Enemy in the Dark

by Jay Allan

  Blackhawk looked at the Antillean industrialist, trying to hide his disgust. He couldn’t imagine how such a moral coward had produced a son like Lucas. “As for your company, the answer is obvious. You fight. You resist their efforts and counter their aggression with your own.”

  Blackhawk was trying to rally Lancaster, to awaken whatever courage the man had hidden deep within him.

  “The remaining shares are held by trusts and large firms, are they not? Many of these shareholders have done business with your family for centuries. They are dependent on you, and they share business relationships vital to their own interests outside their dividend checks. You must contact them, explain the danger, rally them to your side. If necessary, you threaten to expose them if they treat with the empire . . . let them fear the mobs on their own worlds, the torches and pitchforks that would descend upon them. If you must, you sell and mortgage assets, and you buy more stock yourself.” Danellan looked as if he were about to protest, but Blackhawk cut him off.

  “Yes—this may mean your plans for the future suffer. I’m almost certain Marshal Lucerne will want to discuss some of those exclusive contracts in light of your recent treachery. But at least you will have a future. More important, the confederation will have a future, and you will just have to find other ways to prosper . . . ones that do not sell out the Far Stars in the process.”

  Blackhawk glared at the wilting Lancaster patriarch. “There are many options for you, but craven cowardice is not one of them. If you refuse to stand up to the empire, you will not live to fulfill the promises you made the governor. Your fear will not save you. Marshal Lucerne will destroy you, long before any of your imperial machinations come to fruition. And he will devastate your planet in the process. Millions will die, all because of your betrayal. Because you are scared.”

  Blackhawk took a deep breath and turned back toward the window. The sight of the terrified Danellan Lancaster was making him sick. “As for your personal safety,” he said, “you are one of the wealthiest men in the Far Stars, and Antilles is in the very top tier of worlds. If the governor decides to kill you, he will send assassins, not imperial battleships. You have the capability to defend yourself against such an onslaught. Increase your security, trust only your closest aides, rally the Antillean defense forces. And learn to be a man and accept risks.” The last line dripped with naked contempt.

  Blackhawk looked over his shoulder at Danellan Lancaster. The industrialist was standing meekly, a shell-shocked look on his face. He was afraid—and confused. It was clear the idea of exposing himself to personal danger was a concept utterly foreign to him.

  “If you stand your ground, face up to the imperial threats, I will help you. We will all help you.” Blackhawk’s voice deepened, his determination clear for all to hear. “If you do not, you sign your own death warrant. Augustin Lucerne is almost here. Have you the courage to face him? For the choice is upon you—will you stand against the imperial governor or against Marshal Lucerne? You must make an enemy of one, and Chrono help you if you dither long enough and fail to make a friend of the other.”

  Danellan Lancaster looked at Lucas, but there wasn’t a hint of support or understanding in his son’s eyes. He turned slowly toward Blackhawk, and he spoke, his voice halting. “I will repudiate the empire, Captain Blackhawk. I will stand with you . . . and by my agreement with Marshal Lucerne.”

  Blackhawk nodded. “Very well. Then I will keep my word and help you.” He glanced at Lucas then back to Danellan. “You must come back to Wolf’s Claw with us. Marshal Lucerne may arrive at any moment, and the Antillean forces will respond to the incursion. If we do not stop this before it begins, it may be too late. War, once begun, is difficult to end.”

  “Why do you need me to come? You can tell Marshal Lucerne I have agreed to all . . .”

  “No.” Blackhawk’s voice was like ice. “Marshal Lucerne is not a man to be trifled with, and his anger should not be underestimated. You must come. You must present yourself before him, call the rumors of an imperial alliance lies, and convince him of your sincerity. This is no time for half measures. The future of the Far Stars rests on the edge of a knife.”

  “You are coming, Father.” Lucas’s voice was without emotion. “And we must leave now.”

  Danellan Lancaster looked like he might pass out at any moment, but he took a deep breath and turned to face his son. “Very well, Lucas. I will come with you.”

