by Jay Allan
The marshal was silent as he watched his soldiers launch the final assault. His heavy guns had blown a breach in the fortress’s inner defenses, and troops streamed forward now, pouring into the stronghold and throwing themselves at the defenders in a wild frenzy of bloodletting. He had ordered the army to take prisoner any of the enemy who surrendered, but he knew this war too well to expect many captives. Sirion Delacarte was the final holdout, the last of Celtiboria’s warlords to stand against Lucerne’s army. Delacarte had refused to yield, even when it was clear the war was lost, and his pointless, obstinate defense had cost thousands of lives—his own men and Lucerne’s both. His endurance and pride were likely to reap a bitter harvest, as Lucerne’s soldiers—enraged at their losses—stormed into his inner sanctum with blood and vengeance in their hearts. The defenders—not to mention their families and dependents cowering within the besieged walls—would pay dearly.
Lucerne mourned for them already, for he detested the pillage and rapine that accompanied a victory, especially such a bloody one. But war was war, and he couldn’t deny his soldiers the sack Delacarte’s stubbornness had earned. He hated what happened to his veteran troops, the way his normally disciplined army turned into a brutal, ravaging mob after a hard-fought victory. Inside the fortress would be brutality he almost cringed to imagine. He hated it, as he detested almost every aspect of the many wars he had fought, but he’d been a soldier for thirty years, and he knew how to lead an army. He would allow his men their due. Tradition would be obeyed. The ancient laws of war would trump mercy yet again.
Lucerne watched the unfolding scene with his eyes, but his mind was elsewhere—on the fringes of the Far Stars, wondering fruitlessly where his daughter was being held captive. Lucerne had sacrificed virtually all he had to the long struggle to unite Celtiboria, and scenes from his life danced at the edge of his thoughts. A home along the beautiful highland coast he’d left behind to march off to the call of the drum. Parents and friends he’d virtually abandoned, brothers and sisters long estranged, a family sacrificed to the demands of war. A wife he’d neglected, left alone in the cold halls of his stronghold, though he’d loved her with all his heart. She had died long before, mad with fever, screaming for him with her last breath while he was away on campaign. All were gone now, everyone Augustin Lucerne had ever loved. Save for one.
Astra.
Barely three years old when her mother died, Astra Lucerne grew up on campaign, as comfortable with her father’s grim veterans as she was with her governesses and proper tutors. Stung by the loss of his wife, the great warrior had refused to leave his daughter behind in the care of nannies and attendants. Astra grew up on the fringes of the battlefield, inured to the brutality of war at an early age. As a young girl, she played quietly on the floor of her father’s headquarters and rode on the shoulders of his veteran noncoms. As a teenager, she helped in the field hospitals, awash in blood, as she bandaged wounded warriors and mopped their sweat-soaked brows.
She was a woman now, an unmatched beauty. Her waist-length golden hair reflected the sun as if it had been spun from the precious metal itself. Her tall, sleek frame reminded him of her mother, as did her keen and icy wit. Astra was all he had left, the only thing Augustin Lucerne the man still cared about. Everything else had been sacrificed to the great conqueror he’d become.
But now Astra was gone too, taken by some enemy as a weapon to use against him. For thirty years he had struggled to free Celtiboria from the tyranny of its cruel and corrupt warlords. One by one, he’d destroyed them and freed the downtrodden serfs they’d ruled so harshly, dragging one of the greatest worlds of the Far Stars relentlessly forward from its feudal past. What would he do now if his daughter’s life was used to bargain with him? Would he abandon all he’d fought for, all that thousands of his men had died for? Could he surrender the dream that had united a world, even to save his only child?
He prayed he never had to make that choice. There was hope, he reassured himself. Perhaps Blackhawk would rescue her and bring her back to him. The captain was an enigma to most who knew of him, a man of almost unmatched ability who had chosen a life of relative obscurity. Blackhawk wanted the universe to see him as a petty smuggler and freebooter and nothing more, but Lucerne knew the truth: that there was no one in the Far Stars as capable as the captain of Wolf’s Claw, neither on the battlefield nor on the trail of an enemy. If anyone could bring his daughter back to him, it was Arkarin Blackhawk.
