Enemy in the Dark

by Jay Allan

  “Any word from Blackhawk or Wolf’s Claw?”

  Varne sighed softly. “No, sir.” He hesitated a few seconds then added, “But Wolf’s Claw wouldn’t break radio silence until they got Blackhawk’s signal anyway.”

  DeMark knew that was true . . . but he also knew they should have gotten that signal by now. He didn’t think it would help anything to say it out loud, though. They’d all expected to hear something from Blackhawk sooner than this, and his hope faded with every passing minute.

  “Advise Colonel Martine to exert extreme caution if his people reach the palace.” Blackhawk might have taken one risk too many and finally gotten himself killed, but DeMark was damned if it would be his friendly fire that took down the legendary adventurer.

  “I already forwarded that directive, sir.”

  “Well, send it again,” DeMark roared. He knew he was just working through his own frustration. He’d heard Varne warn Martine twice already, and he was well aware his men only needed to receive an order once. But he felt helpless being stuck in his command post while his men were fighting and Blackhawk and his people were missing behind enemy lines. Rafaelus DeMark was a combat soldier, and in his heart he longed to be in the field with his men. But he was also the commander of the entire expeditionary force, and his closest replacement was fourteen light-years away.

  Rank has its privileges . . . and its shackles.

  “Message confirmed, General.” Varne’s confirmation was crisp.

  DeMark’s eyes drifted down to the small screen on his workstation. He pulled up the list of units held in reserve. It was a pointless exercise. He knew exactly what the screen would show him, but he confirmed it nevertheless. He’d committed every fresh formation but one: the Forty-Eighth Regiment. It was positioned ten kilometers behind the line, loaded up on the last of his trucks and waiting for the order to move forward.

  He’d waited, keeping them back while the men strained at the leash to reinforce their comrades. Marshal Lucerne was the greatest military genius in the Far Stars, and he had taught his officers well. And the number one rule, the paramount maxim for winning battles, was to be the last to commit your final reserve. He was pretty sure the enemy had everything they had in the fight, but he couldn’t be sure. And the wisdom of holding something back seemed even more profound on a planet light-years away from home.

  But Marshal Lucerne also knew just when to launch the final blow, to throw everything into the fight to win the final victory. And DeMark’s gut was screaming, Now!

  Or never.

  “The Forty-Eighth will advance and support Colonel Martine’s assault,” he ordered. “All units along the line are ordered to attack, and no one is to halt until every square centimeter of Nordlingen City is ours.”

  “Yes, sir.” It was clear from Varne’s tone he approved. Then again, it was easy to vote for courage and aggression when you weren’t in command. But DeMark suspected a titanic victory and a crushing defeat looked eerily similar to each other at this stage.

  Now we just hope I’m right, and that the enemy doesn’t have a last trick up his sleeve.

  Because I’m completely played out.

  “You okay?” Shira yelled across the foyer to Katarina. Katarina wanted to ask her the same thing, considering Shira herself had taken a flesh wound to the arm. It didn’t seem too serious, but it had been enough to knock her down to a single rifle.

  “I’m fine.” Katarina had taken cover behind a heavy marble statue next to the stairs. She glanced across to Shira, who had ducked behind the doorway leading to a small drawing room.

  The two had been much quicker to react than the surprised guards, and they’d taken most of them down in the first seconds, before the soldiers regained their composure and reacted. By then, Shira and Katarina had gotten behind cover, firing all the while.

  The problem was, while there were only four guards left by the time they too had gotten out of the line of fire—and two of those were down now—another four had arrived since.

  “We can’t stay here. My ammo’s running low, and they’ll just get more support,” Shira yelled to her comrade, her deep voice loud and clear, even over the din of battle.

  “Agreed.” Katarina didn’t look like the tough customer Shira often did, but that was pure illusion. Katarina Venturi was the most relentless killing machine on the Claw, save possibly for Blackhawk. “Be ready in three.”

