Blackhawk: Far Stars Legends I

by Jay Allan

  “So you want me to go to General Ghana’s camp…and what, volunteer to serve in his army? That is a little convenient, isn’t it? Don’t you think it will seem a bit suspicious?”

  “No…why would it? There is war here, and all the armies seek recruits. You are an offworlder, clearly one possessing military skills. You will be a mercenary, here seeking pay in one of the Warlords’ armies. You’d hardly be unique in that regard. My forces are 99% native, but many of my rivals aggressively recruit offworlders. Including Ghana. He is in the middle of a massive recruiting effort right now, though I can’t even begin to guess how he is funding it. His people are offering huge bounties to new recruits, especially those who can demonstrate military experience.”

  “This sounds like a dangerous mission.” Blackhawk’s voice was matter-of-fact, with no hint of fear.

  “It is. Certainly. I didn’t think that would be a major obstacle for you.”

  “I didn’t say it was. But I’ve done my fighting, General. I’ve fought my battles. Now I just want to be left alone.”

  “And how has that worked for you? Four bullies walk into a bar and draw you right into a dangerous mess. Don’t forget, you could easily be hanging from a rope right now if things had gone differently. If you truly want to be left alone, you need wealth and power, enough to enforce your solitude, to protect it. And I am offering you a thousand gold crowns…a good start toward that.”

  Blackhawk almost argued, but he stopped himself. Lucerne was right. He’d been wallowing in self-pity and misery for too long. He knew he could never kill himself, never even give up in a fight…and while his anger and bad attitude had gotten him into a number of scrapes, his extraordinary abilities had ensured he’d prevailed in those. He was even sure—pretty sure—he could have escaped from Lucerne as well if he’d had to. But if he was going to live, wallowing in misery and poverty didn’t make sense. He carried a lot of guilt about his past, but it was time to leave that behind, or at least put it in its place. And Lucerne seemed like a good man, almost certainly more admirable than any of his adversaries.

  He thought about the discipline of Lucerne’s soldiers…and contrasted them with the four loudmouthed troublemakers who’d walked in the saloon and picked the fight that killed them. Ghana’s men.

  “Tell me why?” he said suddenly.

  “Why? Because I need warning if Ghana is going to violate the truce. I need to know who is supporting him.”

  “No,” Blackhawk said. “Why are you fighting? Why are you in this war instead of sitting home protecting your estates?” Blackhawk had been in many wars, but he couldn’t have answered his own question. He didn’t know why he had fought before, what had driven him to do the things he had done, at least he had no reasons that made sense to him now. But Lucerne was different, and Blackhawk was curious. “Why does a good, honest man choose a life of war?”

  “That’s an interesting question, Mr. Blackhawk, one with two answers. The first is simple, straightforward. Because peace is not a viable choice on Celtiboria. Because just as your own desire to be left alone didn’t prevent Ghana’s men from picking a fight with you, so this world’s nobility is drawn into its never-ending wars. Those who remain weak, who fail to grow their holdings, build greater armies…they are conquered, reduced to serving one of the stronger lords…or worse.”

  “And the second reason?”

  Lucerne paused. “The second reason is a bit more complicated…and one you might find far-fetched.” His voice was tentative, uncomfortable. “And somewhat boastful as well, I’m afraid.”

  “Try me.” Blackhawk looked intently at his companion. “If I am going to do this, it is because I believe you are different from a hundred other paymasters. If money was my only concern, I could sell my skills to the highest bidder, couldn’t I?”

  “Indeed you could.” Lucerne sighed softly. “Very well, your point is taken. I will share my motivations with you. I intend to unite Celtiboria, Mr. Blackhawk. I am not the most powerful of the Warlords, not by any measure. Not yet. But when I am finished, I intend not just to be the strongest. I will be the only one left.”

  The words were, in fact, boastful, and extremely aggressive considering Lucerne’s place in the Celtiborian hierarchy. But Blackhawk found himself accepting them at face value, and for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint, he believed Lucerne just might achieve his goal one day. If he was able to prevail in this struggle, at least.