The marshal considered the captain. Blackhawk was an unlikely friend to one of the ruling elite, he knew. The man was a freelance mercenary more accustomed to the dark corners of pirate sanctuaries than the halls of Celtiboria’s great cities. But Lucerne had known Blackhawk for many years, and the two were the closest of friends. Lucerne was the one man in all the Far Stars the cynical Blackhawk truly respected as a leader, and Celtiboria’s great marshal was the only one in whom the mysterious adventurer had confided the dark secrets of his past. There was no one Lucerne trusted more with such a vital task, no man in the Far Stars he’d rather have in pursuit of Astra’s kidnappers.
Still, it was hard for a man of action like Lucerne to rely on anyone else, especially when the life of his daughter was at stake. He longed to take off after her himself, to leave Celtiboria behind and find her, wherever she was. To strike down the villain who’d taken her with his own blade. But Lucerne knew he’d lost the right to follow his own desires. He’d sold it, the price of his army’s loyalty, recompense for the thousands dead on his many battlefields. No, he could not leave his men. Not now, not ever. Marshal Lucerne, the soldier, came first, and Augustin, the man, would have to rely on his friend’s skill and dedication.
A wild cheer erupted across the field, claiming his attention once again as the shouts worked their way back from the shattered battlements of the besieged fortress across the cratered and blackened field. A thousand voices rose through the night sky, then ten thousand. They screamed in joyful delirium the words they had waited so many years to say. “Delacarte is dead.” The sounds from the field were deafening, soldiers shooting their weapons into the night sky as they screamed again and again, “The wars are over! One world, one nation! Long live Marshal Lucerne!”
Lucerne buttoned up his dark charcoal greatcoat as he walked toward the doorway. His attire was plain, barely a uniform at all save for the five platinum stars on each shoulder of the worn and weather-stained coat. The warlords of Celtiboria had fancied elaborate dress, bright and gaudy, announcing to all who saw them their position and power. But Augustin Lucerne wore an enlisted man’s coat and plain gray trousers. His knee-high boots were scuffed and mud covered, and his long hair—brown with increasingly large streaks of gray—hung about his face, unfettered by any hat or helmet.
The command post was a small tower, positioned to give a vantage point over the entire field. A ladder led down from the main level to the ground ten meters below. The marshal gripped the handles along the entry hatch and stepped down onto the first metal rung. His heavy boots clanged with each step as he climbed down and hopped onto the black muddy turf. His men had won a historic victory, and it was his duty to walk among them. He owed them nothing less.
He, too, had long dreamed of this day, imagined the pride and satisfaction he would feel when he stood victorious before a united Celtiboria. But now his triumph had lost all its sweetness. A lifetime’s goal had been achieved, but all he could think of was Astra. Is there nothing, he thought, no joy at all that I can keep for myself? Is there naught in life but the harsh call of duty? To be a butcher and nothing more?
He walked slowly across the field, his aides and personal guards falling in behind him. The men swarmed his group as he approached, raising their rifles in the air, chanting his name again and again. He pushed forward, his arms held aloft, a salute to the jubilant soldiers he passed. The sun had set, and the shattered ground was covered in a deep dusk, almost darkness. It was lit in places by the fires that still burned across the shadowy fi
eld, the dying remnants of buildings set ablaze by the shelling.
Illuminated by the bleakness of war.
As he moved forward, the crowds became thicker, the multitudes of soldiers rushing to see the great commander, the man they had followed from one end of Celtiboria to the other, the invincible warrior who had led them to victory again and again. The throngs parted as he advanced, opening the way for his party. He reached out to the sides of the corridor his men made for him, touching the hands of those closest, and waving to the multitudes farther back.