  She reached behind her and pulled a grenade from her belt. It wasn’t the usual light frag model; it was a high-powered incendiary, normally used on the field, not in the confines of a building.

  Screw it.

  She was done with being pinned down and helpless.

  “Two.”

  She set the timer for six seconds, and she put her finger in the pin, flashing a last glance across the foyer to Shira.

  “One. Get down.”

  She pulled the pin and threw the grenade hard through the archway. It landed deep into the room, well behind the guards.

  “Be ready to go,” she shouted to Shira, and she slipped back behind the statue.

  She counted down in her head. Three, two, one. The explosion shook the entire palace, and a jet of flame billowed into the foyer, blowing the front door out and bringing a chunk of the ceiling down.

  The heat was almost unbearable, and the rooms around them were on fire, everything flammable burning fiercely. The oxygen had been sucked out of the room, and it was a few seconds before Katarina could even take a long and tortured breath. “Now. Let’s go.”

  She swung around from behind the statue and ran past the fires and through the archway, her carbine in front of her, the last clip in place. She could see Shira at her side, her shirt ripped and a bright sheen of blood on her upper arm where she’d been hit.

  Her eyes darted wildly from left to right, searching for live enemies. But the instant she saw the first body, she knew there were no guards left alive. The twisted, blackened thing still had a vague resemblance to a human being, but only if you really paid attention.

  The room was ablaze, and burned bits of moldings and other fixtures were falling to the ground. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Shira said, still scanning the area for enemies. “According to the last transponder reading, Ark and the Twins are on the lower level and somewhere to the right of us. We’ll have to wait until they signal again to get a more precise reading.”

  Katarina nodded and turned down the hallway. “All we need to do is find a way down there, then.”

  “Already on it. Sarge,” she said into her comm, “Shira here. Do you read me?”

  “I read you. What’s going on? It sounded like an asteroid just hit the palace.”

  “Close. A heavy incendiary. No time for that now. The captain needs us. He’s in the dungeon, and we’re looking for the way down. Lock into my transponder, and hook up with us as soon as you can.”

  There was a pause, while Sarge got a fix on her signal. “We’re close to you. We should be able to catch up in a few minutes. But how do we get to the captain?”

  “I don’t know, Sarge,” she said, “but it’ll be easier to look if we’re able to move through the building in force. Just get here ASAP.”

  “Roger that.”

  Blackhawk stood just inside the cell door, peering cautiously around the edge. His fire had been deadly accurate, and half a dozen fresh bodies lay in the hallway, guards who had been careless enough to peer around the corner. And yet, it was a standoff, and the enemy would only get stronger, and Blackhawk and the Twins would run out of ammunition. Soon.

  A war of attrition definitely isn’t in our favor.

  “Let’s get a barricade in front of this opening.” There was no way to shut the door. Tarq had torn the hinges from the frame when he smashed through. The door itself lay bent and twisted in the middle of the floor. “When we run out of ammunition, they’ll rush us for sure. And we’ll be down to blades.”

  Tarnan leaned down and picked up one end of the door, dragging
it slowly toward the opening. He was careful not to expose himself, in case any of the enemy dared look around again.

  Blackhawk turned back toward the captive monarch. “So you are King Gustav.” It was more a statement than a question. Blackhawk didn’t doubt the man was Nordlingen’s monarch. “How did you end up in your own dungeon?”

  “Treachery,” he spat. “How do all such things come to pass?” There was deep resignation in his voice, and below that, a smoldering rage that Blackhawk understood all too well.

  There was a loud crash. Tarnan had leaned the door sideways across the entry. He and his brother had moved to the bench on the far wall, the two of them straining to pull its brackets free of the wall. It was a close battle, but the rivets hadn’t been enough to withstand the combined strength of the Twins. When it finally came free, though, they both fell back, and the heavy metal plank landed hard on the ground.

