The Emperor's Fist

by Jay Allan

  He was still reeling from what he’d watched, but the rest of the crew had seemed less shocked by it than he was. They’d been mostly worried about Blackhawk himself, about whether he could endure the pain and physical stress that was clearly part of the connection process. And what had stunned them all far more was Blackhawk referring to one of the imperial officers as his “brother.”

  That was surprising, no question, but not that inexplicable. Belakov had already gathered that Blackhawk had come to the Far Stars from the empire. It would be coincidental, certainly, for him to encounter his brother on one of the imperial ships, but he didn’t find it all that shocking Blackhawk had a sibling in imperial service. Belakov had even heard rumors that Blackhawk had been an imperial officer himself before he’d come to the Far Stars.

  Belakov had never in his short time on the Claw seen the crew as stunned as they appeared to be, however—so much so, they’d barely noticed when he had left the room and walked down the corridor to another compartment, taking advantage of the fact that Blackhawk had, during his connection to the ship’s AI, restored life support to the entire deck.

  He’d found it eerie walking down the deserted corridor alone. The AI center was in a lightly traveled section of the ship, but he’d still passed several bodies, lying in various poses, their faces transfixed with the agony of freezing and suffocating men and women. The smell from dead spacers frozen and rethawed made him gag every few steps until there was nothing left to spit up.

  He was a little concerned the crew would be angry when they realized he’d left, but he was still grateful for the chance to sneak away, to get a few minutes to think.

  And, of course, to check out the imperial equipment a bit more closely.

  Blackhawk had invited him to join the Claw’s crew, and he had accepted . . . but it had been pretty clear since then that the rest of the ship’s complement still viewed him with some suspicion. And more, that he wasn’t exactly carrying his weight.

  That wasn’t surprising. They’d all been together for a long time, and they’d gone through difficult times together. Trust took time, and he understood that, and he was alone for the first time since he’d been taken aboard the Claw, at least the first time outside his cabin and away from the Claw’s internal scanners. Because of that, he hadn’t quite been able to prove his worth.

  Maybe, with a little more freedom—and a lot more tech at his disposal—he could.

  He sat down at a workstation in the room, and he punched at the keys. The screen lit up and various images flickered by as he worked the login sequence. He’d managed to pick up what he needed watching Blackhawk, something he’d done without the notice of the others. He wasn’t trying to sneak anything past them—he’d taken his pledge to serve Blackhawk and the Claw seriously. But if he was going to help, he required a level of access to the imperial computers he doubted his new family trusted him enough to allow.

  Also, he was a hacker.

  He worked the keys, trying to push away the curiosity and questions about Blackhawk and his “brother” that kept intruding on his mind. He was curious, of course, but he also knew just how dire of a situation they faced—that the entire Far Stars faced. If there was any way he could help, it would be at that keyboard and not trying to figure out a sibling rivalry.

  He wasn’t sure he could explain what he was trying to do, mostly because he didn’t know yet. Right now, he was just looking, hoping he’d come across something that jumped out at him. For that to happen, though, he needed to analyze the imperial data systems and structure as deeply as possible, which meant he needed to be left alone to explore.

  At least for a few hours.

  Then, just maybe, he could offer his own miracle, one to match Blackhawk’s that he’d just watched. One that would cement his place as a member of the crew of the Wolf’s Claw.

  One that would give him the family he’d never had . . . and perhaps help save the Far Stars.

  “Your brother? You have a brother?” Ace asked the question, but the silence and the focused stares all around him left no doubt the thought was ringing in the head of all Blackhawk’s people.

  The headset still in his hand, he looked back at them. He’d regretted those words almost as soon as they had escaped from his lips. Not because he wanted to hide anything from his crew, but because the whole subject was a difficult—and possibly dangerous—one for him.

  Yet that was only part of the reason—the bigger regret was that there was no time to truly explain. He had to get the ship into hyperspace. He had to get his people to Celtiboria . . . and, most urgently, he had to get himself away from the approaching imperial vessel, and the man he now knew was in command there.

