Enemy in the Dark

by Jay Allan

  He could feel a difference, however. These people were the closest to him in the universe, indeed save for Marshal Lucerne and Astra, they were the only ones he truly cared for. But now there was a distance, a coldness. He knew he had sacrificed one of them. The alternative was to let millions die and leave the Far Stars defenseless before imperial aggression, but that didn’t change the fact of what he had done. He had ordered Doc to help Danellan Lancaster first, and Tarq had died as a result. Blackhawk knew he would never forgive himself, and he didn’t expect his crew to feel any different. He didn’t know his action had killed Tarq. The giant had been grievously injured, and he might have died despite all Doc could have done. But Blackhawk had taken away that chance.

  He didn’t know if things could ever be the same on the Claw. He knew the crew understood—or at least that they would come to understand once the shock and grief was less fresh. But he wasn’t sure it mattered. They might forgive him intellectually, but on some level they would view him differently. They had seen him put a mission above one of their number. He hadn’t had a choice, not a conscionable one. But his crew were people, not machines. Logic wasn’t the sole dictator of their feelings. Rationality only went so far, and raw emotions still held their sway. They might stay with Blackhawk; they might continue to fight at his side. But there would always be something there that hadn’t been before. And the thought of it tore at his insides.

  But now it was time for something else—it was time to tell them about his history. He’d hesitated, wondering if it was a good idea, especially so soon after Tarq’s death. But this wasn’t something he would decide in a calculated way. He owed them this. It was long overdue. And he would make good now on something he should have done years before.

  “There are some things I wanted to tell all of you, things about my past . . . who I am. Was. Both.”

  He took a deep breath. He dreaded this more than any battle he’d fought, any enemy or creature he’d faced in combat. He looked across the room, and he saw Astra standing against the far wall. She was looking at him. There was sadness in her gaze, but love and support too. She stared at him as if to say, You can do this.

  “I know you have all wondered about me, about my life before we came together, before the Claw.”

  They were all silent, staring back as he spoke. Sarge was propped up on one of the workstation chairs, surrounded by his somber group. He was still weak, but he’d insisted on sitting up and listening to Blackhawk. Drake was sitting on the floor, heavily bandaged, but awake and alert.

  Ace was actually standing, albeit leaning pretty heavily on Katarina. He still looked worn and haggard, but better than he had a few days before.

  Okay, just do it. “There is a lot about me none of you know, especially about my past.” He looked around the room. “I let that go on for far too long, kept too many secrets. You have shared dangers with me. We have bled together, suffered together . . .” He looked over at Sarge and his people, at Tarnan and the emptiness next to him. “Lost our own in battle.”

  He took a deep breath. “You have earned a right to know the truth . . . all of it. And if, once you have, you no longer wish to serve on this ship, I will understand. I will shake your hands and wish you well and not try to stop you from doing what you must.”

  He could see the curiosity. He knew they’d all speculated about his past.

  Now you will finally know the truth.

  “I was not born in the Far Stars. I came here from the empire almost twenty-five years ago. As a child, I lived in an imperial facility. I never knew my parents. I was trained . . .”

  “The empire is an evil from our past, one that has returned to again threaten us. I know this, because imperial agents came here, to Antilles. Came to my office. They blackmailed me, sought to suborn me to their cause. They brought us to the brink of war with our friends.”

  Danellan Lancaster stood at the podium, addressing the assembled Senate. He wore a formal white robe with the red sash of a senator emeritus. Lancaster was a magnate, not a politician, but his family had long held a clutch of hereditary seats in Antilles’s ruling body.

  “What we almost witnessed the other day was a tragic confrontation between the Grand Fleet of Antilles and the forces of Marshal Lucerne of Celtiboria. This travesty was the result of misinformation supplied to both sides by the imperial governor, and only through the intervention of a brave few was disaster narrowly averted.”

