Blackhawk: Far Stars Legends I

by Jay Allan

  It was early, very early, but the soldiers had been on the march for over an hour. Columns moved almost silently over the rolling hillsides, and staff officers scurried around, delivering orders too sensitive to trust to vulnerable com transmissions.

  General Lucerne’s army had risen before the sun, his veteran warriors emerging from their tents into the cold darkness. They had eaten a hasty breakfast, and then, as they had so many times before, they formed up and marched forward. To battle.

  Lucerne hadn’t awakened early like his soldiers. He had never slept. The general was a restless soul who rarely got more than three or four hours of sleep a night, and almost never a wink on the eve of battle. His dynamic leadership in the heat of combat seemed spontaneous to those around him, orders flying rapidly from his mouth, almost as if his decisions were instantaneous. But that was a misleading impression. In truth he spent hours in the near darkness, huddled over his desk, reviewing scouting reports, maps, battle plans…working deep into the night. His reputation had been earned, as much in those quiet hours as on the field itself, pistol in hand, leading his troops into the heart of the struggle.

  “Does it always feel like this?” Blackhawk walked up behind the general. Like Lucerne, Blackhawk was a poor sleeper.

  Lucerne turned and nodded as his new colleague climbed up the hillside, stopping right next to him. “You should know. Your past is still a mystery to me, but I’d bet my last ducat you’re no stranger to the field of battle. You know how it is…the danger, the tension. The guilt for those you sent to their deaths.”

  Blackhawk just nodded. He’d fallen a little under Lucerne’s spell, but he realized the general couldn’t possibly understand a man like him. Like he had been. It was true that the battlefield wasn’t new to Blackhawk…but a lot of what he was feeling was very new. He was tense, nervous…and he felt for the men he knew would not survive the day. Before it had been different. He’d been confident, always commanding greater resources than his foe…and he’d viewed the casualties as numbers on a spreadsheet after the fact, nothing more.

  Blackhawk had been running from himself, from who he had been, but now it seemed to him things had been simpler before. Still, he wouldn’t go back…indeed, he would fight with all he had to ensure that he never again became what he had been.

  “Your troops look sharp. How do you feel about the battle?”

  Lucerne sighed softly. “My people will defeat Ghana’s army…though I hesitate to imagine the cost.” The general paused, looking off into the distance.

  Blackhawk could tell there was more on Lucerne’s mind, something troubling him beyond the threat of Ghana’s soldiers. “What is it?” he said softly.

  “Carteria’s troops…they are the unknown,” Lucerne replied, turning back toward Blackhawk. “If there are no more than ten thousand, we can probably handle them…but if there are more…”

  He took a deep breath. “This is going to sound strange…but I feel something. There have been scouting reports…nothing conclusive, but my gut tells me that force is larger than we think. I’ve sent out three flights of drones, but all they’ve spotted are tents…rows and rows of tents. More than there should be.” He paused. “I think Carteria may be making a more aggressive move, perhaps the start of an invasion of the Northern Continent.”

  “Maybe the drone flights picked up some of Ghana’s own reinforcements. He may have scraped up some levies from back home.” Blackhawk’s tone suggested he didn’t believe that any more than Lucerne.

  “Perhaps. I’ve had no reports that he has acquired the services of any mercenary companies…and unless my intelligence is woefully lacking, he does not have troops to spare from other locations. But…”

  “But you can’t ignore this,” Blackhawk interrupted. “Even if it’s just a hunch. So, what are you doing?”

  “What can I do? I’m holding back a few veteran regiments to deal with anything unexpected.” He paused. “I’d call off the battle entirely if I could, withdraw and redouble my scouting efforts. But that’s not an option.”

  Blackhawk nodded. He knew Lucerne’s situation, probably much better than the general would have expected. “You need a victory…an end to this war.”

