by Jay Allan
Then he built the box.
It had come to him, not in a dream exactly, but in a way not so far removed from one. He’d never known exactly how he felt—that was the best word he could come up with—his way through the Void, but then, one day, it came to him. Clarity. A real understanding of the Void, of the strange magnetic tides and the eddies and currents in spacetime that rippled throughout the treacherous expanse.
He drew up the plans in just a few hours, though it took considerably longer to build the prototype, the very box installed next to his chair on the bridge. Some of that time had been careful workmanship, though acquiring the money to buy the parts he needed had been, as usual with such things for Denali, difficult and time-consuming as well.
But it was worth it. Or would be, if the thing worked (and, for now, it seemed to be doing just that). The box’s function was to reduce the risk Granger faced in the Void, and yet that wasn’t even the primary benefit of his invention. For all the dangers, and the nightmarish stories of the Void, Denali never doubted his ability to sniff his way through. But his nose for the depths of space didn’t extend past his own ship, his eyes on the scanners, his hands on the controls. The box would allow him to lead more than just the Granger through. With it, he could bring other vessels, a whole flotilla even—ten, perhaps twelve ships—safely to port. The value that offered was almost incomprehensible, at least to his own battered and limited aspirations, and the best part was, the device was aligned to his own brain waves. No one could use it except him, and that made him indispensable. Rachus Denali had never, in his hard and ramshackle life, been indispensable. For once, he had something that couldn’t be stolen from him, something he couldn’t be cheated out of.
And it would make him rich, too. Which he really felt like he deserved.
The problem was, for all the potential of the box, he still hadn’t been able to convince many that the thing worked. Which meant he didn’t have ten ships on this trip, nor the resources to support an expedition that size on his own. Until he was able to bring other ships on board, he was just another idiot gambling the life of him and his crew through the Void.
He’d looked all around among his fellow rogue traders, trying to convince them to come with him, to allow him to test—and show off—the abilities of his new device. But that kind of thing was a hard sell, even for captains with far less sketchy reputations than Denali’s. The Void was no joke. Most of those who’d been lost had simply disappeared in the impenetrable blackness, but it was also a place where humankind brought its own brand of darkness, and deceit and treachery loomed like shadows over all who entered its inky depths. It was often said, “in space, no one can hear you scream.” In the Void, no one could hear, see, or detect. If one’s comrades became enemies, through perfidy or simple disagreements, there was no help, no chance of rescue, not even a way to signal for assistance.
So some crazy old spacer, one considered bad luck by many of his peers, looking for ships to join him on an excursion across the Void, reeked in every way of a trap, filling the heads of those he approached with images of treachery and boarding.
In the end, he’d brought on two ships. He’d somehow managed to convince the two other captains to join him, and that only by the slimmest of margins. He’d known them both for many years, and while long acquaintance wasn’t necessarily a plus for one with Denali’s history and temperament, his compatriots were cast from the same mold as him, derelicts who’d squandered their chances at wealth, who’d gone through cargoes and crews, all the while barely hanging on to the ships that were their stake in the game. Desperation was a great aid to persuasion, and spacers in need were far likelier to see the upside in seemingly crazy enterprises.
It all amounted to the same thing: a dangerous trip through the Void, and very little the crew would be able to show for it even if they brought the other ships through. Denali had asked his people—and the crews of the other two ships—to take a long-term risk, and when you faced death in the face every second in the Void, “long term” wasn’t something any of them were comfortable with.
Which means this has to work.
“Boss, Harkness is bumping up her thrust. I think she’s coming alongside to open up a comm line.” Normal communications channels were useless in the Void, and even the direct laser comm required extraordinary precision to compensate for the spatial disruptions all around.