Soldiers began grabbing shards of burning wood from the wreckage, holding them aloft, makeshift torches to light the marshal’s way. Soon, his path was flanked by the flickering light, his warriors singing and shouting as he passed by. It was a wondrous moment, one he had dreamed of as long as he could remember. He’d imagined the aftermath of the last battle many times, and the reality matched his wildest expectations. But now he had no taste for celebration—only concerns for his daughter’s safety. He moved purposefully forward, giving his men the image of their leader they deserved. And on the outside, that’s how he appeared . . . Inside, though, he was imagining every horrible fate that might befall his beloved daughter, and it was on his mind constantly, giving him no rest, no peace. He would avenge her if she was slain—he swore that with every fiber of his being. He would hunt down and destroy all those involved. He would see their carcasses rotting on the crosses after he crucified them. But vengeance wouldn’t bring Astra back; it wouldn’t salve the deep wound her loss would leave on his soul.
Please, he thought desperately, please, Ark, bring her back to me. He forced a smile, empty and hollow as he plunged through the surging masses. He looked into a soldier’s eyes—all hope and excitement and admiration—and steeled his resolve. “Victory!” he shouted, thrusting his arms into the air.
“Victory!” they roared in response.
“You have won the victory, my soldiers, as I always knew you would.” He turned to the right then back to the left, pumping his fist above his head. “This is the glory that your courage bought, that the sacrifices of our fallen comrades made possible.”
He trudged forward, maintaining the charade. His soldiers deserved this from him and whatever his grief, he wouldn’t deny them the praise of their commander. Not now, not when their bravery and blood had won the final battle. “Victory!” he yelled again, and he waved his arms toward the cheering soldiers, a cascade of deafening roars returning in answer.
Ark will find her, he thought again, trying hard to believe it. There is no one more capable, not in all the Far Stars, not even in the empire. Blackhawk will save her.
He kept up his pace, heading toward the outskirts of the captured fortress. He had come to accept the surrender from whatever subordinate of the slain Delacarte still lived and commanded the remnant of the defeated forces. It would be a great historical moment, the end of centuries of fractured rule by the warlords. For the first time in hundreds of years Celtiboria’s power would be focused, targeted to a single goal. Now his legions could take to the stars to unite the sector, to create a confederation strong enough to resist imperial power forever, and to secure the freedom of the Far Stars for all time. It was that goal that had driven him through thirty years of butchery and death. He would see it done, even if it cost him thirty more years of the same.
He took a deep breath and stepped out onto the small causeway his men had built over the water, extending from the rocky shore to the walls of the broken fortress. He stopped before the battlements of the great stronghold, his eyes scanning the wreckage and the detritus of battle. One of Delacarte’s officers, a colonel, was already on his knees before Lucerne, head bowed deeply, holding his blade and sidearm before the conqueror in token of surrender.
Lucerne paused for an instant and then took the last few steps. It was something he’d imagined for decades, a dream realized, but now it was just duty, a task he was obliged to perform. When he took the sword and pistol from his prostrate enemy, Marshal Augustin Lucerne would officially become the ruler of the united planet of Celtiboria, the last challenge to his authority crushed. But the only thing he could think of was a young girl years before, playing quietly on the floor behind his desk as he planned a battle won long ago.
Please, Ark, he thought once more, please bring her back to me. He swallowed and reached his arms out, taking hold of the vanquished enemy’s weapons, lifting them above his head to the deafening roar of his soldiers.
CHAPTER 4
BLACKHAWK WAS THROWN FORWARD HARD, THE RESTRAINTS ON his chair nearly cutting into his flesh as they held him in place. Wolf’s Claw was rolling wildly, resuming the out-of-control vector it had before entering hyperspace. The wild ride was distracting and uncomfortable, but at least it was verification they’d made it back into normal space. Having the ship careening out of control was a problem, but it was nothing compared to being stuck in hyperspace with a blown drive.
He saw that Lancaster was already at work, his hands moving over the controls, trying to right the ship’s course with the positioning drives—the ones that still worked, at least. Blackhawk could feel the shaking as each of the tiny thrusters fired, negating some of the Claw’s velocity along a specific vector. Pulling a ship out of a wild roll was a tough enough job with a fully functioning computer and totally operational thrusters. With an AI still scrambled by the effects of hyperspace and a bunch of damaged positioning engines, it was damned near impossible. But Lucas Lancaster was one of the best natural pilots Blackhawk had ever known. Impossible for others was merely difficult for him, and the Claw’s captain had complete faith in the man at the helm.