  But it was clear none of that was going to happen without at least some explanation.

  I owe them that much.

  “He is essentially my brother, or at least that is the closest designation to describe him.” Blackhawk blurted the words out. “You already know I was not conventionally conceived or born. I have no parents, or I have a hundred, depending on how you look at it. My DNA was spliced together from numerous genetic samples. I do not know how they were gathered, save that some were donated by the most elite members of the imperial armed forces and nobility. Others, I suspect, were taken by force, from whatever imperial citizens the breeding program identified as useful. I never knew any of the donors. Or, if I did meet them later, neither I nor they knew of the connection.

  “Ignes is the same as me. He was quickened from the same genetic material. Exactly the same. I have always considered him my brother, though perhaps clone or crèche-mate are more accurate descriptions.”

  “You mean he is genetically identical to you, Ark?” Ace again.

  “Yes. At least mostly. The specifics of the imperial breeding program were classified, even above my clearance. No doubt the emperor didn’t want his creations, his custom war machines, knowing too much about where they came from. If Ignes is not a literal clone, he is close to one.”

  Ace just stood and looked back at him, and the others did the same. The room was almost silent, save for the faint hum from the computer banks. Blackhawk didn’t know what more to say, but he knew there was more. He needed to hear what his people thought, to answer their questions. But he also had to decide how to handle Inferni. It was crazy to think, but any confrontation between the two would mean he would be facing himself—that any action he took was against a man no worse than he had been, who was different only in that he had never escaped the conditioning that made him an imperial slave. That’s what they were up against now, and the scary thing was that if he couldn’t figure out what he was going to do, there was no way to know what Inferni was going to do.

  So, until he did, he had to stay away from the man he’d called brother.

  “I know you all have questions, but I need you to trust me. We have to get out of here. Now. And then I can try to come up with a way to explain more.”

  They all nodded. Blackhawk returned the gesture, and then he turned to face the workstation. He pulled the headset on, taking a final breath and steadying himself to endure the pain.

  I’m ready. Let’s get this bucket of bolts out of here.

  Now.

  Chapter 29

  Idilus stared coldly at the main display. The trip from Galvanus had been long, far longer than he’d expected. The magnetic interference in the transit lanes and the lack of basic interstellar infrastructure just added to the list of reasons he couldn’t wait to complete his mission and return to the empire.

  That will be soon, now, but still not soon enough for my tastes.

  “We have arrived, Admiral Greeves, at long last. We all know our orders. The mission is clear. Let us waste no time. You are to engage and destroy the enemy fleet at once. Then, we will proceed to Celtiboria itself, and we will visit the emperor’s justice upon those who would invade his worlds and resist his dominion over mankind.”

  Idilus was dressed the part of an imperial gener
al, more even. He’d done some research into viceregal regalia in the imperial annals. Solid purple was reserved for the emperor alone, but a viceroy was entitled to wear robes of the imperial color mixed with an equal portion of white. The ship’s services department had been hard-pressed to meet his specific requirements, but they’d made the deadline—just. If there was one thing imperial efficiency was good for, it was maintaining the necessary pomp to display the full grandeur of the empire.

  The robes were of little real importance. His fleet vastly outmatched the Celtiborians, and he’d already decreed there would be no surrenders accepted, no prisoners. And there would be no conquered cities to enter, no subjugated populations to impress with his imperial presence. Not that he’d even set foot on the planet. Celtiboria was to be left a lifeless hulk, and the only troops who would land were small hunter killer parties, to dig out and exterminate any survivors from the bombardment. It was enormously difficult to utterly wipe out a planetary population from orbit, even with an intense nuclear barrage. A few scattered survivors would remain, in bunkers and shelters . . . and his soldiers would track them down and finish them.

