Shadow of Empire

by Jay Allan

  She held the stare for a few more seconds, but finally she nodded in acceptance.

  “Remember, we’re going to get in and out of here as quickly as possible. We don’t want to end up stuck in that ship under siege.” Blackhawk had considered bringing Lucas along and trying to steal the vessel itself, but he’d scuttled the idea. Imperial spy ships had all sorts of system security. He wasn’t sure even Lucas could penetrate all of it in time to get the hell out before they were attacked and overrun on the ground. He didn’t like the idea of racing through the abandoned streets trying to outrun any pursuers, but he didn’t have a better idea either.

  “We go in in two minutes.” He took a last look at the group, staring at each of them for a few seconds. “Is everybody ready? Weapons checked and loaded?” There were nods all around. He grabbed the three particle accelerator rifles they’d taken from the dead guards. “You take these, Sarge. You guys are the likeliest to get into a serious firefight.”

  The noncom reached out and took the weapons, slipping one over his shoulder and handing the others to two of his men. “Thank you, sir. We will put them to good use.”

  Blackhawk smiled. “Just be careful, and don’t blow that ship to pieces before Sam gets the core out.” He paused. “And remember, that hold is full of military ordnance—not just guns, but explosives too. You get careless near there with one of those particle accelerators, and you’ll blow the whole ship—and all of us—to bits.”

  “That won’t happen,” Sarge said.

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.” He looked out across the open ground toward the imperial ship, counting down in his head (with perfect accuracy thanks to Hans). He held up his arm for a few seconds then let it drop. “Go,” he said simply. He slipped through the hole he’d cut in the fencing and raced toward the ship, Ace right on his heels.

  CHAPTER 15

  “LOOKS LIKE ANOTHER DEAD END, CAP— . . . ADMIRAL.” HALOS Grindle flashed a nervous look toward Kharn’s chair.

  Kharn didn’t give a shit about his crew stumbling over his new rank, but he was getting tired of Grindle cringing every time he did it. He knew other pirate captains would space a crew member for less, but his people should know him better than that. He wanted to scream at Grindle, but he knew it was a waste of time. He also knew that it never hurt for his crew to think that he might just chuck one of them out of the airlock if they pissed him off enough.

  Kharn wasn’t a typical pirate leader, though. He was methodical and far less driven by petty emotions and unfocused rage than many of his peers. He was tough when he needed to be, but never pointlessly brutal. He seemed almost like a naval officer at times, though he was as rapacious as any buccaneer when there was loot to be had.

  He knew the crew was still getting used to his new rank. They’d watched him leave the ship, answering the ka’al’s summons. Kalishar’s ruler had become increasingly unpredictable and capricious in recent years, and Kharn imagined there had been some heavy betting on whether he would make it back. But he had not only returned, he’d come back as the commander of the entire fleet.

  It didn’t help that he was still skippering Red Viper, just as he’d always done. It made things seem normal, as if they were just blasting off on another mission rather than serving as a flagship. They’d been calling Kharn captain for five years. Now he sat in the same chair, on the same ship, issuing many of the same orders, but he commanded Tarn Belgaren’s entire armada.

  “Let’s do one more sweep, Halos.” He knew it was a waste of time even as he said it, but he wanted to be thorough. He was already looking for a needle in a haystack, and he didn’t intend to make it worse by missing anything. If Blackhawk’s ship had been here, it would have come through days before, which meant the energy residue from its engines would be nearly gone. But nearly gone wasn’t totally gone. It would take a lot of luck, and perfect scanning, to pick up his trail, but it could be done. And if there was one thing his people could do it was track a ship they were after. They were like bloodhounds in space. Hunting down ships was their business, and a pirate who couldn’t sniff out an energy trail wasn’t very good at his job.

  And my men are the best.

  “Yes, Admiral.” He watched as Grindle turned back to his panel, plotting a new thrust pattern, revectoring the ship and firing the engines to come about and cover the same volume of space again. It was getting harder to screen out their own energy trails, and he knew this was probably the last pass where they would pick up any older signatures. After that, Red Viper’s residuals would be too strong, blanketing out any faint, older traces.