That had been a mercy of sorts to Denali, sparing him from a near-constant stream of nervous—if not outright panicky—communications from his fellow captains. He didn’t have a doubt both of them were cursing him, and themselves, for getting sucked into his scheme. They’d both made cross-Void journeys before, but it took a level of faith for a captain to release control of his ship to a compatriot, to trust that one spacer could guide three vessels. No—not a level of trust. It was a matter of blind faith. Because it had never been done before, and what sounded reasonable to a trader well lubricated in a spacers’ bar in some decrepit port, likely seemed downright insane deep in the embrace of the Void.
Denali leaned back and sighed softly. He knew he’d gotten off lightly, avoiding the constant stream of nearly hysterical messages he might have expected if conditions had permitted. He also knew that any communication would be unpleasant, but not really threatening to the continuation of the expedition. His companions had no real choice but to continue to follow him. He’d directed the entire voyage, and the chances that either of his fellow captains could get a fix on a course back out were pretty damned close to zero.
So at least he had that going for him.
Still, he didn’t relish listening to Linton Hogart bitch pointlessly at him over precious targeted laser bandwidth. Maybe he’s just tucking in closer . . .
That thought lasted all of five seconds, maybe eight. Then, Letis Grendel’s scratchy voice shattered the illusion of hope.
“We’re getting a signal from Harkness, boss.”
Denali sighed again, considerably louder than before. Then he reached grudgingly toward his headset.
Chapter 3
Shira rolled over, propping herself up in the bed and looking out the window. She could see from the sunlight streaming in it was past midmorning. And that meant she was late.
She slid around, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. She slipped out from under the satin sheets, and she leaned forward to get up. She paused for an instant, tense as she felt the movement behind her, and old instinct, born of her years of battle and strife, kicked in. Then the softness of a hand on her back, and the triggered combat reflexes eased, slipping away. Shira looked back at the girl: beautiful, tall, slim, with a riotous mass of tangled golden blond hair falling around her shoulders. She was just what Shira liked . . . but that had been last night. The girl had been an adequate lay . . . no, that wasn’t quite fair. She’d been quite well above average, though a bit too chatty for Shira’s tastes. Of course, almost everyone talked too much for Shira.
“Good morning, lover,” her companion purred, the high-pitched softness of her voice that had excited Shira the night before grating on her in the morning light. She could feel the motion in the bed as the girl slipped closer, and her arm stirred, moving to shove her bedmate away. She caught herself, however, enough at least to cut the intensity of her motion from a hard push to a gentle nudge.
“It’s late,” Shira said. “I’ve got to grab a shower and go.” She didn’t quite growl at the girl, but she left little doubt about her mood . . . or the fact that the time for play had passed. At least she thought she left no doubt . . .
“It’s barely eleven,” the girl said, moving her hands pointedly from Shira’s back.
“And that’s late.” Asterex had a twenty-three-hour day, just forty-five minutes shorter than the Celtiborian standard Shira and her compatriots used on the Wolf’s Claw. Yet since they’d arrived she’d been racing to make up lost time. Shira pulled away and stood up, turning to stare back at the girl. “Like I said, I’ve got to go. But t
he room is booked until four, so don’t feel you have to rush. Order some breakfast, take a long bath. Last night was fun. Maybe when I come back this way, we can have another go.” That last part was pure diplomatic nonsense. The truth was, Shira tended to tire quickly of her conquests, very often, as in this case, after a single night.
She could see the hurt in her companion’s eyes, and while she didn’t exactly care, she did feel an impulse of sorts to soften her temperament. “I wish I could stay . . .” A lie. “. . . but, my work will not wait. But I’ll look you up as soon as I get back this way.” Another lie. Two, actually. Shira had no intention of trying to contact the woman again . . . and she damned sure didn’t expect to come back to this backward shithole of a planet unless she had one hell of a good reason.
A much better reason than a moderately above average tumble.
She stood up, turning around and managing a smile to her bedmate, one she hoped seemed sincere. Then she walked into the bathroom, staring into the mirror for a few seconds, astonished at just how red and bloodshot her eyes were. She wasn’t as young as she used to be, and the morning-after face she saw in the mirror hit her with that realization.