  When that happened, when the planet was a silent graveyard filled with radioactive ruins, he would declare victory, and he would return to the empire.

  In the meantime, though, he allowed himself the vanity the viceregal station afforded him.

  Idilus glanced at Rachus Denali. “You played no small part in this victory we are about to secure, Denali. It was with your device, and your skill in operating it, that we were able to reach the Far Stars with a strike force of this strength. I will see that you are amply rewarded when we return to the empire.”

  “Thank you, General. You are very kind.”

  Idilus looked over at the pilot, but he held back his thoughts, gratitude to an extent, of course, but also disgust. Denali had been a marginal free trader struggling to keep his ship from foreclosure, and now he stood on the grasp of vast imperial largesse, even if his desired freedom to retire was unlikely to ever come within reach. Still, he would live as he’d never dreamed, enjoying the benefits that accrued only to the emperor’s most valued servants. And the damned fool was practically morose, no doubt stewing in self-inflicted guilt about leading imperial forces to the Far Stars. Idilus had given his thanks, as was due, but he had no time to waste encouraging the pilot. If Denali wanted to be upset about his success and good fortune, that was his decision.

  “General Idilus, we’re picking up energy transmissions. The enemy fleet appears to be formed up approximately one hundred million kilometers from the planet, directly along our line of approach.”

  “Perfect. We need not waste time chasing them. We can proceed directly for Celtiboria and simply pause on our way to destroy their ships. Proceed, Admiral Greeves. All ships are to advance at full thrust.”

  “General, sir . . .”

  “What is it?” Idilus snapped the question. He had no patience for delay, not this close to victory.

  “We’re picking up additional energy signatures as well, to the side of the enemy formation. They appear to be coming from an asteroid cluster. Perhaps we should send scouting par—”

  “Dispatch a wing of attack ships to investigate, Admiral, but we will not delay the main attack, not for an instant. Understood?”

  “Sir, the readings don’t match known profiles for ships. It is possible some kind of fortresses are in that . . .”

  “Enough, Admiral. You have your orders. We have spent quite enough time in the Far Stars. We are going to move forward and execute the emperor’s orders, and we are going to do it without further delay.”

  Idilus knew the admiral was capable, that he likely believed the enemy had forts of some kind hidden among the asteroids. He even suspected the commander’s instincts were correct. But it didn’t matter. There was nothing the Celtiborians could throw at him that his ships couldn’t handle.

  Victory was inevitable, and excess caution could serve only to delay it.

  “They are continuing forward, sir. No sign of small craft launches yet, nor of any vector changes that would suggest they are aware of our presence.” Grigg Norgstrom had prepared himself for the arrival of the imperials every way he could, but when he’d first seen the giant vessels appear on the scanner, he’d almost lost control anyway. But he was holding it together, and his tone was firm. He had his duty, and he’d be damned if he would do one bit less than his best.

  “Very well, Lieutenant Commander.”

  Norgstrom looked over at Commander Crendus. He was scared of the imperials, of course, but he was even shakier at the thought of that pompous fool commanding the station in battle.

  “They are approaching firing range, Commander.”

  “Understood, Lieutenant Commander.”

  Norgstrom fidgeted in his chair, waiting for the orders he knew should be forthcoming but weren’t. He was frustrated at his CO’s incompetence, but unsure what to do about it. Finally, when Crendus remained silent, he asked, “Shall I order the batteries to charge up and prepare to open fire?” There wasn’t much time. With any luck, the fortresses would be a surprise to the enemy, but that advantage would be fleeting, and he wasn’t about to let Crendus squander it. He was sure the other fortress commanders had already prepped their batteries, but there was no overall order to spur Crendus into action. Admiral Desaix had been quite insistent about maintaining communications silence. The chance to hit the enemy with something they didn’t expect was one of the few edges the fleet possessed, and Desaix wasn’t willing to take a chance on some comm traffic giving the bases away.