  Kharn turned his head, looking toward the comm station. “Order all other ships to rescan their assigned areas.”

  “Yes, Admiral.” Jacen Nimbus was manning Red Viper’s comm. “Transmitting now.”

  The rest of Kharn’s fleet was dispersed throughout the system, searching for any signs that Wolf’s Claw had passed through. A solar system was an almost unfathomably large volume to scan. Even with eighteen ships it had taken three days to complete a basic coverage pattern, and that was searching only the inner system, where the Claw would have passed if it had landed on either of Karleon’s two inhabited planets. A full scan of the outer system would take far longer, at least a month to do a thorough job, and Kharn had other places to search and nowhere near that much time.

  At least Karleon’s worlds were poor and sparsely populated, he thought. They had no central authority, and certainly no patrol ships that might take exception to nearly twenty pirate vessels bursting into the system. If the search for Blackhawk went on long enough, to enough systems, Kharn knew that luck would change. Some planets on his list had the strength and the resolve to react harshly to any pirate incursions. Whether any of them would be spoiling to pick a fight with a fleet of eighteen ships was another question, one Kharn wasn’t anxious to answer. He was in too much of a rush to properly search each system; he certainly didn’t have time to fight with local authorities.

  “And remind the ship captains. If they discover anything, pull back and report it immediately. No one is to attempt to engage the target vessel until the fleet has concentrated.”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  Kharn was focused on finding his target, but he was also thinking about what to do if he did. Red Viper had been in the thick of the battle in Kalishar’s system, and he’d seen the enemy vessel in action. Wolf’s Claw looked like the semiwreck of a marginal smuggler, but Kharn knew that was a façade.

  Blackhawk’s ship had been far more maneuverable than anything in the ka’al’s fleet, and whoever was at the controls was one of the best pilots Kharn had ever seen in action. Its weapons were far more powerful than anything on Red Viper, and they outranged all his guns as well. Finding Wolf’s Claw was only the first of his problems. The enemy vessel was a tough target, and he knew none of his ships had a chance in a one-on-one fight. It wasn’t going to be easy to disable or destroy that vessel—and he was going to lose ships doing it. He wasn’t about to make it worse by letting his captains get cocky and go after it one at a time.

  He sat back in his chair as Red Viper doubled back and re-scanned the space it had already covered. Finally, after several hours of fruitless searching, he’d had enough. He sighed softly. “Order all ships to cease scanning operations and assemble at the designated coordinates. It’s time to move on.”

  “Yes, Admiral.” Nimbus repeated Kharn’s order, transmitting it to the entire fleet. “Message sent, Admiral.” The transmission would take a while to reach the vessels searching the far side of the system, and it would be longer still before the ships of the fleet could change course and reach the designated location.

  “Set a course for the rally point, Grindle. It’s time to get to the next system.”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  Kharn rose slowly out of his chair. “I will be in my quarters.” It would be at least twelve hours before the fleet was in position and ready to transit, and Kharn hadn’t gotten more tha
n a few hours’ sleep in the last week.

  He walked toward the hatch at the back of the bridge then stopped. “What system is next on the list, Grindle?”

  “Saragossa, Admiral.”

  Kharn frowned. “Saragossa is under guild embargo, and it was a backwater shithole even before that.” He knew the ka’al’s patience wouldn’t last long, and Kharn didn’t have time to waste on too many more fruitless searches. He had to find that ship, and soon. Maybe he would skip Saragossa. “What system is after Saragossa?”

  “Rhodia, Admiral. Then Mercuron.”

  Rhodia, Kharn thought. Well developed, strong industry, fairly wealthy. The Rhodians wouldn’t stand still for a pirate fleet invading their space and, for that matter, neither would the Mercurians. He was looking at a fight in either system, or at least a need to keep the fleet concentrated. That was going to slow things down. Maybe he should get there as soon as possible.