  “Have you managed to break in yet?” Astra was standing nervously behind Lys. Among other talents, Astra’s foster sister and oldest friend was a moderately accomplished hacker or, as Lys preferred to put it, a “specialist in information systems.”

  Right . . . and Blackhawk is just a “misunderstood freighter captain.”

  “Yes, just pulling up the data now.” She made a face. “I expected Antilles to have better frontline security.”

  “Can we stick to the point? We’ve got five hours before I’m supposed to be at dinner with that horned-up Antillean politician. So before I end up having to deliver a diplomatic incident directly to his sack with my foot, let’s move along.”

  “Okay, here it is. The ship is the Iron Wind. It’s registered as a free trader.” Lys glanced back at Astra. Wolf’s Claw was registered as a free trader, too. It was as good as Far Stars code for an adventurer’s or mercenary’s ship. “Owner of record, Cedric Kandros. Cross-referencing Celtiborian records.” She kept reading. “Looks like he’s wanted for smuggling on a dozen worlds . . . he’s got a death sentence on at least two.”

  Astra sighed. Of course that could be misleading. When she’d pulled up Blackhawk’s warrants, she’d almost fallen out of her chair. She loved the grim rogue, but half the Far Stars wanted him—or one of his people—dead.

  “Astra . . .” Lys’s voice had faded to a dry whisper.

  “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “The last update from the Celtiborian net just downloaded. That’s why they’re here . . .”

  “What? Speak! What is why they are here?”

  “There is a price on Blackhawk’s head, Astra.” Lys turned and looked at her friend. “One million imperial crowns.”

  Astra’s eyes widened, and she stared back silently for a few seconds. “Chrono, Lys! That is why that ship is here, why they followed the Claw. They’re going to kill Ark!”

  She spun around. “I have to go warn him. Now!” She looked around aimlessly for a few seconds, as if she expected to find her weapons lying on the bed, ready to go.

  “You’re not even armed, Astra. You can’t just go running out . . .”

  “I have to, Lys. What if Ark doesn’t know? What if they get to him?”

  Lys stood up. “Astra . . .”

  “Where are they, Lys? Where did they land?”

  Lys sighed. She knew Astra well enough to realize no arguments would keep her from running to help Blackhawk. She looked down at her screen. “Iron Wind is in Bay 14.” A pause while she hit a few keys. “The Claw is in Bay 3.”

  Lys turned again, moving toward Astra. “Let’s go.”

  “No, Lys. You have to stay here in case someone comes looking for me.” She reached behind her, grabbing her riotous mass of blond hair and tying it in a tight bun. Waist-length locks were good for flirting with pig senators, but not so much for action.

  “What should I say if someone asks for you?” Lys’s expression was sour. It was clear she didn’t like being left behind while Astra went out alone.

  “Tell them I’m in the tub. Or sick. Or locked in the bedroom throwing a wild tantrum. I don’t care. Just buy some time. And if I’m not back by ten, tell the senator’s people I’m sick.” She knew that wasn’t going to be very convincing, but it was better than nothing. The arrogant fool had her marked for his bed, but he had more chance of getting a massage from the emperor.

  “I’ll handle it. Whatever happens.” Lys took a breath. “And, Astra, be careful.”

  “You know me, Lys.” Sh
e flashed her friend a quick smile, and she was gone.

  “Put these on. They cost a fortune in bribes.” Kandros was leaning against a pile of crates, pulling his boots off. “We’ve got three hours, and then the new shift is on. And I don’t know anybody in that crew to pay off, so if Blackhawk doesn’t come back by then, we’re going to have to try something else.”

  He pointed toward the cargo sleds. “And while we’re waiting, you slugs put your backs into unloading these ships. That’s part of the deal too. If the cargo doesn’t keep moving, someone’s going to send a supervisor up here to see what’s going on.”

  He watched his crew move toward the pile of overalls, picking out ones that looked closest to a reasonable fit. He didn’t care that they were unhappy at doing manual labor. They’d been called mercenaries, outlaws, even pirates, and Kandros knew they’d take any of those titles before being dockhands. If they want a part of that million, they’ll get over it pretty damn quick.

