Enemy in the Dark

by Jay Allan

  A sale had become inevitable, and there were only so many companies large enough to absorb Vestron Shipping. The transport guilds would never allow one of the other big shippers to consolidate so much power, so that left even fewer potential suitors. But Lancaster Interests had a culture utterly foreign to Vestron, at least to Flint’s way of thinking. The Lancasters had nothing in their blood but money. To them, shipping was just another product or service, no different than mining or electronics. Nothing more than figures on a spreadsheet.

  Flint knew it had been years since the Vestrons had been anything different, but the spirit of past generations still infused the company, at least to the old salts like him. Flint’s own father, and his grandfather before, had commanded Vestron freighters, and he’d grown up on tales of family scions manning bridge stations on the company’s vast ships. Now this proud old firm was nothing but a single division in the vast monster that was Lancaster Interests.

  And everything was already changing.

  Flint thought of his son, who was on his second voyage, a milk run from Sebastiani to Antilles. He’d raised his son as he had been brought up, on tradition and old spacers’ stories, but he knew his future grandchildren would grow up a different way. The Far Stars were changing, and not for the better in Flint’s view. Everything that had once mattered had faded away, and a new, harsher reality had taken hold.

  “The fleet is in formation, Captain. Awaiting your orders.”

  The mate’s voice brought Flint out of his aimless musings. Deep philosophy was for others, for academics and wealthy men with too much time on their hands. Flint was a working senior captain, in command not only of his own vessel, but of all six in the fleet.

  I’ll let others play the politics, and I’ll keep my mind on the only thing that’s ever mattered about this business: flying through space.

  “Proceed to Nordlingen. Approach speed.” The only occupied planet in the system was close to the guild transit point. They’d be in orbit in twelve hours if nothing went wrong, and unloaded a day after that. This was a one-sided run, and there was no cargo to load up, so his people would be on their way in two days, three days maximum. Then it would be back to Buchhara, and a well-deserved leave. He closed his eyes and imagined his wife, her thick hair, brown, but with a coppery tint, especially in Buchhara’s setting red sun. Spacefarers missing their wives was as old as travel between the stars, but that didn’t make it less real. Flint was a creature of space, a man raised from birth to ply the trading lanes. But as he got older he longed more and more for the comforts of home.

  That too, he imagined, was as old as space travel itself.

  “Contacts, sir. Six vessels inbound, bearing 321.098.145.” The officer manning the scope was young. Ensign Harcourt was fresh out of the academy and on her first cruise. She’d conducted herself with admirable calm since joining Warrington’s crew, but the sighting of six unidentified vessels had pushed her past what a rookie bridge officer could hide, and her tone advertised her excitement.

  “Full scan, Ensign.” Captain Jeran Nortel’s voice was calm itself. Nortel had twenty years of service in space, first for the warlord Carteria, and then for Augustin Lucerne. The transition had been a rough one. Nortel was a loyal sort, and Lucerne had personally beheaded his old master. He’d found it hard to swear allegiance to the man who’d killed his employer, but when Carteria the Younger signed the peace accord with Lucerne, Nortel felt he could follow with at least some degree of honor. It had taken him years to realize he’d served a monster and that fortune had finally smiled on him and brought forth a leader he could respect and obey with all his heart.

  “They appear to be freighters, Captain. They are broadcasting Vestron Shipping credentials.”

  Nortel frowned. Who doesn’t know we’ve blockaded Nordlingen? He took a deep breath. “Ensign, report the contacts to Commodore Jardaines immediately. And set up a comm channel with the lead vessel.”

  “Yes, sir.” Harcourt looked down at her controls, forwarding the scanner data to Jardaines’s flagship.

  Nortel sighed. Constellation was almost five light-minutes distant, so it would be at least ten minutes before the fleet commander was able to respond. Until then, Nortel was in command. Of the situation, and of any diplomatic repercussions. For all practical purposes, he was the personal representative of Marshal Lucerne, at least for a few minutes.