  “Yes. I have extended my resources to the breaking point. This was a gamble, a desperate one…my play to break out, to become more than a small regional Warlord. But it took everything I had to mount this campaign.” He turned and looked at Blackhawk. “For me, it is victory or a deep slide into ruin. And I don’t have much time left.”

  Blackhawk just nodded, and the two stood for a while, silent, looking out over the field as the army continued to form up. Then he turned back toward Lucerne.

  “I will scout behind Ghana’s lines, General. I will find out what he has back there in reserve and get word to you…somehow.”

  “That is a suicide mission.”

  “Dangerous, perhaps. Suicide? I wouldn’t go that far. As you seem to have observed, I am no stranger to the battlefield.”

  “I’ll send a company with you.”

  “No,” Blackhawk snapped. “I appreciate the offer, but I will be relying on stealth…” And my own abilities that your men can’t match. “…I will be better off on my own.”

  Lucerne looked as though he might argue, but then he just nodded. “Thank you, Arkarin. Your offer of assistance is greatly appreciated. What can I do to help?

  * * *

  “I want fire on that hill…now!” Clarkson Wells crouched down in the shallow foxhole his troops had dug in the shifting sand. The ground had been wet when they’d first taken the position, but the sun had dried it out, and now the walls of the makeshift trench were beginning to collapse in on themselves.

  Wells was a captain, but he held a major’s billet, the command of one of Lucerne’s veteran battalions. His troops were on the vanguard of the attack, driving a wedge between Ghana’s right flank and his center. They’d moved forward for two hours, pushing the enemy before them, barely pausing to regroup before continuing their attack. But now they were stuck. Wells had sent two attacks forward, and both had been driven back with heavy losses. His people were facing one of Ghana’s oldest battalions right now, and they were dug in on high ground.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Wells turned back and watched as his aide pulled out his com unit. “All mortars, open fire,” the lieutenant snapped off. Target Hill 107, maximum rate of fire.”

  There was a pause, a very short one. Then Wells could hear the familiar, high pitched sounds of mortar shells heading toward the enemy positions. He had stripped his companies of their heavy ordnance platoons and combined them together, the closest thing he had to a grand battery.

  He looked out across the field, watching as the first shells began to land on the hill. His gunners were dead on, the first volley hitting all around the target…but the enemy was in a strong position, and he knew it was going to take more than some shelling to drive them off. Sooner or later—and probably sooner—he was going to have to send his troops back in…and that would be a bloody business. But Wells knew, as did all his veterans, that a victory here would make this the final battle. Ghana had extricated himself from defeat three times before, but no one, from the General Lucerne himself down to the foot soldiers in the ranks, intended to let that happen again. They would drive as hard as they had to, suffer what losses it took…but the war would end here.

  He crouched lower as shells began to land around his own positions, the enemy answering his bombardment. He could see the difference in the two forces immediately. His own mortars were targeting a tightly-focused area, their accuracy sharp. The enemy shells were landing over a much wider area, their fire clearly less accurate. That didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous, but it meant his people were likely to take fewer losses than their enemy…and in the end, it would be the strength and resolve at the point of decision that would decide the result.

  Still, taking that position is going to be brutal…

  �
��Lieutenant, call HQ again…repeat the request for air support.”

  “Yes, sir.” He could hear the doubt in the aide’s voice. Wells had already requested bombing runs twice, and the only response had been a vague, ‘as soon as assets are available.’ General Lucerne’s air forces were small, limited, as were most of those commanded by the Warlords, by lack of resources. It was an expensive branch of service, and it relied on controlling industrial centers or establishing reliable trade routes to ensure a steady stream of ordnance and replacement parts. Wells knew Ghana’s forces were in the same boat…and he also knew Lucerne’s few available squadrons were up there even now, battling the enemy wings for control of the air. That was the first priority. He understood—he even agreed. But he’d have killed for a single flight of airships making a strafing run on the target.

  “Sir,” the aide said, “HQ reports all air assets are engaged. It will be at least an hour, Captain.”