“Everybody okay down there?” Talking to Lancaster would distract the busy pilot, so Blackhawk flipped on the comm to check on the rest of the crew. He wasn’t expecting any major problems, but they’d all gotten a good shaking, and he wanted to check up on them.
“We’re all good, Ark, but can you tell that cowboy pilot he’s not getting any tip for this ride.” Ace’s voice was a little tinny on the comm, but his cockiness came through loud and clear.
“Just make sure everybody stays strapped in tight down there, Ace.” Blackhawk cut the link. He could feel the rolling begin to slow as Lancaster methodically countered the ship’s momentum, firing the thrusters that were still responding along carefully selected angles. “You good, Lucas?”
“Wouldn’t exactly say ‘good,’ Skip, but I’ll manage it.” His tone was clipped, distracted. “Half the damned positioning thrusters are dead. One of the power lines must have been cut.”
Few people could have truly appreciated the piloting job Lancaster was doing, but Blackhawk was part of that small group. Lucas was as skilled a pilot as the captain had ever seen, and slowly but surely, the rolling stopped and Wolf’s Claw stabilized. They still had a lot of forward thrust, and it would take a while to decelerate or change course once the damaged engines were back online, but Blackhawk was grateful for the relative calm. He had a stomach of iron himself, part of his genetically engineered heritage, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the lower level was going to need a significant cleanup effort. He suspected that Sarge and his crew, at least, had lost their last meal. They were stalwarts and good friends, but certified ground-pounders, the lot of them. The ex-grunts had been with Blackhawk for years, now, but they’d never gotten used to space travel.
Blackhawk stared down at his screen, looking at the local star chart, trying to get a fix on their position. They’d dropped out of hyperspace almost randomly, without the usual preplotting. Blackhawk knew they could be almost anywhere within ten light-years of Kalishar, probably in the middle of deep space, a hundred years’ travel from anywhere at normal thrust. His eyes panned over the scanning reports looking for something, anything but the emptiness of space.
There it is, he thought with a start, as his scanner detected the yellow primary. Not for the first time, he was glad he’d pulled a drunk and high Lucas Lancaster out of that dive
bar on Antilles.
They had dropped from hyperspace without any plotting data, but Lancaster still managed to land them close to a system. They were out on the fringe—a good week’s journey from any habitable planets—but at least they weren’t lost in the nothingness of interstellar space with a wrecked hyperdrive.
Blackhawk sighed softly, still basking in the relief of that star sighting. “Nice job, Lucas, my man.” He pumped one of his hands into a fist, an informal salute among the Claw’s crew, their own private acknowledgment for a job well done. “How the hell did you latch onto to a star sighting without the computer or any plotting?”
Lancaster looked back at Blackhawk with a sly little smile. “You gotta feel the stars, Skip.” He leaned forward and nodded in a slightly exaggerated bow. “It’s a gift, I guess. What else can I say?”
Blackhawk returned the smile. “You bet your ass it’s a gift.” He got up and walked over to Lancaster’s station. “Now, what do you say we try to figure out what star that is?”
A few seconds later, the navcom and the AI in Blackhawk’s head both recovered from their hyperspace-scrambled state and analyzed the star sightings in an instant. The computer in his brain beat the Claw’s system to the punch.
We are in the outer reaches of the Saragossa system. The sole inhabited planet, Saragossa, is third from the primary. It is currently . . .
“Redlined.” Blackhawk finished the thought. Saragossa had been a moderately productive world by all accounts, a backwater that exported mostly wine and other agricultural products and imported most of its tech. Not the ideal place to find parts for a hyperdrive under the best of conditions, Blackhawk thought grimly, and things were likely to be far worse than that. The planet was redlined—declared off-limits by the combined transport guilds and the Far Stars Bank. That meant no trade with other systems, no embassies or consulates, not even any official communications with the rest of the sector. Saragossa was outcast, cut off from all meaningful contact with other worlds.