  Diplomacy isn’t really my strong suit. But let’s give it a try . . .

  “I have an active channel, sir.”

  He reached down and pressed the button to activate his commlink. “Attention incoming spacecraft. This is Captain Nortel, commanding the Celtiborian naval vessel Warrington. The planet Nordlingen has been declared a war zone, and all traffic in and out is forbidden. Vessels entering this system without authorization are subject to search and seizure. You are instructed to cut your engines and prepare to be boarded.”

  “Warrington, this Captain Jonas Flint. Captain Nortel, my vessels are guild-bonded transports sailing under the flag of Vestron Shipping. We are not hostiles, and we have no involvement in any battles currently taking place. I invoke guild rights and refuse any boarding of my vessels.”

  Nortel paused. He didn’t want to explain to the commodore—or Chrono forbid, the marshal—why he’d picked a fight with the trading guilds. But he wanted even less to explain why he hadn’t followed his orders, and those were clear.

  “I am sorry, Captain Flint. I understand your position, but your vessels have entered the proscribed zone. Guild protection does not supersede the rights of combatants in a war zone. I have no choice but to conduct a full inspection of your cargo, after which, if no contraband is found, you will be allowed to leave the system freely.”

  Nortel hit the button, muting the comm line. He looked over at Harcourt. “Bring the ship to General Quarters, Ensign.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nortel nodded and reactivated the comm. “. . . must object, Captain Nortel,” his counterpart was saying. “My personnel have no part in this conflict, and I insist you allow us to proceed with our bonded delivery.”

  “I’m afraid that is impossible, Captain Flint. The only option is for your vessels to comply with blockade protocols and submit to a full inspection.” He paused. “If you refuse, I must advise you that we will regrettably be forced to open fire to prevent either your approach to the planet or any attempt to flee the system.”

  “This is an outrage, Captain. My vessels are not combatants, and . . .”

  “Captain,” Nortel interrupted, “you may file a complaint with your guild, or directly with the Celtiborian government if you wish, but the fact remains that I am operating under wartime rules and strict blockade protocols. I do not wish to see any of your personnel needlessly injured, so I will repeat my demand that your vessels cut power and submit to immediate boarding. Any attempt to power up hyperdrives or to evade inspection will result in our opening fire without further notice.”

  Nortel leaned back in his chair. Come on, Flint . . . you don’t have any choice. Don’t make me fire on a bunch of civilian freighters . . .

  “Welcome aboard, Captain Nortel.” Commodore Lavare Jardaines had been standing at the door to the shuttle bay, waiting for Nortel to disembark from the shuttle. What had started as a routine blockade enforcement action had quickly escalated, and Jardaines wanted to speak with his captain face-to-face.

  “Thank you, sir.” Nortel stopped a few meters short of the hatch and snapped the commodore a textbook salute.

  It had taken him quite some time to perfect that after joining the Celtiborian forces.

  “Come with me, Captain. We will go to my quarters and discuss the situation with a bit more . . . ah . . . discretion than the open landing bay offers.”

  “Very well, sir.” Nortel slipped in alongside Jardaines and followed the commodore down the hall and to the lift.

  “I understand you originally served with Carteria before transferring your allegiance to the marshal
.”

  Nortel hesitated, uncertain if his loyalty was being questioned. “It . . . umm . . . it has been some time since I accepted Marshal Lucerne’s commission, Commodore.”

  Jardaines suppressed a small laugh as he punched at the lift controls. “Please, Captain, I meant no offense. Indeed, all of us have served other masters before, or most at least. Marshal Lucerne began his ascent to power from the Northern Highlands, an area not known for its interplanetary dealings. As a practical matter, the veterans in the Celtiborian navy all served one or more of the old warlords.”

  Nortel felt foolish. He realized Jardaines was making trivial conversation until they were alone, not hurling veiled insults. Nortel knew he still had some sensitivity about his past. He had served an evil man, and he hadn’t fully realized that until he’d transferred his allegiance to a worthy leader. Truth be told, he was ashamed of his days in Carteria’s navy.