  Blackhawk sat in the gallery watching Lancaster speak. The industrialist was still weak from his wound, but he had insisted on calling the matter of the Confederation Treaty for an immediate vote. Blackhawk had been nervous about Danellan Lancaster, but now he was pleased to see his support paying off. Lancaster was on planetwide broadcast, speaking to millions. Governor Vos would know that his would-be puppet had chosen resistance over capitulation. Danellan Lancaster had found his courage. He was putting his company—indeed, his very life—at great risk.

  Blackhawk’s thoughts drifted from the speech. He’d helped Lancaster and Lucerne put the Celtiborian-Antillean alliance back together, and he knew that was a huge success. But he also realized they were far from past the crisis—if anything, recent events were about to precipitate even greater struggles ahead. The Far Stars had grown complacent over the years, as one fool after another was sent to take the governor’s seat. But that streak of luck had come to an end, and the man they faced now—Kergen Vos—was not someone to be trifled with. The ambition and scope of his plots showed a mixture of genius and sadism, and while some of those plans had been thwarted, Blackhawk suspected they had barely scratched the surface of imperial scheming. If Vos was set on extending the emperor’s rule throughout the Far Stars, there were dark days ahead.

  I wonder if we’ll be ready.

  Blackhawk knew his own people needed rest. Some of them were wounded, the others merely exhausted—and they were all shocked by Tarq’s death. It would be some time before they could set out again. He could only guess the condition of the marshal’s armies, though he suspected they were as ready as they could be, despite the near war with Antilles.

  What didn’t need imagination was how Wolf’s Claw had fared during this last mission—it would be under repair for at least a month. The miraculous cold jump had worked, but not without burning out half the systems in the ship. Danellan Lancaster had insisted on offering the use of the Lancaster shipyards at no cost, a bit of generosity from the old robber baron that had surprised even Blackhawk. Still, even with those resources, it would be some time before they could lift off, and he hoped to have a good idea of where they were going by then.

  Happily, he wouldn’t be going alone. When the Claw was finally ready to launch, she would do so with her full complement. Blackhawk had told his people everything, recounted every horrendous act he’d committed in his years as an imperial general. And to his astonishment, almost as a unit they had affirmed their loyalty and devotion to their friend and leader. They had nominated Ace to speak with him, and he had reassured the Claw’s captain that his crew was still with him. Yes, Ace had told him, Tarq’s death had been a shock . . . and it would take a while for that wound to heal. But they knew why he had done what he did.

  Only Tarnan was uncertain about staying. The loss of Tarq hit his twin harder than anyone, of course, and he was shaken to his core. Blackhawk had been unable to face him at first, a bit of personal cowardice that only added to his self-loathing. But finally he had gone to see the giant, to look him in the eye and take responsibility for what he had done. Blackhawk never spoke of what the two discussed that day, nor did Tarnan. But the Claw’s surviving twin didn’t leave either.

  Blackhawk wondered if his crew could so easily have forgiven his dark past if it had been their families slaughtered, their worlds blasted in radioactive hells. There were millions still living in the empire who had lost loved ones, seen their homes destroyed—all by Blackhawk’s actions. But his family on the Claw only understood his past in abstract terms.
It was one thing to speak of mass murder and apocalyptic destruction and quite another to actually see it, experience it. Blackhawk suspected no one who hadn’t been there could truly understand the horror of it the way he—and his victims—did.

  He decided it didn’t matter. His family had stayed with him, and the burden of secrecy was at last gone. The relief he felt was a weight off his soul. The grief of Tarq’s death still hung heavily over him, but they would get past that as well. Raw open wounds would heal with age, replaced by fond remembrance. Tarnan’s brother would never be forgotten, not as long as Blackhawk and his people went on.

  He looked toward the stage, just as Lancaster was introducing Marshal Lucerne. Blackhawk knew how much his friend hated giving speeches, which made it oddly amusing that he was so good at it. Augustin Lucerne was as inspiring behind a microphone as he was on the battlefield.