  He stood in front of the hatch and thought for a few seconds. Should he skip Saragossa and head directly to Rhodia? Time was short, and Saragossa seemed an unlikely place to find Blackhawk and his ship. Still, he thought, a backwater world cut off from the rest of the sector wasn’t a bad place to hide.

  Finally, he sighed and turned toward the navigator. “Plot a hyperjump to Saragossa, Grindle.” Might as well be thorough, he thought.

  CHAPTER 16

  “COMRADE TALIN, I AM SORRY TO DISTURB YOU, BUT I MUST speak with you immediately.” General Varig stood outside the door, knocking cautiously. Aides had been banging on Talin’s door for hours, carrying increasingly urgent dispatches from the front line, but the first comrade’s angry shouts had driven them all away in a panic. Talin had become prone to fits of uncontrolled violence and brutality in recent months, and no one on his staff would risk pushing too hard and setting him off.

  Now the situation had become critical, and General Varig was doing the knocking. He’d come right from the front, from the thick of the fighting, and he looked like it. His uniform was dirty and disheveled, and he had a small strip of cloth tied around his arm as a makeshift bandage. His boots were caked with partially dried mud. Varig knew it was dangerous to disturb Talin, especially when he was roaring drunk, as the general suspected he was now. But the enemy was breaking through the lines in three places, and the situation at the front was critical. He needed permission to deploy the reserve formations immediately, and Talin was the only one who could release the reinforcements.

  Varig was frustrated. He had been a friend of Talin’s before the revolution, and the two had served together in the early battles, when laborers armed with metal pipes and knives charged the armed soldiers of the nobles. Thousands died in those fights, but more and more men volunteered, and Saragossa’s former masters were driven from the cities one by one.

  Varig and Talin, with Arn and a number of other workers turned army commanders, had been instrumental in forging those early rebels into a fighting force capable of defeating the house troops of the noble families—and later battling their hired mercenaries to a standstill. But as Talin gathered more power to himself, he became increasingly distant from his old friends and comrades. Hunger for power overcame cooperation; paranoia poisoned friendships. Since he’d assumed the chairmanship of the revolutionaries’ central committee, he had become extremely arrogant—and increasingly irrational and violent.

  Varig had heard the grumbling among others high in the Revolutionary Army’s ranks, vague calls for the chairman’s ouster, but no one dared to move against him. Talin controlled the Red Guards, the secret police unit that ensured loyalty among the soldiers and citizens of the revolution. The Guards were notoriously brutal—and not overly concerned about actually proving guilt before executing those targeted as enemies of the revolution. Talin didn’t hesitate to unleash them on anyone he came to perceive as an enemy of the revolution—or just of himself.

  Varig stayed above the scheming. Though he loathed what Talin had become, he wasn’t ready to do anything about it, at least not yet. And pointless grumbling was a stupid way to get yourself purged. He knocked again.

  “Come in, General,” Talin barked through the door.

  Varig turned the handle and stepped inside. The room was immense, with a vaulted ceiling soaring almost ten meters above the floor. The walls and ceilings were covered with beautifully painted mosaics, now damaged in places from fighting and neglect. It had been the bedchamber of one of New Vostok’s greatest noblemen before the revolution, and Talin had claimed it as his own.

  Varig felt a twinge of disgust as he saw Talin, lying on one of the priceless silk sofas, disheveled and clearly drunk. The room stank of alcohol and vomit, and there were plates lying everywhere.

  He remembered Talin years before, working long into the night, living in a spare cell with just a cot and a small locker. Just as often—he’d be out in the countryside with the soldiers, sleeping on the ground, with nothing but an old tarp to keep the rain off him. He wasn’t prone to brutality then either—except with the nobles. It was only later that he’d begun to spy on his allies, and people began to disappear. “What do you need, General?” Talin’s speech was slow, his words slurred.

  Varig’s eyes panned around the room. There were two empty bottles on the floor next to Talin, and a third sitting on a small table, half drained.