  Too long…

  “Looks like we’re going to have to do this on the ground,” Wells said grimly. He stared off across the field, at the explosions as his mortars continued to impact all along the enemy line. He didn’t kid himself…he knew it looked worse than it was, that the damage would be relatively light. But hopefully the enemy would at least be a little disordered, shaken.

  “All units prepare for battalion assault.” He’d sent companies to attack before, but now he was going all in, five hundred soldiers of the battalion moving forward as one.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  He could hear the tension in the aide’s voice, the fear. Lieutenant Stoor was a veteran, but it was a common misconception that experienced troops weren’t afraid in battle. Only lunatics weren’t afraid in battle.

  “All companies, report ready, sir.”

  Wells took one last look, watching as the shells continued to smash into the enemy line. Then he turned back toward Stoor. “All mortars…cease fire.”

  The aide repeated the order, and in a few seconds the weapons fell silent. The enemy line was obscured by smoke, the trenches torn apart in a dozen places where mortar rounds had impacted hard. He knew from experience there was no way to be sure how much damage he’d done, how many casualties his shells had inflicted, how many enemy autocannons had been silenced, driven away.

  But it was time to find out.

  “All companies, prepare to charge…”

  He reached down and scooped his assault rifle from where he’d set it down. One thing for sure, he wasn’t sending troops forward again, not alone. This time he was going with them. He snapped a cartridge into place, and he looked back toward Stoor, nodding once. Then he turned, facing toward the enemy…and he said one word.

  “Charge!”

  * * *

  Blackhawk moved quickly behind the low ridge, hopping along the row of boulders hugging the edge of the small rocky crest. His hands dropped to his side for the third or fourth time, feeling the familiar belt, the pistol and sword he’d carried for so long. When Lucerne had asked what he needed, apart from half a dozen grenades and an assault rifle, all he’d asked for was his own equipment, the gun and sword he’d left behind when he had set out on his mission to infiltrate Ghana’s headquarters. It was foolish, he knew, but he somehow felt complete now, ready. They were just weapons, he knew, but in a way, they were like a part of him.

  He’d left Lucerne’s camp almost immediately after he had agreed to investigate Ghana’s reserves. He had a long way to cover and not a lot of time…and even his rugged constitution would be worn down by long stretches of jogging in the searing heat of midday. He’d pushed hard, and he’d already moved around the flank of the enemy army…two hours of exertion that taken him a distance equal to a full day’s march for a normal soldier.

  His senses had been on edge, his eyes and ears straining for any signs of enemy reinforcements, an approaching force that might turn the tide in the battle being fought even now. He’d had one close call, a flight of Ghana’s airships moving toward the front. He’d heard them coming from a distance, and he’d hit the ground, lying under an overhanging boulder while the low-flying planes roared overhead. But since he’d slipped past Ghana’s main army, he hadn’t seen so much as a scout or a fading trail of footsteps in the sand.

  Until now.

  He stopped suddenly, crouching lower, behind the cover of the rocks. It had been a sound, vague, almost nothing. But he’d learned to trust his instincts. He leaned forward, controlling his breath, clearing his mind and listening. There was nothing, at least for the first few seconds. Then he heard it again. Then again, louder now…and he knew what it was. The sound of a transport…no, more than one. A column of trucks approaching.

  He moved up into the rocks, peering carefully out from his makeshift cover. He could see them now, distant, no more than a glint or two of the bright sun off the chassis of the approaching vehicles. The sounds were louder now as the convoy approached. He stared for a few more seconds, his mind filling in the blanks, the details he couldn’t yet see…and he knew exactly what he was looking at. A column of mechanized troops moving forward. A big one.

  He felt the rush of adrenalin…satisfaction that he had found what he’d come to seek, and also tension, alertness. This was a threat to General Lucerne, a very dangerous. He had to get word back. Now. But he needed more specifics…a reasonable estimate of the enemy strength. He could see now it was larger than the ten thousand he and Lucerne had discussed. But how much larger? Double, at least, he guessed…and maybe bigger. He stared for another moment, counting transports…doing quick calculations. He had an urge to push forward, to get a closer look, but he knew that would be too dangerous.

