The Emperor's Fist

by Jay Allan

  He returned the smile she flashed at him, and he nodded. Then he pulled down his suit and slipped inside with a practiced efficiency.

  He turned and waited for the others as they buttoned up their suits and grabbed the large duffel bags each had packed with weapons and equipment. Whatever awaited them, unlikely victory or bitter defeat and death, they were going in armed to the teeth.

  Just like the happy band of adventurers he’d come to know and love.

  He looked at each of them, confirming their suits were closed up and operational. Next he walked over to the control panel, and he hit the switch that would evacuate the Claw’s bay. Then he would open the airlock . . . and it would begin. The first phase of the fight to save the Far Stars, a battle the word desperate seemed inadequate to describe.

  Five against eighty thousand.

  He would have called it impossible with any other five. But with the best the Claw had to offer, Blackhawk knew there was a chance.

  Chapter 18

  “What’s the word, Rafe?” Astra still struggled to keep the “Uncle” part out when she addressed her top general. She still felt the affection she always had for the grizzled old soldier, but as little respect as she paid to the calcified forms of diplomacy and etiquette, she realized a certain maturity, if not formality, was appropriate considering their professional relationship. “Can we get those stations back online quickly enough?”

  DeMark’s expression wasn’t encouraging, but it wasn’t gloomy either. That gave Astra her answer before it came out of the general’s mouth.

  Maybe.

  DeMark looked exhausted, which didn’t surprise her at all. By her calculation, the general had gotten less than ten hours of sleep in over a week, and that assumed he’d actually been able to sleep when he’d been in his quarters presumably doing just that. She knew she hadn’t. She’d gotten about the same ten hours, but she’d actually closed her eyes for maybe two of them, and that had been fitful and plagued by nightmares.

  Or premonitions.

  “So what can we do to expedite? I know there are no guarantees, Rafe—how could there be when we don’t even know when the enemy will get here—but we don’t have any good options, and we’ve got to do whatever we can to at least try to keep those ships away from Celtiboria.”

  She knew the asteroid forts wouldn’t be enough to defeat the imperial battleships, even if her people somehow managed to get every one of them fully functional, itself almost an outright impossibility. The forts were centuries old, and they’d been abandoned since a united Celtiboria had plunged into three centuries of disunity and civil war between its contending warlords. But they were a potential weapon in her arsenal, and she wasn’t going to ignore anything that might help.

  “Of course, you’re right, Astra. That’s why I already took the liberty of ordering the work crews deployed at once. I’m not sure any of it will be enough, but what can be done is already in the works. I was pretty sure what you would decide. I hope I didn’t overstep.”

  “Not at all. We’re in this together, you, me . . . all of us.” She hesitated and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Rafe. For everything.” Astra heard her own fatigue in those last few words, and she felt it closing in on her. Her muscles were stiff, her body aching with every move. She stood still for a moment, fighting off a dizzy spell, not the first one of the day. She was exhausted, but she didn’t have time for rest, and she wouldn’t for some time.

  Maybe never.

  She forced a deep breath into her lungs, and she made a mental note to pop a stim or two.

  Two. As soon as she was alone. She didn’t need anyone giving her a hard time over how many of the uppers she’d sucked down over the past week.

  The way she figured it, if she managed to lead her people through this disaster, it was worth anything. She’d give her life to save Celtiboria and the Far Stars from the empire. And if she failed, what difference did it make if her liver and kidneys were shot when she was likely to end up a charred and radioactive corpse anyway?

  “Any updates on the fleet’s status?” Another pointless effort, but one she had to pursue anyway.

  “Four more cruisers just jumped in from Beregond. They’re not frontline units, but I’ve slotted them in for yard space in platform C. If the imperials give us another week, we’ll have them in good shape, their weapons retuned per the revised standards.”

  Another order she’d signed, and one that worried her. She’d had as many of the fleet’s ships as possible reconfigured, their reactor outputs and weapons powering increased, well past normal safety levels. It made sense, of course, since her fleet was likely to be obliterated, anyway, when the imperials arrived, but she still knew the first ship lost to an overload or reactor blowout was going to hit her hard. But it didn’t matter how she felt. The only thing that mattered was forging the strongest defense she could manage. Whatever the risk.

  “Beregond . . . how many troops do we still have there?” The planet was one that had put up a nasty fight against confederation control, but it was close to pacified per the most recent operations reports. That made the loss of the orbital support less devastating, but she still hated the idea of leaving her soldiers stranded all across the sector, their supporting ships gone, called back home to face the imperials.

  “About twenty-eight thousand. We just pulled fourteen thousand out of there and I figured we would send them to Calcott.”

  “Another planetary campaign we stripped of its orbital support.” She’d ordered that world’s task force to return home as well, though they were still en route. She wondered if she should call back the troops heading there. Calcott was nowhere close to pacified, and while the world didn’t possess significant conventional military strength, there was a nasty resistance going on. Did she want to feed more troops into that mess, just as she pulled back their naval support? The question cut both ways. The troops would be going into a difficult situation . . . but the ones already there would need the help, more even than they already had. She didn’t really decide . . . but she didn’t say anything either. Which, words or not, was tacit approval.