  “People of Antilles, I come here today to speak with you about a common danger. I am here as a friend, though our mutual enemies have conspired to set us against each other, make us foes rather than allies. Danellan Lancaster’s actions helped avert such a tragedy and led us to this auspicious moment. All Antilleans know of Mr. Lancaster as a great industrialist and philanthropist. I now ask that we all recognize him as a patriot and a hero as well.”

  Blackhawk suppressed a smile. He didn’t like politics any more than the marshal did, but he was impressed, as he always was, at just how charming Augustin Lucerne could be . . . especially when he was lying through his teeth.

  By all accounts, the vote was a lock. By the end of the day, Antilles and Celtiboria would become the first official members of the Far Stars Confederation. Rykara, Nordlingen, and almost a dozen other worlds would follow almost immediately.

  Then the real struggle will begin . . .

  “So, Lord Aragona, you have been a captive for some time now. What shall I do with you?”

  The miserable Castillan glared at Blackhawk across the small cell, but he didn’t answer. The brig on Glorianus was much larger than the tiny room on the Claw. Aragona had been on Lucerne’s flagship for several weeks now. Blackhawk had turned the prisoner over to Lucerne’s people on Nordlingen. The prisoner had been told nothing of what his captors planned to do with him.

  “The way I see it,” Blackhawk continued, “there are three options.” His voice was businesslike, but there was a hint of taunting there too. “First, I could take you to Vanderon. I’m sure the bank is annoyed that I have taken so long to complete this job, but I suspect they will pay the bounty anyway.

  “Second, I could just chuck you out the airlock. As much as I’d like the bounty, I have a lot to do, and it will be hard to find the time to fly all the way to Vanderon.” He glared at the captive. “After all, your guards shot one of my people.” He paused, and his voice turned deadly serious. “It is a very good thing for you my friend survived. If he hadn’t, we’d be discussing some other options, Aragona . . . extremely unpleasant ones.”

  Blackhawk had been standing in the doorway, but now he took a few steps into the cell. “And then there is option three,” he continued. “You can actually do something worthwhile with your useless existence and help us protect the Far Stars.”

  Aragona looked up, a confused expression on his face. He stared at his captor, but then another man walked in and stood next to Blackhawk. His eyes darted to the new arrival, who was wearing a gray military uniform and knee-high boots.

  “Aragona, this is Marshal Augustin Lucerne. You know who he is, do you not?” Blackhawk glowered at the prisoner.

  Aragona looked up, stunned.

  “Hello, Lord Aragona,” Lucerne said calmly, smiling. “Would I be correct in assuming that you do not know the true source of the weapons you planned to use in your coup?”

  “What weapons? What coup? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Aragona was clearly surprised by Lucerne’s question, and he was trying to sound convincing.

  “Come now, Lord Aragona. I thought we could discuss this like serious men, but if you plan to waste my time, I will just let Arkarin dispose of you as he sees fit.” Lucerne turned and started back toward the door.

  “Wait . . .”

  Lucerne stopped, but he didn’t turn around. “Yes?”

  “The weapons . . . I was approached by a man. He said he represented a trade cartel, that he could supply me with advanced arms to seize control of Castilla in return for a monopoly on our imports and exports.”

  Lucerne turned around and took a step back toward Aragona. “Would it surprise you to find out that you were lied to? That those weapons came not from a trade cartel, but from the imperial governor?”

  “The empire?” he asked with genuine shock. “I swear, I had no idea.”

  “Well, now that you do, I have a question for you. How would you feel about returning to Castilla and launching that coup after all—and setting yourself up as planetary administrator under the new Far Stars Confederation?”

  “Is this a joke?”

  Lucerne walked over and sat on the bench. “No, I’m afraid not, though I can see the morbid humor in it. The thought of placing someone little better than a gangster in charge does not thrill me, but if I can get Castilla into the confederation without having to invade, I can save the lives of thousands. Your deputies are no doubt still squabbling over your holdings, but I suspect you will have little trouble regaining control. I will provide you a regiment of regulars to assist . . . and to keep an eye on you.”