  Norgstrom’s mind was racing. Should he try to take command? That would be mutiny, but was it worse than Crendus’s dereliction of duty?

  He was reaching for the fortresswide comm unit, ready to make a play to rally the crew and take command when Crendus spoke.

  “Yes, Lieutenant Commander. Order all batteries to begin charging and prepare to open fire.”

  “Yes, Commander.” Norgstrom reached out, his hands now moving over the controls, putting the batteries on full alert, all the while thinking how impressed he was by Crendus’s calm tone.

  The officer might not be as incapable as he thought. And now it appeared he was no coward as well.

  At least if I’m going to die, it’s not going to be because of pure incompetence.

  Norgstrom watched as the turrets acknowledged receipt of the order, and a moment later as each of them reported status gold. Ready to fire.

  His eyes darted back to the display, watching as the imperial battleships pressed on forward, blasting their thrusters, heading directly for the fleet and for Celtiboria beyond. Right through the field of fire from the forts.

  Just as Astra Lucerne and Admiral Desaix had predicted.

  He could feel his stomach tense as the imperial ships closed, moving steadily into range. There were only minutes left, seconds even. Then, the great forts, silent and abandoned for centuries, would open fire and start the fight.

  The Battle of Celtiboria.

  Norgstrom watched as the lead imperial vessel crossed the line, followed a few second later by the others. It was time, and he spun around, looking over at Crendus, wondering if the commander would be ready.

  He was.

  The orders came a second later.

  “Lieutenant Commander . . . all batteries are to open fire at once.”

  “Yes, sir.” Norgstrom sent the command to the waiting gunners, and then he turned and looked at the display, even as flashes began to fly all around. Every one of the fortresses had opened fire.

  Norgstrom ignored the fear, the throbbing ache in his gut. There was only one thought in his mind, pushing all the others aside.

  It was on.

  Chapter 30

  Belakov stared at the screen. Screens. He’d rigged three different workstations together, and columns of code streamed down each one as his eyes darted back and forth. He’d already been deep into reviewing the operation sy
stems that ran the immense ship when Ace came to find him, a job that was arguably more difficult—and definitely gave him a headache—in the strange alien dimension of hyperspace. Graythorn had been one of the most suspicious of the crew, the slowest to accept him. Second slowest. Shira Tarkus still looked like she wanted to slit his throat every time she glanced his way.

  He’d explained what he was doing, but Ace wasn’t buying it. At least it didn’t seem like he was, but then Blackhawk came walking down the corridor. The Claw’s captain looked like shit, splotches of semidried blood under his nose, streaks of red spreading across his eyes like spiderwebs. In pain, too, that much was clear, and even in his short time on the Claw, Belakov had come to develop at least a preliminary understanding of how iron tough Arkarin Blackhawk truly was. He couldn’t imagine the agony that would show on his face like that.

  He’d expected Blackhawk to support Ace, to order Belakov to step away from the workstation, maybe even lock him up in the Claw’s makeshift brig. But Blackhawk listened to his explanations, and then he’d replied simply, “That would be enormously helpful. If you think there is even a remote chance, keep at it . . . and let Ace know if you need anything.”

  Blackhawk had then staggered down the corridor toward the landing bay and the Claw, looking as though he might fall over at any second. Ace didn’t look entirely happy about it, but he looked down at Belakov and asked, “So, is there anything you need?”

  “No . . . Ace.” He was still having trouble addressing the crew by their first names, especially the ones who clearly still mistrusted him. But the Claw’s crew didn’t use ranks, save for Blackhawk’s “captain,” and he would have felt foolish saying, “Mr. Graythorn” all the time. “Just time. These routines seem rather simplistic for such a massive warship. I may be missing something, but the security on this system would make the auditors at the Far Stars Bank laugh. If this is all they’ve got, we just may be able to do something useful.” Ace had nodded acknowledgment, but it was clear he wasn’t putting much faith in Belakov’s efforts, regardless of what Blackhawk had said.