  Blackhawk had spun around instinctively at the crash, but after a quick glance down the hall he turned back toward the king. He’d seen the awesome power of the Twins before, and he wasn’t surprised that they’d pulled the rivets right from the wall. The king was another matter, however, and he stared in astonishment, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

  “Don’t worry about them. They are harmless. Unless you piss them off.” It was an odd time for a joke, but Blackhawk couldn’t help but smile. He turned again. “Cover the door, guys. I’m going to have a talk with the king.”

  “Got it, Cap.”

  Blackhawk stared right at Gustav. “Treachery?” he asked, picking up where they had left off. “What kind of treachery.”

  “We had a visitor. He offered us weapons, money, technology . . . all to fight the Celtiborians. He told us Marshal Lucerne would enslave us if he conquered Nordlingen, that he would sell our children as slaves, take our women to his harem and his soldiers’ brothels. That our only hope was resistance to the end.”

  Half a dozen shots rang out. The king’s head snapped around abruptly, but Tarq’s voice boomed, “One of the bastards showed his ugly face, boss. All taken care of. It’s even uglier now.”

  “You were saying?” Blackhawk stared at the king. “It’s okay,” he said, trying to reassure the king. “Tarq and Tarnan can hold the doorway. At least for now.” I shouldn’t have added that last bit. It’s true, but not very helpful. Too late. “Please, go on.”

  Gustav looked terrified, but he managed to keep his composure. “I refused. I had heard other things about the marshal, and I believed we could negotiate with him, that his forces would not attack us if we yielded and agreed to join his Confederation. That his actions were for the good of the entire sector and not bids for conquest and power. One of my aides, Thimolenes, had spent time on Celtiboria. He told me how Lucerne had treated other honorable foes who had yielded. I was prepared to treat with his envoys.”

  “Your aide was right. Augustin Lucerne is an honest man. One of the few I have ever known.” Blackhawk’s eyes were boring into the king’s, trying to decide if he believed the man. He decided he did, and the familiar feeling of the AI chiming in supported his decision.

  Visual analysis suggests 85 percent chance the subject Gustav is speaking honestly.

  “Thimolenes is dead now.” Gustav’s voice increased in volume. “Which left my prime minister, Davanos, to conspire behind my back. He met secretly with the visitor, obtaining the promised support, and when he had received it, he launched a coup against me. The visitor had provided him with soldiers from off-world, and they overwhelmed my loyal guards. I was taken by surprise and imprisoned. They have ruled ever since in my name.”

  Blackhawk glanced back toward the door. The Twins were still firing the occasional burst, maintaining the uneasy status quo between the opposing forces. He knew time was running out, but wasn’t sure what to do except wait until the others arrived—and hope the ammunition held out long enough. He flipped the switch on the transponder, sending out another burst. C’mon, Katarina . . . hurry.

  He looked at the king. “Are you saying the population at large does not know you were deposed?”

  “No. That is why Davanos did not kill me. They have compelled me to appear for broadcasts to make the people and the army believe I am commanding them to battle.” His voice had a sharp edge, and Blackhawk could see that his fists were clenched.

  Gustav stared at Blackhawk. “They drugged me, and they used the computers to synthesize my voice.” He slammed his fist down onto the bench. “I would never have cooperated with them. Never. I would have died first.”

  Blackhawk was surprised at the king’s reactions. He’d seen so many monarchs and dictators in the Far Stars and, other than Lucerne, he’d judged few to be worthy of their positions. Blackhawk almost universally distrusted those in positions of power. He knew from long experience how badly they abused their authority—how brutal he himself had been when the pursuit of power had been his life as well.

  Augustin Lucerne was a rare breed of man, and now Blackhawk began to wonder if King Gustav had a spark of the same thing that made the Celtiborian marshal a man worth following.

  Estimate now 93 percent probability subject is speaking honestly in gross. Analysis based on eye movement, word selection, and emotionality displayed in posture and vocal tone. Increase in probability due to wider range of moods now displayed by subject.

  That, coupled with his own gut, made Blackhawk conclude something he rarely thought: I think I trust this man.