  He’d brought a small com unit with him, but now he was reluctant to use it. It was too subject to interception…and if these troops picked it up he’d have a hundred men on his tail in an instant.

  Besides, Lucerne doesn’t have the troops to handle a force this large, not in a straight up fight. Not when he’s still fully engaged with Ghana’s main army. We need surprise…we need the enemy not to know we’re aware of the size of this force…

  His eyes were still fixed straight ahead. He’d made his decision…he would take the report back himself. He would push as hard as he could, get back as quickly as possible. He was just about to turn away from the enemy force and start back when he froze. There was something different about these soldiers. Something wrong…familiar.

  That is not normal Celtiborian ordnance…not all of it.

  His eyes were fixed on the closest transport, on the turret affixed to its top. He’d seen that kind of weapon before, but not here, not on Celtiboria.

  A particle accelerator. An imperial particle accelerator.

  Blackhawk’s mind raced, wondering what Ghana must have paid to smuggle imperial weapons to Celtiboria. Such things weren’t unknown in the Far Stars, but they were rare…very rare. And they commanded a king’s ransom. More than Ghana could have…no…not Ghana.

  Carteria. There are all Carteria’s soldiers…twenty thousand, maybe thirty, and armed with imperial tech…

  His eyes looked back, from the first truck to the second, and the third. All similarly armed. Only one Warlord on Celtiboria could afford to import imperial weapons. Suddenly, he knew…he understand fully. Carteria wasn’t just backing Ghana. If he was committing this kind of ordnance to the fight it could mean only one thing. He was beginning a move on the Northern Continent itself.

  I have to get back to Lucerne. Now.

  Then he heard it. Scrambling, voices. He spun around, looking through a crack in the line of rocks. There were soldiers, half a dozen, and they were moving his way. A scouting patrol…and they’d spotted him!

  His mind raced, calculating the odds, devising a strategy in a matter of seconds. He couldn’t run, not with those guards so close on his heels. They’d come over the rock outcropping, and they’d have a clear field of fire. No…he had to take them out first.

  He spun around, quickly, without hesit
ation, his body acting almost on its own. He slid the assault rifle off his back, bringing it around to aim. The enemy had spotted him, but he still had good cover…and they were out in the open. His rifle spat, one shot after the other, and with each one a soldier dropped. In two seconds his pursuers were all down, not a shot fired his way.

  But he’d warned the enemy, given up his location. He could hear transports moving forward, speeding up. He could see dozens of troopers dismounting, moving in his direction, firing sporadically as they advanced.

  Fuck!

  He turned and spun around, taking off across the desert. He was a skilled warrior, a veteran, genetically-enhanced…but he couldn’t take on an enemy army. Escape was his only choice. And right now it was looking like a longshot.

  His legs pumped hard, accelerating his pace to a dead run, staying close to the rocks as he put as much distance as possible between him and his pursuers. The wound in his leg was still tender, but his constitution had done its job once again, and it was mostly healed. What little infirmity he still had from the injury was overwhelmed by massive flows of adrenalin coursing through his blood. He knew he could outrun Carteria’s soldiers…and he could outlast them in the heat too. But they had transports, and if they wanted him badly enough they could get past him, cover his escape routes, surround him.

  His hand dropped to his side, pulling the small com unit from his belt. He hadn’t wanted to break radio silence, but secrecy was blown anyway…and Lucerne had to know what was coming, whether Blackhawk made it back or not.

  “This is Arkarin Blackhawk calling for General Lucerne,” he said, his voice strained as he continued to run full out across the baking sand. “This is Arkarin Blackhawk calling for General Lucerne,” he repeated.

  Nothing. Just static, heavy, unrelenting.