  “I want two of you on station at the entry to the section. If Blackhawk is coming back, we need to know immediately. And we need to be sure how many of his people are with him. We’ll have surprise, but that’s it. Don’t you get cocky and underestimate any of his crew. We’ve crossed paths with Wolf’s Claw before, and you know Blackhawk’s people are good. Real good.”

  “So what’s the plan, boss?” Mallock Debarnan was fishing through the pile of work clothes, trying to find anything he had a prayer of stretching across his massive frame. Debarnan was 160 kilos of pure muscle, Iron Wind’s closest answer to the Twins. “Take out Blackhawk and make a run for it?”

  Kandros sighed. Like Blackhawk’s Twins, Debarnan wasn’t the sharp edge of his crew’s wit, and he’d long called the bruiser by a simple and descriptive nickname—Brick. “Do you think we’re going to kill Arkarin Blackhawk and leave his whole crew alive to hunt us down?” The loyalty of Blackhawk’s people was legendary, at least in the circles that had heard of the adventurer and his followers. “Venturi’s got to go, for sure. I can promise you, you don’t want to run out of here with her on your tail. She’s Sebastiani trained, and one of the best. She’ll follow you across the Far Stars. You’ll be lucky if the bowl doesn’t blow up the next time you take a shit.”

  Kandros pulled the zipper up on his coveralls. The fit was far from perfect, but it would have to do. “And Tarkus, too. That bitch is fucking crazy. No way we leave while she’s still breathing.” He turned and looked out over his men, all hopping around in various stages of undress. “And Ace is pretty resourceful. The Twins are a nightmare. . . . No, we take out as many as we can, boys, because the ones we let survive will come after us. You can bet your asses on that.”

  Kandros slipped his boots back on, pulling the legs of his coveralls down over them. “Okay, Starn: you, Krieger, and Lowrin start unloading that ship over there. It’s on the way from the entry to Wolf’s Claw. As soon as you see Blackhawk and his people coming, hit the comm unit. Don’t worry about anybody picking up the transmission. It won’t look like anything but a random signal, and we’ll be out of here long before anybody investigates.”

  “Got it, Captain.” Starn turned to the others and waved his hand. “Let’s go, boys.”

  “Mallock, Demetus, you’re with me here. This ship is the closest to the Claw, so we’ll stay put and wait.” He turned toward the cluster of his men standing and staring back at him. “The rest of you over there.” He pointed to a vessel parked on the other side of the Claw. “We’ll take them from two sides.” His voice deepened. “But be fucking careful when it all hits the fan. Remember, we’re over here, too. If I get shot by one of you bastards, you better hope you get killed.”

  Kandros exhaled hard. “Stay sharp, all of you. These people are fucking dangerous. We take them out immediately, while we’ve still got surprise on our side, and then we get back to Iron Wind.” He paused, panning his eyes across his crew. “If we don’t . . .”

  “Emerging from hyperspace in ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

  Lucerne sat at one of the workstations on Glorianus’s flag bridge. Admiral Desaix had tried to get him to take the command chair, almost begged him, in fact. But Lucerne had declined. That seat was Desaix’s, as was command of the fleet. Lucerne would give him orders—very fateful orders, likely—but he would not micromanage the operations of the navy in carrying out those commands. As brilliant a strategic mind as the marshal had, he wasn’t going to presume expertise during a naval operation.

  “Seven, six, five . . .”

  Lucerne looked unemotional, like a statue carved from marble. But inside, he was in turmoil. His rage had driven him to mobilize and order the invasion of Antilles. But he was a measured man, and even the anger at bitter betrayal had quickly given way to reason. The problem was reason was even worse than anger this time. No matter how he considered his options, the conclusion was the same. There is no way I can allow Antilles to side with the empire, no matter what I have to do to stop it . . . how many people I have to kill. The price of mercy here is ultimate slavery for all the Far Stars. And that is too high a cost, even to save Antilles.

  “Four, three, two . . .”

