couldn’t get too angry with the officer for following her father’s orders, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be angry at all. She turned and stormed out of the command center and into the hallway.

  Where the hell did he go?

  She knew why her father had slipped away. He’d been doting on her ever since Blackhawk had brought her home. She couldn’t get too angry with him, either. After all, she had been kidnapped and
taken away to a lawless backwater on the edge of civilization. If it hadn’t been for Blackhawk, she might have died there or spent the rest of her life as a captive. She knew her father loved her, and she couldn’t begin to imagine how worried and scared he’d been while she was gone.

  I get all that . . . and couldn’t care less.

  She couldn’t live that way. It’s just not how she was wired. Astra Lucerne was her father’s daughter, in more ways than one. She didn’t hide from her enemies; she faced them head-on. And she didn’t cower under guard from danger. No matter how much her father—or Blackhawk, for that matter—tried to protect her from the realities of the world.

  And that’s where the frustration really came from. She had two of the strongest, most dangerous men in the Far Stars trying to protect her and keep her safe. She loved them both, but she had no intention of letting either one of them get away with it. They were both off somewhere again, probably getting themselves into trouble, and she’d be damned if she was going to stay behind under lock and key while the two people she loved most in the world were in danger.

  She was walking down the corridor, back toward the suite of offices she shared with Lys. She was going to find out where her father went if she had to hack into the main data system to find out. And then, by Chrono, she was going to follow him if she had to steal a ship to do it.

  Because wherever he went, I bet a million crowns I find Blackhawk there, too.

  CHAPTER 19

  ZEL CROUCHED DOWN, DUCKING BEHIND THE LOW RIDGE. HIS TWO companies, together barely two-thirds the size of a single full-strength unit, were drawn up behind the ridge. They had been advancing all night, and now the first rays of dawn were casting a tentative light across the field.

  The enemy capital city stretched out before his position, its battle-scarred skyline standing defiantly, as the enemy soldiers prepared to mount a last-ditch defense.

  The Nordlingeners had been trying to break off since the previous night, but Zel’s people—and the rest of the Celtiborian army—had been pushing hard, keeping them engaged, staying on their heels all the way back to the city and denying them the chance to regroup. The Celtiborians were exhausted, and their losses had been brutal, but they could taste victory.

  “Captain Zel, are your people ready?” It was Colonel Martine on the comm.

  “Yes, sir.” Zel slipped forward, lying flat on the half-frozen ground and staring cautiously over the ridge. “We’ve just been resupplied, and we’re ready to advance.” Ready was a relative term. His people were tired and hungry and cold. But they knew winning battles was mostly a matter of timing. They had the enemy on the run. If they let the Nordlingeners reorganize, thousands more of their comrades would die in attacks against a resupplied and entrenched enemy. If they pushed themselves now, tapped into that inner power that had won them so many battles before, they could end it.

  “Okay, Captain. Your people are opposite the royal sector. When we advance, I want you to slice through the enemy lines and head straight for the palace. Don’t worry about your flanks. Benz and Altavon are covering your advance.”

  “Understood, Colonel.”

  “We’ll be attacking in half an hour, Captain, so if you hurry, there should be time to get a quick meal for your men.”

  “I’ll see to it sir.” That was the least they deserved.

  “And, Captain?” There was a hint of hesitancy in Martine’s usually assured voice.

  “Sir?”

  “Try not to take the palace apart when you attack. I have word from HQ.” The colonel paused. “Apparently, Arkarin Blackhawk and his people are in there on some kind of mission for Marshal Lucerne.”

  Fuck. How am I supposed to take the palace without wasting whoever is in there?

  Zel had never met Blackhawk, but he knew the adventurer was one of the marshal’s closest comrades. And from what he’d heard, the captain of Wolf’s Claw had long been a friend to the entire Celtiborian army.

  “Understood, sir. We’ll be careful. Zel out.”

  He took a deep breath, and hit the comm unit on his collar. “Sergeant Havers, we’ve got about half an hour before the attack now. Let’s make good use of it. Get a quick breakfast going.”

  Katarina slipped down the hall swiftly, silently, with Shira right behind. The main power was still out, but the backup systems were engaged. The rooms and corridors all had the same dim light.

  They’d explored most of the upper level, and they’d found it to be almost deserted. There had been more shooting, but the sounds had all come from downstairs. Katarina’s first reaction had been to head to the sound of the fighting, but the mission was to find the king, and he was as likely to be upstairs as down. Besides, Blackhawk and the Twins—not to mention Sarge and his boys—could take care of themselves.