But there was no time for such vanities. She slipped into the shower and turned the hot water on, almost to scalding.
She sighed softly, closing her eyes for a moment while the hot water cascaded down over her body. She was due back at the Claw . . . ten minutes ago. The mission was set to commence in less than an hour, but she couldn’t help but wonder at the point of it all. She knew why they had gone back to their old way of life, why Blackhawk had no choice but to retreat to his previous existence on the fringes of the Far Stars, avoiding the centers of power that threatened his grip on himself.
Avoiding Astra Lucerne.
There was a monster inside Blackhawk, one created by imperial breeding programs and conditioning, one the warrior and adventurer had learned to control, after a fashion. Blackhawk was perfectly fine, a hard man, but a fair and just one, reasonably at least . . . as long as he stayed away from positions of power. But Shira had seen him during the war, watched as he struggled to hold back the demons, to remain what he’d worked so hard to become and not to fall back to the grim creature he’d once been. Arkarin Blackhawk would likely be running from himself, from his past, until the day he died. That was his penance for his many sins, and that was why he was on Asterex.
Shira was there because Blackhawk had to be.
There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she and the rest of the crew had to follow their leader from one backwater to another, doing jobs that had once seemed almost normal, but now felt pointless. Leaving Blackhawk was an impossibility. He had saved all their lives . . . no, more, he’d pulled them from their own individual nightmares and given them purpose, and a home. That had been years ago, of course, long before the war, and before they were all wealthy in their own rights, but Arkarin Blackhawk had taught them nothing by his example more than loyalty, and Shira, for one, would be damned if she’d ever turn her back on the one man who’d truly made a difference in her life, and who’d risked his own countless times to do it.
She’d been penniless when she’d first come aboard the Claw, an orphan rotting in a prison cell, a few days from the headsman’s blade. Blackhawk had gotten her out—by some method he’d never disclosed—and he’d taken her in, saved her from almost certain death. He hadn’t tried to change her, to convince her to be someone she wasn’t. He’d just given her a home on the Wolf’s Claw . . . and eventually, she had come to see the others in that home as the family she’d never had.
In some ways, she and Blackhawk were the most alike on the Claw, and from the beginning, he had related to her natural distrust and cynicism, traits he shared in every particular. With the possible exception of Katarina Venturi, she and Blackhawk had the darkest views of the universe of everyone on the Claw. She didn’t know what made Venturi tick, but it certainly wasn’t anything light or optimistic, and she’d long ago learned not to make any reckless assumptions about the ex-assassin.
Or not so “ex” . . .
The random group of adventurers on the Wolf’s Claw were a family; she knew they all felt that way. But they were troubled nevertheless. They’d been happy once, bouncing around the fringes of the Far Stars, smugglers, mercenaries, a group of mysterious but enormously skilled rogues who didn’t give a damn what anybody else thought . . . or what laws anyone sought to impose on them.
But that had been before the war. Before the Far Stars had been even partially united. Or something close to united. They had all seen desperate fighting in the battles against the imperial forces . . . and they’d lost some of their own in that struggle. But the family had come through the trials, still together, still devoted to one another.
They’d gone back to their old lives, retreated back to the shadows. But it didn’t work, not really. None of them wanted to admit it, but things just weren’t the same as they’d been. The Far Stars was a different place, for one thing. The Far Stars Confederation was still in its infancy, but Astra Lucerne had proven to be an extraordinary and tireless leader. On world after world, the old rivalries, and the shadowy businesses that had existed all around them for centuries, began to fade away. The Far Stars Confederation brought law and order, and the promise of prosperity . . . and the smugglers and pirates that had once been so prevalent in the sector had begun to disappear, to take their places as relics of a lost age.
For better or worse, the Wolf’s Claw and her crew were a part of that fading reality, and with every step Astra Lucerne took to reorder the Far Stars, their refuge grew ever smaller.