  “So, I help you become king of Celtiboria, or whatever title you choose to give yourself? I’ll acknowledge you seem to be an honorable sort, General, but what do I care who rules this planet?”

  “It is more than the planet, Mr. Blackhawk. I intend to unite the Far Stars…the entire sector.”

  Blackhawk felt like a laugh was about to emerge, but it never came. Lucerne was serious…he could tell that immediately. And, more amazingly, he again believed the general just might achieve his goal. It didn’t make sense. Blackhawk wasn’t an expert in Far Stars history, but he knew, like everyone else, that it was an unruly, disordered frontier, with planets far more likely to fight each other than join together for the greater good. Uniting all one hundred worlds would require conquering the other five Primes, the technologically advanced planets that dominated the sector…not to mention defeating dozens of planetary kings and dictators, eradicating fleets of vicious pirates, crushing mercenary companies…

  “So you want to be king of the Far Stars…”

  “No, Mr. Blackhawk,” Lucerne interrupted, “not king. I intend to form a confederation, one that will guarantee certain basic freedoms and liberties to all residents of the sector. But more than that, I intend to ensure that the Far Stars is ready to protect itself. That it is never conquered, never forced into the empire.”

  Lucerne’s mention of the empire pricked at Blackhawk, and he focused even more intently on the general’s words.

  “It is only here that men live without the imperial yoke on them. The Far Stars has its share of conflict and oppression, but if these last worlds in all of human-settled space fall under the emperor’s rule, the last embers of freedom will be gone from the galaxy.”

  Blackhawk knew the empire was already in the Far Stars. Six of the one hundred systems contained imperial worlds, including Galvanus Prime, considered the sector capital by an empire that already claimed suzerainty over all of the Far Stars. That was a claim without basis, he knew, at least beyond the six systems of the imperial demesne, but one the emperors had made for centuries nevertheless.

  “That is quite a goal. You really think the empire is a threat to the Far Stars?” Blackhawk was just curious what Lucerne would say. He knew for certain that the imperial threat was very real.

  “Yes, I do believe it. The Far Stars owes its independence to the Void, and the difficulty of navigating across that treacherous expanse of nothingness. No emperor has been willing to risk his battleships and legions on a crossing that claims so many of the ships that attempt it. But I find scant comfort in that. There are six imperial worlds in the Far Stars now…and we owe the fact that there are no more to a long sequence of foolish, incompetent governors. Even with the Void, and without the massive fleets the emperors command on the other side, the Far Stars are vulnerable. They are exposed because they are fractured, because they fight each other over nothing. The economic strength of the sector is drained by pirates and freelance mercenaries and raiding parties. An imperial conquest wouldn’t be a war…it would be a mopping up expedition, one planet at a time, while the others watched, and scooped up what crumbs they could. Until their turn came. It waits only on the day a competent man comes to take the governor’s chair, armed with enough resources to make imperial rule a reality.”

  Blackhawk was impressed. Lucerne’s observations were spot on, and his fears were very justified. All it would take was a determined emperor…and a capable governor with some additional resources. Then six worlds would become ten, and then twenty…each taken one at a time, isolated,
with no help from its neighbors. Until imperial might in the Far Stars became too powerful to resist.

  He found himself nodding gently as he considered everything Lucerne had said. And he knew one thing for certain. He didn’t want to see the Far Stars fall. Not to the empire. Not ever. It wasn’t any particular love for the sector or for the people who lived there. But he didn’t want the last resistance to the empire to disappear.

  “That is a long way from where you are now, General, is it not? Even if you are successful—as no Celtiborian general has been in three hundred years—it will take you decades, just to conquer the planet. And more time to force the other worlds into your confederation.” Blackhawk knew—and he realized Lucerne did too—that most of the worlds of the Far Stars would resist, that to make his confederation a reality, he would have to be a conqueror first…and only then a lawgiver, a guardian of freedom.