  The two sat quietly for a few minutes. Finally, DeMark spoke, and it was clear he was broaching a topic he’d been hesitant to bring up. “I ordered one of the old bunkers prepared to serve as a command post when . . . if . . . the imperials arrive.” Astra frowned. There was no “if” about it, and DeMark knew that as well as she did. “With your permission, I would like to bring it up to operative status, and if all checks out, get the headquarters staff relocated there. We can’t risk having a couple shots landing in the city taking out our command and control.”

  Astra nodded. “You’re right, of course. I agree. Execute the transfers as quickly as possible.”

  DeMark paused. “I also prepared facilities for you, Astra. Both work, and quarters. I’m afraid they’re not as nice as . . .”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry? No, what?”

  “No, I’m not moving into the command post.”

  “Astra, the city won’t be safe. Even if we manage to hold the enemy battleships back, they have thousands of attack craft. If any penetrate to the planet, they’ll come right for the capital. They’ve got to have collected enough intel on Galvanus to know where the palace and command facilities are here on Celtiboria. They . . .”

  “I won’t be in the palace, either, Rafe. Or in the city.”

  DeMark looked at her, confused. It seemed like he was trying to decide what to say, but she beat him to it.

  “I’m going to lead the fight from Augustin.” The battle cruiser was the newest and strongest ship in the Celtiborian navy. She’d christened it less than two months before, and she hadn’t had a second thought about a name. Her father had been the greatest hero in Celtiborian history. That’s the way she saw it, and thousands upon thousands of warriors who’d served him felt the same way, as did billions of citizens, many of whom had only had fleeting moments living under the justice and fairnes
s of his rule, but who had come to mourn his loss with deep and profound emotion.

  “Astra . . .” DeMark’s expression went from confusion to horror in an instant. “You can’t . . .”

  “I know all you’re going to say, Rafe, and I can save you the trouble. My decision is made.”

  “But . . . we can’t lose you, Astra. Please . . .”

  “We can’t lose you either, or Admiral Desaix. Yet neither of you is planning on hiding in a hole in the ground.”

  “Astra, you’re the ruler of the entire Far Stars Confederation. You just . . .”

  “I am what I am because of my father, Rafe. You know that as well as I do.” Astra was far from a shrinking violet, and she knew she had abilities, that she could have accomplished much on her own. But she didn’t indulge herself to imagine she would have risen to rule over dozens of inhabited worlds, with millions of veteran warriors following her every command. That had been a birthright, not an accomplishment of her own, and she had sworn to herself she would never lose sight of that fact.

  “Astra . . .”

  “Rafe, look me in the eye and tell me my father would have cowered in a bunker while his warriors fought. Do that, and swear on your honor you truly believe that is what Augustin Lucerne would do were he here.” She paused, and she gave him a withering stare. “And if you can’t—and I don’t think you can—then tell me why you think his daughter and successor should do, could do, less than he would have.”

  DeMark looked like she’d punched him in the gut.

  “You’ve protected me all my life, Rafe. I love you for that, and I respect you in more ways than I can express. But I need something different from you now. I don’t need you to protect me . . . I need you to help me fight, and somehow to win—somehow. Because I know two things for certain. First, I am a Lucerne, and my father’s daughter.

  “And, two, if I am going to ask my soldiers and spacers to fight to the death, they have a right to see me at their sides in that fight . . . as my father always was.”

  “Hallios and Bellatron require nav system realignment, General. Engineering teams estimate the work will require fourteen imperial hours. The fleet is halted, awaiting your orders.”

  Idilus felt a flush of anger. Nav realignments weren’t all that uncommon, but he’d had all his ships’ systems checked out before they left Galvanus. “What the hell are their navigators doing? Or is it the engineers failing?”

  “General . . . it is the Far Stars. The space here is not as difficult to navigate as the Void, but it is trickier here than it is back in the empire. Our crews are not used to the added magnetic tides in hyperspace out this far.”

  Idilus hated excuses, and this one was no exception, even though he knew there was truth to it. The Far Stars lacked the beacon system in the empire, as well, which only added to the fact that the space itself carried residual effects of the Void. It wasn’t really the fault of his navigators and engineers, but innocence didn’t always preclude him from punishing them. He decided it made more sense to put the option to do so to productive use. “Ten hours, Commander. Advise them they have ten hours to correct their mistakes . . . or I will be forced to take further action.”

  “Yes, General.” The officer didn’t express any doubt that the work could be done in the shorter time, but Idilus doubted the commander would have argued with him if he’d said he wanted it done in ten minutes. Idilus couldn’t match Inferni for inflicting pure terror on those who served him, but he got more than a little use himself out of targeted fear.

  He turned toward another of his aides. “The fleet is delayed for ten hours, so let’s not waste that time. I want all weapons systems put through full testing sequences, and I want attack wing commanders to submit final deployment plans for the assault on Celtiboria and its fleet.”