Shira would never leave Blackhawk’s side, she was as certain of that as she was of anything. She knew why he needed to remain in the shadows, to chase after the life that had sheltered him for so long from his dark, nightmarish past. But the day was coming when that refuge would no longer really exist, not in a rapidly developing and booming Far Stars.
She had no idea what Blackhawk, what any of them, would do then, but she knew she would never abandon the man who had saved her. Who had given her back her life and made it something worth living.
She turned off the shower and hurried to gather her things together and get back to him.
“Try to reroute the secondary circuit through couplings eight and nine.” Arkarin Blackhawk crouched down outside the portal leading to the Claw’s cramped engineering space. He was leaning in, looking across the crawl space at his engineer—and the one person in all the Far Stars and the vast and unknown galaxy who knew her way around the guts of the Claw as well as he did.
She knows it better than you, you pompous fool . . .
That is correct. If you are referring to the vessel’s engineering systems, even the most cursory empirical analysis would strongly suggest that Samantha Sparks has more knowledge than you, certainly in a practical sense useful for making repairs and the like.
Blackhawk held back a sigh. He’d been angry for years at the—long unwelcome—presence in his head, but sometime over the past twenty-some years, he’d come to accept the AI. He still didn’t know how he’d ended up with the thing implanted in his brain, but even the suspicion that was so central to the core of his being had come to accept the strange . . . presence . . . as a friendly one.
The thing had saved his life too many times to preserve his mistrust.
“I’ve got it, Captain . . . just give me two minutes to run the new connection.”
Blackhawk nodded his head and smiled. Sam Sparks was the most innocent looking of the Claw’s crew. She was the youngest, too, and she looked even younger than she was. She spent most of her time crawling around in the confines of the ship’s engine room, in torn pants and a grease-stained shirt, long red hair tied back in a ponytail, struggling to keep one abused and overused system or another functional.
As often or not, when the ship was on the run or going into a fight.
She looked young and helpless away from her engin
es, and Blackhawk had always had a fatherly affection for her. But first impressions were deceiving, and Samantha Sparks was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, something that became immediately apparent to anyone who saw her fire the tiny pistol she always had stashed somewhere. As far as Blackhawk knew, she’d never missed.
“Sam . . . I’ll leave it to you, but we’ve got to be on the move in ten minutes.” Blackhawk pulled his head back out of the engine room, before Sam could reply. She knew the timetable, and now, he’d just reminded her again. She’d have the Claw ready, and he had enough confidence in her to leave her alone and go back to the bridge.
Besides, Shira isn’t here yet. And neither is Ace.
Blackhawk was grateful to his crew for staying with him, though he carried some guilt from it, too. They all had the resources to build better lives, richer lives, out there in a Far Stars that was quickly rising up from the morass of piracy and barbarism it had long been to a modern civilization. He’d been alone once, and for a long time, and he told himself he could do it again, but he wasn’t sure he believed it. The old Blackhawk had been a miserable creature, on the run—from his enemies and from himself—but now, he was different. He had friends, more even. They were his family, in every way that mattered. He had a woman he loved, too, although one he could never be with, and one who couldn’t come with him where he had to go. She had too much to do, a legacy to continue, a hundred planets to rule, billions of people looking to her for protection and justice. He’d accepted that fact, as much as he ever could, but if he lost his crew as well as Astra . . . he wasn’t sure he could endure it.
He couldn’t be with Astra, the only woman he’d ever loved, but he was proud of her, and watching her succeed in her herculean task helped to keep him out of the abyss. Astra Lucerne’s rule was barely three years old, and she’d already proven herself to be her father’s daughter, in more ways than he could easily count. Dozens of worlds had formally joined the Far Stars Confederation, some voluntarily, others after Astra’s armies had purged them of oppressive, entrenched governments. And the Far Stars Bank, driven partially by greed—and partially by Astra’s veiled threats and intimidation—had funded a construction boom that was already bringing backward planets into the future, improving living standards and industrial output across the sector.