  “I understand, sir. Of course. Yes, my prior service was to Carteria. After his final defeat, I swore my service to the marshal along with Carteria the Younger, and I received my commission in his own navy.” He glanced up at the commodore. “Might I inquire as to your prior service, sir?”

  “Of course, Captain. I was originally commissioned in the fleet of Bellegarin the Red.” The commodore offered his subordinate a passing smile. “So you see, my old master was no less a bloodthirsty monster than yours, it would seem.” He paused a few seconds. “We choose our masters to the extent fortune allows, Jeran, and even good men serve evil masters. Until Marshal Lucerne managed to break the old system, I’d venture there were few of the warlords who were not fiends in one way or another.”

  Nortel nodded. “So it would seem, sir. Thank Chrono the fates brought us Marshal Lucerne.”

  Jardaines walked out of the elevator, turning left into a long hallway. “Thank Chrono, indeed, Jeran. Augustin Lucerne is a noble man, I would wager my last breath on it.” He stopped and turned, waving his hand over the entry sensor. The door slid open, and he gestured for Nortel to walk inside.

  “Thank you, sir.” Nortel tried to focus on his commanding officer, but he’d never been in the quarters of a flag rank officer, and he couldn’t help but steal a quick look around.

  “Please sit, Jeran.” Jardaines gestured toward a large sofa in the middle of the room. “Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Water?”

  Nortel was about to decline when he realized how dry his throat was. “Just some water, sir, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Not at all, Captain.” He reached over and pressed a button on the comm unit. “Hanson, a pitcher of ice water, please.”

  Nortel couldn’t hear the orderly on the other side of the comm, but Jardaines added, “No, nothing else.” The commodore moved to close the line, but then he added, “And, Hanson, tell them this time that ice means cold. If they send me another batch of tepid water, so help me I will have the entire kitchen staff on the hull cleaning particulate matter from the scanning array.”

  Jardaines turned to face his guest, taking a seat in a large chair opposite Nortel. “I wanted to wait until we were alone to discuss this matter.” He stared at Nortel. “You know, of course, that the cargo your personnel found on the convoy consisted of contraband weapons.” Jardaines paused and gazed over at the captain. “To be specific, imperial weapons.”

  Nortel stared back wordlessly for a few seconds. He knew Marshal Lucerne’s Far Stars Confederation was intended to balance out the power of the empire, but throughout his life, imperial strength and brutality had always been somewhat of a theoretical fear, one consisting more of old stories and less of actual guns stacked up in the holds of ships.

  “Are you sure, sir? I could tell the weapons were highly advanced, but imperial?”

  “So I’ve been told, Captain. By no less than General DeMark, whose men have been facing enemy soldiers armed with this type of ordnance.” Jardaines sat quietly for a few seconds. “Captain, I am going to get right to the point. General DeMark has ordered your ship interned, cut off from all communication with other fleet units.” Jardaines could see the confused look on Nortel’s face turning quickly toward defensiveness.

  “Sir, I can assure you that my entire crew . . .”

  “You needn’t continue, Captain. General DeMark asked me to meet with you specifically to address the reasons for his decision, though I would have done so on my own, even if he hadn’t.” He gave Nortel a weak smile. “Captain, your crew behaved with exemplary conduct and efficiency and, indeed, I have put you and your people up for a commendation.” He sighed. “However, for reasons I cannot disclose—indeed, to which I myself am not entirely privy—secrecy regarding the contents of the freighters you captured has been deemed of vital importance. Therefore, your ship will proceed immediately to Celtiboria, with the interned freighter crews accompanying you in the transport Olsyndra. You will maintain complete communications silence until you arrive home, at which time you will follow the directions provided by fleet command.”

  “Understood, sir.” Nortel was still confused, but he knew how to obey orders. He sat for a few moments, as the door slid open and the steward brought in the water, setting a glass in front of him. He cued off Jardaines and stayed silent until the attendant had walked back through the door.