  His expression hardened. “You will do as you’re told, Aragona, and I’m afraid you will have to keep your illicit plundering down to a minimum. But it is better than the alternative.” He glanced at Blackhawk then back to Aragona. “You will still be the ruler of the planet, even if you are answerable to me. An alternative far preferable to any of your other options, I suspect.”

  Aragona sat quietly for a few seconds. He looked at Lucerne then over at Blackhawk, who was standing there scowling at him. “Okay, I will do it.”

  “Excellent.” Lucerne got up slowly. “Welcome aboard. You will have a chance to atone for your dissolute life, though I suspect that is an inducement that is lost on you at present. Still, you should be pleased. Things could have gone in . . . mmm . . . another direction.” Lucerne smiled and walked toward the door. He paused just before he stepped into the hall.

  “Oh, and Aragona . . . if you betray me or try to get away with something behind my back, I will find out.” He turned and glared at the Castillan with fiery eyes. “And I will come for you. And you will wish I’d given you to Blackhawk.”

  The masses of soldiers marched across the blasted desert sands in perfect formation. They were clad in the black uniforms of the imperial legions, but these troops had not come from the empire—they had not crossed the vast emptiness of the Void. These warriors were raised and trained in the Far Stars.

  They had been scum, the detritus of human society on the fringe, but now they were survivors. They were graduating from a training regimen that had killed almost one of every two participants. Tragonis had continually increased the intensity of the program, condensing more and more training into a shorter time. Vos needed soldiers, and he needed them soon.

  Tragonis was more than happy to deliver.

  “You have done well, old friend,” Vos said. “A bit hard on the trainees perhaps, but there are always more recruits floating around the gutters of the Far Stars ready to take the bounty.” Imperial service had a base appeal to many. The discipline was strict, but there were many rewards—if you considered murder, rape, and torture a reward. Vos suspected for those who joined up, it was exactly that.

  “Thank you, Governor.” Tragonis was sitting in the imperial box with Vos and Wilhelm. And seated next to the governor was Kalishar’s ruler. Rax Florin looked out over the proceedings nervously. Tragonis had shown the ka’al complete respect in their dealings—there was nothing to be gained from antagonizing their host. But he couldn’t imagine any monarch could watch thousands
of troops—even an ally’s—march across his world without a bit of pause. Tragonis knew Vos would dispose of Florin the instant his usefulness was exhausted . . . and he suspected the ka’al knew it too.

  “This is the first group of ten thousand, but there are over eighty thousand in the second class, and two hundred thousand in the third. In two years, we will have one hundred legions, fully equipped and trained.”

  Vos nodded and watched the parade move past the box. He hoped these soldiers fought as well as they marched. Having an effective army would allow him to accelerate his plans.

  Many of his programs were proceeding well, but the setbacks had been costly—the debacle with Danellan Lancaster and Antilles being the worst. Because despite Vos’s meticulous planning, Lancaster had proven to have more courage than he would have thought. Now, not only were Antilles and Celtiboria formally allied as members of the Far Stars Confederation, but Lancaster had publicly declared the empire had tried to suborn him. Lancaster was an influential man, and his word carried weight. Vos had benefited early from the complacency caused by his incompetent predecessors, but now he suspected the fear of the empire would grow again.

  The plan was perfect, but it didn’t count on one thing.

  Arkarin Blackhawk.

  Blackhawk was the constant thorn in his side, and he was certainly behind this recent disruption. A million crowns—a massive fortune in the Far Stars—yet no one had managed to kill the bastard. There was obviously more to Arkarin Blackhawk than some rogue mercenary prowling around the Far Stars, and Vos was determined to find out. As soon as he got back to Galvanus Prime, he was going to put a dozen people on it. Every investigation so far had come to a dead end twenty years earlier. He refused to accept that, though. Once and for all, he was going to find out who this mysterious adventurer was—and what he was hiding.

  That would take care of one problem, but there was another serious obstacle that was growing larger day by day.