  Blackhawk didn’t know if the general could achieve his audacious goals or not. But he was certain of one thing…and that realization surprised even him. He wanted to help if he could.

  “Very well, General. I will do it. But I’m going to need a lot of information first. Impressions from the saloon incident notwithstanding, I do not rush into things unprepared.”

  There was a soft buzz. Lucerne leaned down over the communications console and said, “Enter.” He turned back to Blackhawk. “Lunch is here.” He paused a moment as a line of soldiers walked in carrying several trays. “Just set them down. We will serve ourselves.”

  He sat quietly as the men put the trays on the table. Then they each bowed to the general and walked swiftly back into the hall.

  “Let us eat, Mr. Blackhawk, while we discuss further. I will answer your questions…and get you whatever information you require. And there is also the matter of your cover. You will need an identity, perhaps an Antillean outcast, a member of a modestly upper class family expelled for some disgrace and turned mercenary. That is not terribly uncommon among the Antilleans.”

  “Your people can create a cover for me? I thought you didn’t have much of an intelligence operation, General.”

  “I didn’t say I had none, Mr. Blackhawk. And I assure you that when I send you into Ghana’s maw, you will have every possible tool I can provide to ensure your success…and your survival.”

  Lucerne reached out to one of the trays, grabbing a large loaf of bread and tearing off a piece before handing it to Blackhawk.

  “Let us start with what you really want from this mission,” Blackhawk said, taking the bread from Lucerne as he spoke. He paused for a second. It was soft, fresh…even still a little warm. Blackhawk had ingested more alcohol than solid food recently, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent meal. Or something as simple as freshly-baked bread.

  “And what do you think I want, Mr. Blackhawk? Besides what I have told you?”

  Blackhawk took a bite of the bread, chewing quickly and swallowing before he answered. “I think what you say is true…you’d like to know who is backing Ghana…” He looked over and stared intently at Lucerne. “…but I’d also guess you are really hoping to entice Ghana into breaking the truce…or gaining some information you can use to justify your own attack, a casus bellum of some kind.”

  It was Lucerne’s turn to stare wordlessly for a few seconds. He was a man who hid his thoughts well, but now they were on his face to be read. He was impressed. “You are an insightful man. And very correct. I cannot allow another three months of inactivity…and I cannot launch an unprovoked surprise attack.” He paused. “So, we must make something happen by other means, Mr. Blackhawk. We must find a way to engineer a resumption of hostilities as quickly as possible.”

  Blackhawk took another bite of the bread. He was seeing Lucerne more clearly, and his esteem was growing. The men he’d seen in his life he’d have called good were few in number…and almost without exception they were weak fools. Their motivations might have been positive, but they were idealistic, believing what they needed to believe to sustain their outlooks. And, eventually, they were all destroyed by the nature of a universe they refused to see for what it was.

  But Lucerne was different. He was a good man, Blackhawk believed that more with every additional moment he spent with the general, with every word spoken. But he wasn’t weak…nor foolish, blind to the realities of the world. This was a man people would follow, a man soldiers would die for. He was a man who just might achieve the goals he’d set for himself.

  If people helped him. Blackhawk didn’t know if Lucerne would be able to attract all the skilled and capable supporters he would need in his fight. But he was sure about one thing. He would be one of them. He would help.

  “Very well, General,” he said as soon as he swallowed. “I will do it. I will help you.”

  Chapter Five

  Marshal Carteria’s Palace

  The Turennian Archipelago

  Equatorial Celtiboria

  The room was massive, at least a hundred paces from the great, bejeweled bronze doors to the raised dais at the far end. It was built from pure white Celtiborian marble, the floors, the walls, the great columns supporting the ceiling far above the gleaming floor. It was an architectural marvel, and every bit of it had been constructed for a single purpose, to sate the vanity of a one man, and to proclaim his greatness to all who entered.