  “Cap, we’re both down to our last belts.” Tarnan was slamming the heavy magazine into his autocannon. His brother was on the other side of the open doorway, already halfway through his last reload. “If we’re going to make a move, it’s got to be now.”

  Damn. Can we surprise them? Can we make it down the hall to close combat range? He wasn’t sure. His gut told him the odds were against it. Still, there wasn’t another choice. Once the enemy realized they were out of ammunition, they’d storm the room. They had to do something now, before their guns ran completely dry.

  “All right, boys, we charge in one minute. Fire everything you’ve got on the way down, and then it’s hand to hand.”

  The Twins both nodded. “Yes, Captain,” they said, almost in perfect unison.

  Blackhawk turned back toward the king. “I’m sorry we couldn’t arrange a better rescue, but this is your chance for freedom. You can stay in here too . . . they will probably spare you, at least for now.”

  Gustav got up slowly. “I am with you.”

  Blackhawk felt a rush of respect for the monarch. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I am Arkarin Blackhawk, commander of the vessel Wolf’s Claw, and an emissary of Marshal Augustin Lucerne.”

  “It is my pleasure, Captain Blackhawk.” The king extended his hand.

  Blackhawk reached out and grasped the king’s hand for a few seconds. Then he started walking toward the Twins. He took two steps and turned back. He handed his rifle to Gustav. “You may need this, Your Highness.”

  Gustav took the rifle and nodded his thanks. Blackhawk reached down to his side and pulled out his heavy pistol. His hand tightened around the well-worn grip.

  “All right, men. It is ti—”

  He was interrupted by a blast of static. “Ark, we’re almost there.” It was Shira on the comm. An instant later the sound of gunfire erupted in the corridors.

  Blackhawk smiled. “The cavalry is here.” He turned his head and glanced at the other three men. Then he looked back through the door. “Let’s go, boys.

  “Charge!”

  CHAPTER 20

  “ENTERING NORMAL SPACE, CAPTAIN.”

  “Very well, Ensign. Proceed.” Captain Jonas Flint sat quietly at his station.

  He felt the usual feeling, a brief fluttering in his stomach. It was almost nothing. He wouldn’t even call it nausea. As symptoms of the hyperbarrier transition went, he could hardly complain. He’d seen far worse among his crew. Indeed, he’d never forget what he saw on his first cruise, a lifetime
ago.

  He’d joined the merchant service with his childhood friend, Ernesto. They had heard horror stories about bleeding eyes and projectile vomiting—spacers liked to give the rookies a hard time. But when it was over, Flint had hardly noticed the slight feeling in his gut. Then he turned to his friend, and he knew immediately.

  Ernesto had been one of the 0.87 percent of space travelers completely unable to adapt to entry into hyperspace. Flint remembered every detail as if it had been yesterday—his friend’s cold, dead eyes staring back at him, a constant reminder of the inherent danger of space travel . . .

  “The fleet has transited, Captain. All vessels report normal operation.”

  Flint glanced down at the screen. His ships had held their positions well during the voyage. It wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to get them all in formation. “Proceed with fleet maneuvers. Plot a course in-system.”

  This was his second run to Nordlingen. There had been rumors flying around back on Buchhara before they’d embarked, tales of invasion and war. He’d half expected the voyage to be canceled, but the loading continued, and when it was done, he got the clearance to set out. He’d assumed the rumors of strife on Nordlingen were just that. If he had an imperial crown for every piece of pure bullshit that flew around in spacers’ bars, he’d be as rich as the Lancasters.

  The name Lancaster had become synonymous in the Far Stars with wealth, but now Flint had a different perspective. The word had just come down, and it had proven another set of wild rumors to be true. Old man Vestron had finally sold the company, and to the money-grubbing Lancasters of all people.

  The Vestron family had started with a single ship, two centuries before, and space travel had been in their blood for generations. Indeed, until forty or fifty years before, it had been the custom for each new generation of Vestrons to put in their time aboard the company’s freighters. But like all such things, the fire that drove success waned, and the Vestrons took to wild decadence and feuding with one another while the family business faltered.