  Lucerne’s had been a life of duty, and that had meant doing many things he hadn’t wanted to do. Virtually abandoning his dutiful wife, leaving her to live—and ultimately die—lonely and sad in the fortress home where he’d taken her after the arranged marriage that had joined her father’s army to his. The countless battles, the brutal and bloody struggles that had left millions dead in his relentless campaign to unite Celtiboria. The cloistered life he’d condemned his daughter to live, always a target, not because of anything she’d done, but simply because of who her father was.

  “. . . One. Transitioning to normal space.”

  Lucerne took a deep breath. He wasn’t unduly distressed crossing the barrier that separated normal space from the bizarre alternate universe that made faster-than-light travel possible, but he didn’t enjoy it either. His main symptom was a sort of breathless feeling that lasted anywhere from ten seconds to half a minute. It had been alarming the first few times he’d felt it, but now he knew it would pass, and he just stood quietly, as his crew raced to bring the ship’s systems back online.

  “Reactivating communications and scanning grids.” The officer was repeating a report from the main bridge. The flag bridge was Admiral Desaix’s domain, and its purpose was fleet command and control. Captain Josiah and his people were more than capable of running Glorianus from their own control center.

  “Preliminary scanning reports coming in.”

  Lucerne knew there wouldn’t be much in the outer system. Perhaps a patrol ship or two, or a small squadron on picket duty. Antilles had one of the strongest navies in the Far Stars—indeed, it was nearly as large as his own Celtiborian fleet—but most of those ships would be on station closer to the planet, near the massive orbital station or the extensive web of bases on the planet’s largest moon.

  That didn’t mean he could be complacent here, though. The Antilleans would respond quickly to the emergence of a massive invasion fleet, and his people would have a fight on their hands long before they reached the planet. The largest space battle in the history of the Far Stars was about to begin.

  “Transmit to all vessels as they hook into the comm net,” Admiral Desaix said. “The fleet is to assume battle formation. I want all ships to conduct fire drills and full weapons diagnostics now. Anybody gets caught in action not ready or with an undiagnosed malfunction, the Antilleans are going to be the least of their worries.”

  Lucerne listened to Desaix snap out his orders. The admiral was a veteran spacer, and a commander not unlike the marshal he served. His men loved him like a father, and they feared him even more. Emile Desaix loved his people, and he mourned every crew member he lost, but when battle was in prospect, those considerations were pushed aside. There was only one way in his mind to end a battle. Victory. There would be time to count the cost later, endless hours for g
uilt and self-recrimination. But not until the fight was won.

  “Admiral, we are receiving a communiqué from the Antillean patrols. They are demanding we decelerate at once and identify ourselves.”

  Desaix didn’t say a word. He just turned and looked over at Lucerne. He would command the fleet, but the orders to start a war had to come from the marshal. “Sir?”

  Lucerne sat silently for a few seconds. He could feel the tension on the flag bridge, the eyes boring into him from all directions. He’d ordered the mobilization, directed the fleet to come here. Now, it was time. He dreaded what he had to say, but his resolve was like iron. He had no choice. He had to follow through.

  “Open a line, Lieutenant.” He stared over at the communications officer, trying to look confident, at least for his people.

  “On your line, sir.”

  Lucerne took a deep breath. Then he activated the comm line. “Antillean vessels, this is Marshal Augustin Lucerne aboard the Celtiborian flagship Glorianus.” And I am here to start a war.

  “It has come to my attention that certain segments of the Antillean government have been treating with the imperial governor for the purpose of reneging on the Far Stars Confederation Treaty and establishing an alliance with the empire.” His voice was loud and strong. He felt a rush of anger thinking again about Lancaster’s treachery, and he channeled it into his words, using the raw emotion to give him the strength he needed. The strength to lead his people into Armageddon.

  “I demand the immediate surrender of Danellan Lancaster to forces designated by me. I further require that all Antillean military units stand down at once and allow my fleet to occupy strategic positions around Antilles, preparatory to my dispatching military units to the surface to investigate and apprehend any Antillean citizens involved in this treachery. You have ten hours to agree to these terms.”

  He took another breath. His words were a declaration of war, and he knew it. No planet as strong and proud as Antilles could possibly agree to such terms. Some colony out on the fringe, maybe, but not the richest world in the sector. They would fight, he knew. They would fight hard. And he would destroy them.