  “Yes, General.” The officer nodded, so far it was almost a bow. Then he turned and ran over to the comm station on the far wall and began relaying Idilus’s commands.

  The general watched for a few seconds, and then he walked back to his chair and sat down. The orders he’d just given would serve more to keep his people busy than to actually accomplish anything. The diagnostics would have to be repeated when the fleet emerged from its final jump. Hyperspace travel was hard on many components, and a dozen things could fail in the final stages of the journey. And finalizing formations for the attack wings was pretty pointless without at least preliminary data on enemy strength and deployments.

  He just didn’t like letting his people get lazy . . . and he was frustrated and anxious, ready for the destruction of Celtiboria, the victory that would restore him to the highest of positions in the imperial court. If his nervous energy morphed into exhausting work for his crews, so be it.

  Chapter 19

  Blackhawk waved his arm, doubly frustrated as he did. First, the suit wasn’t exactly designed for freedom of movement, and it was difficult to be precise in any hand signals or other comprehensible gestures.

  Second, he’d never cared for hand signals and the like, even in the best of situations. No matter how much preparation went into things like that, it was always a rough mode of communication . . . and his military experience had taught him that nothing was as deadly in battle as confusion.

  There was no choice this time, of course. He wasn’t about to risk breaking radio silence a hundred meters from an imperial battleship. His people were out of the Claw now, and beyond the protection of the distortion field. They needed a bit of luck to cover the distance undetected, but that would turn into a lot more good fortune required if he started blasting out comm signals all over.

  He looked back at Ace, and then Shira. They both nodded their understanding, or at least, that’s how he took the rough movement each of them made in their own cumbersome suits. They would pass the word on to Sarge and Katarina.

  He turned back and looked ahead, his fingers pressing onto the controls inside his glove, blasting out tiny jets of air to adjust his vector and velocity. The battleship was immense, covering his entire field of view and then some at such short range. He couldn’t miss the ship, he knew, not even if he did everything possible to do so. But he was targeting a very precise spot. He was hoping his people would avoid contact inside for long enough to get the few minutes he needed—assuming the crazy plan worked, that the configuration was the same as it had been twenty years before—but they damned sure weren’t going to get enough time to go exploring in the guts of a twenty-kilometer spaceship.

  He had to hit this one dead-on . . . and air hissing out of his suit at various angles was far from the most efficient and controllable mode of propulsion. It was even worse counting on his people to match his moves, with nothing other than sight to go on. Too, distances in space could be misleading, but he could see the light gray metal of the battleship moving closer to him with each passing second.

  Too fast . . .

  He moved his hands around in the gloves, sending another jet of air out, almost directly toward the imperial ship. He felt his velocity slow, and then . . . he slammed into the hull, harder than he’d have liked, but without any detectable injury, or, worse, damage to his suit.

  He reached out, flipping another switch, activating the magnetic fibers in his gloves that held him to the hull. He turned, as much as he could manage in the bulky suit, and he watched as his four companions came in and landed, much as he had, with a series of jarring impacts, but without apparent injury or damage.

  He pulled himself along the hull, moving slowly to ensure each magnetic glove was secure before pulling the other one free and pulling himself along another half meter. He could see the hatch, right where it was supposed to be, and he kept moving, looking back briefly as his people followed him, slowly spreading out into a single line.

  He reached out and grabbed on to one of the handholds near the hatch, and he pulled the rest of his body forward. He was right above the doorway, and his eyes panned over the surface. He was 100 percent confident in his ability to pick
an imperial lock . . . at least one from twenty years ago. The empire’s battleships took that long to build, and once launched, they served for as long as two centuries, at least if they avoided any mishap. Blackhawk had every reason to believe he could get into the ship, but there was just as much chance his dated knowledge would be useless.

  He reached down, fumbling with the gloves of his suit as he tried to work the controls. He reached into the pouch at his side and pulled out a small power wrench. He tried to position it to remove the control panel next to the hatch, but his gloves were too cumbersome. He kept at it for another minute, then two . . . and finally, he got it in place. He turned it on low power, and perhaps two seconds later, the cover plate popped off and floated away. He grabbed for it, almost losing his grip as he did, but he couldn’t get to it in time.

  No matter. It wouldn’t make any difference if the cover was on the hatch’s lock.

  He grabbed a probe from the sack, and he inserted it into the lock mechanism. The workings looked foreign at first, and for an instant, he feared they had changed the designs. But, then, old familiarity returned, and he could see things slip into place. He slid the probe to the right, and he pushed it into a small circuit. Then, he grabbed a second probe, and he repeated the action, on the other side of the lock mechanism.

  He worked for another few minutes, and he could feel the sweat building up inside his suit, in spite of the fact that the environmental control system kept the inside at a comfortable room temperature. He could also feel the seconds ticking away, the minutes, and he knew each one was precious. Maybe they’d gone undetected—and the Claw, too. Perhaps they’d get on board, and the corridors in this section of the massive ship would be sparsely traveled by the crew. It was even possible they would get inside and make their way to the AI center before the general alarm alerted eighty thousand imperial spacers that there were intruders in their midst.