  “Comrade Chairman, the mercenary forces of the nobility have launched a major attack against our lines south of the city.” He paused, swallowing hard. He wouldn’t let fear of Talin rule him, not like so many of the craven sycophants who followed the chairman around. But only a fool could ignore the fact that Talin and his Red Guard cronies were fond of executing generals who displeased them. And Varig had come with bad news. Still, his comrades were dying right now—his men. He wouldn’t cower in the face of Talin while his soldiers were charging enemy tanks. “Our forces have been driven back in several places.”

  Talin stared back at the general, snorting and rubbing his hand across his unshaven face. “Were your soldiers unprepared, General?” There was an ominous tone to Talin’s voice. “Perhaps they were poorly deployed or caught napping.”

  “No, First Comrade.” He marshaled his courage and stared back at the chairman of the Revolutionary Council. “The enemy has thrown all its strength against our lines south of New Vostok. Their strategy is unorthodox and very unlike their previous operations. They have concentrated their forces against a narrow frontage and overwhelmed the defenders in that area.”

  Talin stared at Varig without speaking. He was very drunk, but anger was beginning to focus his mind. “What would you know of military orthodoxy, General?” Talin’s voice was caustic. “Seven years ago you were pouring metallic alloys into equipment molds, were you not?”

  Varig bit back on his anger. And you worked in a concrete plant, he thought but wisely kept to himself. “Comrade Chairman, I have fought in the front lines of the revolution for all of those seven years. I have faced our enemies in battle many times, seen their strategy and tactics in action.” He paused, taking a deep breath and trying to remain calm.

  “I am telling you, Comrade Chairman, that this is an attack like none they have ever initiated. As you know, the bulk of the nobles’ forces are off-world mercenaries. They have always sought to use their superior training and equipment to attack us in hit-and-run battles, engagements designed to minimize their own losses. But now they are attacking us frontally, and they are continuing forward, ignoring their losses.” He looked right at Talin. “They are doing this for a reason, Comrade Chairman, though I do not know what it is. I am extremely concerned.”

  “So what do you want, General?”

  “We need the reserve battalions released, Comrade Chairman. As soon as possible.” He hesitated. “Including the special companies.” Talin had expended most of the army’s high-tech weapons in his campaign against the rebel splinter group. His imperial benefactors had provided extremely effective ordnance, but sharply limited supplies of ammunition and eq
uipment to recharge and rearm the weapons. Most of the previous two deliveries had been used up fighting Arn and his people, leaving only a handful of companies still equipped with battle-ready imperial weaponry.

  And all of those were currently protecting Talin.

  The chairman stared at Varig. “You may have the reserve units, General, but the special companies will remain in the city.”

  Varig knew Talin had been extremely careful about allocating the imperial weapons only to units loyal directly to him. That was why the newest shipment was still in the hold of the ship that delivered it. Despite his mental and physical deterioration, Talin remained a wily and dangerous operative. Varig knew the chairman’s paranoia was becoming ever more dangerous, and he knew he had to tread carefully. “But, Comrade Chairman . . .”

  “My decision is final, General. You may have the reserve battalions, but the special units will remain in place.” He turned away from Varig. “You may return to the front. You have much work to do.”

  Blackhawk glanced over at Ace and nodded. “Ready?” They were lying on their stomachs, halfway down the exhaust port of the imperial ship. He could feel the coolness of the metal through his wet jacket and the slickness on the smooth metal from the light rain that had begun to fall.

  “Ready, Cap.” The two pulled the pins from the small bags they each carried, then shoved them as far down the exhaust tube as they could.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.” Blackhawk was already crawling backward as he spoke. They’d set the timers for one minute, not much time, but enough to get away if they didn’t waste any of it.

  The slick wetness of the smooth metal made it even more difficult to climb backward, and it slowed them down. Finally, Blackhawk managed to get a grip on a small ridge around the inside of the exhaust port and pulled himself out, with Ace following just a few seconds behind. They stepped carefully on the small metal ledge leading to the access ladder on the side of the ship. Blackhawk grabbed the slippery metal rung and climbed quickly to the ground six meters below, Ace right behind.