  Demetrius Targus Ellian Carteria was the most powerful of Celtiboria’s fractured and feuding class of Warlords, the absolute ruler of more than a quarter of the planet, including the ancient religious capital. Control of Celtiboria’s primary city was a dubious prize in many ways, bringing with it the need to provide bread and circuses for its large and disorderly population as well as to treat with the elders of the planetary church headquartered there. But it also bestowed a right acknowledged by all the combatants, that of its possessor to style himself Marshal, the ancient title of the supreme commander of Celtiboria’s armed forces.

  The city had little military or economic value, and the Marshalate carried with it no wealth, no power over the others, nor a single additional soldier. But it appealed to the narcissism that ran deep in Carteria, and he’d celebrated his conquest of the capital by restyling his dress uniform, adding a considerable amount of lace and braid and creating a bit of foppery that matched his idea of what the Marshal of Celtiboria should wear.

  Carteria had inherited his father’s rich estates at a young age, and he’d expanded the breadth of his domains more than fivefold in the past twenty years, as much through backroom deals and base treachery as military skill. He was a hated figure, both in the lands he controlled and those he didn’t, but he was feared more…for his cruelty, and for his seemingly random and unpredictable nature. The people in the provinces he ruled were cowed, beaten down…and they suffered under the harsh occupation by his soldiers, who projected the frustration caused by their own fear of their master onto the unfortunates over whom they were placed.

  He had allies too, other Warlords, who were dazzled or intimidated by his power, so much so they ignored the many instances when he’d betrayed his compatriots, sold out those who had sworn to follow him. Some fooled themselves, invented excuses for past treacheries, reasons why they were different. They told themselves they were Carteria’s true allies. Others simply accepted they had no alternative and made the choice to embrace the Marshal as an ally rather than face his forces in battle…and endure far more certain destruction as a defeated enemy. To serve Carteria—as an ally, as a soldier, as a citizen of his occupied lands—was to know fear every moment.

  The small group of officers walked slowly forward. Jinn Barkus stood in front of his two aides, wearing a freshly pressed dress uniform. He was a major in Ghana’s army, a veteran of many battles, but he found himself on edge, an uneasiness beyond the direct fear he felt in combat. Carteria was a volatile and dangerous man, one Barkus knew was not above killing a messenger in a fit of rage. And he was not there to report good news.

  He walked forward
, standing perfectly straight, trying not to look at the discolored areas of the floor, spots where the marble had been stained with blood. His eyes focused on Carteria, sitting in his chair on the highest part of the raised area. He’d been told where to stop, just short of the steps up to the platform. He moved to that point and stopped. Then he snapped to attention and bowed…deeply.

  “I would hope you are here to report that your master has secured control over the trade routes through the Badlands…if I had not already had considerable intelligence suggesting things are rather less satisfactory.” There was annoyance in Carteria’s tone, but not outright hostility. Yet. Still, Barkus didn’t think the total lack of a greeting or any customary niceties was a good sign.

  “Marshal Carteria, General Ghana sends his respects, and be bade me tell you of his undying…”

  “Yes, yes, yes…no doubt General Ghana has many pleasantries he sent you to convey. But let us skip all that and focus on results, shall we? General Ghana came to me, and he offered friendship in exchange for my aid in taking the Badlands. And when he came, I welcomed him with open arms, as a brother. Did I do as I promised? Did I provide the money I had pledged to finance his campaign?” Carteria gazed at Barkus with a withering stare. “Yes, I did…and more. Ten million ducats, the funding that allowed your master to sustain an army large enough to crush anything that opposed it. Yet he did not crush his opposition, did he? No, instead, he lost battle after battle…and finally his forces were driven from West Hill itself, in an ignominious retreat.”

  Barkus could hear the tone in Carteria’s voice increasing in intensity, his anger growing with each word. He wanted to speak, to answer some of the Marshal’s statements, to do his best to explain the army’s losses…but he didn’t dare interrupt.

  “Your general has failed, Major. He has failed me. He assured me he could gain total control over the Badlands within six months if I provided the aid he requested. I gave him everything he asked for, and now here you are more than a year later with naught to offer save excuses.”