  The two women had stumbled onto a few guards, but they’d gradually come to realize most of the enemy strength was downstairs. The few sentries they’d encountered on the upper floor had been easily—and silently—dispatched. Shira’s heavy blade and Katarina’s slim and deadly throwing knives had found their marks without fail.

  “It’s too empty up here,” Shira whispered softly. “And not just because everybody rushed downstairs. It doesn’t look like it’s been used in a long time. It’s dusty. It feels almost abandoned.”

  “I agree. But the king’s quarters are up here. If he hasn’t been living up here . . .” Katarina stopped and turned back toward Shira. “Do you think he moved his headquarters? That we’re wasting our time here?”

  “I don’t know. But something’s not right.” Shira’s voice was full of concern. “And there’s some kind of fight going on. Maybe we should . . .”

  Katarina was nodding. “Let’s find out what is going on down there.” She glanced down the hall. “The main stair was back that way. Do we chance it?”

  Shira took a quick look behind her. “Either that or back the way we came.” The two had scaled an abandoned old shaft leading up from the service area, an ancient dumbwaiter or laundry chute. It hadn’t been fast or pleasant, and it was all the way on the other side of the building. But they hadn’t passed another set of steps or an elevator except the main stairway.

  Katarina paused a few seconds. Her training told her to find another way, to remain hidden as long as possible. But she wasn’t a lone wolf assassin right now. She was part of a team, and the rest of that team—of her family—were likely fighting for their lives right now. She reached around, pulled the carbine from her back. “Let’s go. If this is a wild goose chase—or worse, a trap—we need to get everybody out of here.”

  Shira nodded. She already had her two assault rifles in her hands, and a look of cold death on her face. Her readiness said it all.

  The two spun around and moved back the way they had come. Knowing the way had been cleared with their first go-through, their pace had quickened significantly. They had to get to the others, and if that meant fighting their way through half the guards in the city, so be it.

  Shira was in the front now, and she slipped out into the broad upper hall. The grand foyer was below, and the main stair was a curved affair, carved from pure marble and at least three meters wide. Two guards were on duty just inside the main door, but she couldn’t see anyone else.

  She turned back to Katarina, holding up two fingers. The Sebastiani assassin just nodded. Shira slipped one of her rifles onto her back and carefully aimed the other. She paused an instant and then put a bullet in the rightmost guard’s head. Half a second later, she dropped the other. Then she sprang to her feet, running down the stairs, whipping the second rifle from her back as she did.

  The two women raced down, their heads snapping around, peering into the adjoining rooms, looking for any enemies. There was a man walking through what looked like a reception room. From the angle, Katarina couldn’t tell if he was a guard or a household servant. She didn’t relish the idea of blowing away some handyman or butler, but there was no time for second-guessing in action.
She dropped him with a single shot.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and turned in opposite directions, scouting out the area and supporting each other’s blind spots. “Clear,” Shira snapped, with all the harsh certainty of a veteran sergeant.

  “Clear,” came Katarina’s reply, somewhat softer, but just as decisive.

  “So where do we . . .” The buzz of Shira’s comm unit interrupted her question. Her hand darted up and activated the unit. “Shira,” she said simply.

  “Shira, it’s Ark. Listen carefully. We’ve got the king, but we’re trapped in the dungeon level. I need you to hook up with Sarge and get down here and help us bust out. I’ve activated my transponder. You can follow it to our position. But we can only keep it on for short bursts, because it’s a damned road map for every guard in the place, too.” She could tell he was distracted, and she could hear the sounds of gunfire in the background. “And call Lucas. Tell him to have the Claw ready.”

  “Got it, Ark. We’re on the way.” She heard the click as he signed off. “You heard the captain,” she said to Katarina.

  She turned back toward the main arch leading deeper into the palace. She took one foot forward . . .

  And all hell broke loose.

  At least a dozen guards were pouring into the corridor ahead of her. They’d been headed somewhere, probably down to the dungeon where Blackhawk was holed up. But they stopped on a dime when they saw two women standing in the foyer, armed to the teeth.

  Shira whipped up her arms and started firing both guns on full auto, diving for cover as she did. Katarina had beat her to it, though, and two of the guards were already down, each with small, smooth holes in their heads from the assassin’s carbine.

  Then the rest of the enemy troops opened fire.

  “General DeMark, the enemy forces have retreated back to Nordlingen City. They have assumed defensive positions around the perimeter of the urban area, and Colonel Martine is spearheading the final assault.” Varne’s voice was hoarse, but it was loud and clear too. The aide had been at his post since the attack began over thirty-six hours before—everyone in the command post had. The soldiers in the field had been fighting that long, and DeMark would be damned if any of his support staff would do less than the troopers advancing against enemy fire. He knew every one of his people agreed.