  “Commodore?”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Does this mean the marshal was right all along? That the empire is planning a move against the Far Stars?”

  Jardaines let out a long sigh. “I don’t know, Jeran, I just don’t know.” A short pause. “But I’m not willing to bet against Marshal Lucerne being right. Are you?”

  CHAPTER 21

  BLACKHAWK HAD PULLED OUT HIS SWORD AND WAS MOVING down the corridor even as his shout continued to echo in the king’s small cell. The Twins were right behind him, with King Gustav bringing up the rear. There was a wild gun battle raging in the hall running perpendicular to his position. The fire was much heavier from the left, where he knew his people were advancing. The surviving enemy guards were to the right, and the volume of their shooting was rapidly falling off.

  “Shira, hold your fire,” he shouted. It’s time to finish this. And to do what he had planned, he needed a live prisoner.

  “Got it, Ark.” Her response was clipped. Clearly, she knew what Blackhawk had in mind, and she didn’t like it.

  He whipped around the corner, bending his knees and sinking low to the ground as he did. He could hear the enemy shots ripping by, but they went high, over his head. His eyes quickly scanned the remaining enemy fighters. There were three guards, each with assault rifles in their hands, and a fourth man standing behind, with no apparent weapon. He guessed that was the commander, and he decided to take him alive if possible.

  He felt the battle trance taking him, and the strange sensation of time slowing was upon him again. It was as if his enemies moved in slow motion. His pistol recoiled hard as he fired, taking the first guard in the head. The man began to fall, but Blackhawk’s attention had already shifted to the second target.

  His arm moved, almost involuntarily, whipping his weapon around. The soldier was moving himself, bringing his rifle to bear on Blackhawk, but he was already too late. The deadly pistol fired again. And again. The guard fell back, his chest blown almost to shreds by the heavy rounds.

  Two down.

  Blackhawk’s eyes were on the third guard. He brought his pistol around . . . but now he was too late. His enemy’s rifle was almost on him. He knew he was finished, that any instant the soldier’s weapon would spit out his death.

  Then he heard the sound, the loud cracks of two heavy autocannons firing, the massive bullets tearing past him, taking his would-be killer in the neck and chest. The heavy projectiles tore through flesh and bone, and they almost decapitated the guard. He crumpled to the ground in a spray of blood, dropping the weapon that had come so close to ending Blackhawk’s long and bizarre career.

  He didn’t dwell on it. Instead, his eyes snapped back towa
rd the last of the enemy, and he lurched up to his feet, lunging forward. The man was turning hard, trying to flee toward the door behind him, but he froze suddenly and stared at Blackhawk.

  “You!” he said, his tone a combination of surprise and fear.

  Blackhawk stumbled to a halt. The hazy image in his mind crystallized, and he recognized the man almost immediately, though it had been over twenty years since he’d last seen him. He felt his stomach clench, and suddenly his mind was fighting back a wave of memories, recollections he’d fought for two decades to forget.

  “Shira!” he shouted. “Get everybody out of here. NOW!”

  “Captain . . . ?

  “Get outside, and call Lucas to bring down the Claw, and get the king to General DeMark. Don’t wait for me. I’ll get back myself.”

  Shira was staring down the hallway, a startled expression on her face. “And leave you behind? Ark, we can’t . . .”

  “Not now, Shira! Just follow my orders!” He never addressed any of his crew so harshly, but he had no time to explain now.

  Shira hesitated, but then she turned to the others. “You heard the captain. Let’s move.” It was clear she wasn’t happy with the course of action.

  I can’t care what you feel about the order, Shira. Just follow it.

  Blackhawk turned back to the mysterious figure, but suddenly, the corridor was filled with a thick gray cloud.

  Fuck—smoke grenade! The billowing black cloud spread throughout the hallway. Blackhawk couldn’t see more than a few centimeters, but he could feel the movement of the air, and he knew the man had run.

  “Get back to the Claw, all of you!” Blackhawk screamed once more to his stunned crew, and then he was gone, chasing the mysterious enemy down the corridor.