Shadow of Empire

by Jay Allan

  He turned to face the pack of dignitaries who flanked Lancaster. “Welcome to all of you, ladies and gentlemen. All of Celtiboria is joyful at your coming.” His eyes moved back to Lancaster. Lucerne knew the magnate was more than the leader of the delegation. Although he held few official titles himself, Danellan Lancaster’s money exerted tremendous influence on those who did. Lucerne had no doubt the Antillean Senate would follow whatever advice their duly appointed emissary might choose to offer, lest its members risk losing the flow of campaign contributions—and outright bribes—that flowed from Lancaster’s coffers like a river of gold.

  Lucerne smiled and hid his true feelings. He was new to politics, but wise enough to realize the truth had little place in its practice. I was willing to kill for the confederation. I can put up with Lancaster too.

  He addressed the emissary again. “We will begin our talks on the confederation tomorrow, but you have come far, and we would be remiss if we did not treat welcome guests as they deserve. We have suitable quarters prepared for all of you. I am sure you would like to rest before tonight’s reception.” He waved his arm, and an army of stewards in magnificent livery came forward. Each of them was assigned to a different dignitary and knew him by sight. Augustin Lucerne detested the game of diplomacy, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t play it with the same skill he used to fight his wars.

  “I thank you on behalf of the entire delegation, Marshal Lucerne. Your warm welcome is greatly appreciated.” Lancaster motioned to his companions, and they began to follow the stewards away from the reception stand.

  “Lord Lancaster, I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time later.” Lucerne leaned in, speaking softly to the Antillean industrialist.

  “Why, certainly, Marshal Lucerne.” He paused, waiting for the rest of his people to trickle off the stand. When the last had left, he asked, “How may I be of help?”

  “Well, Your Excellency, if the confederation plan proceeds, we will be bringing a number of worlds into the mainstream economy of the sector, planets that have long been isolated as a result of internal conflicts or totalitarian rulers.”

  Lancaster nodded. “Indeed, there has long been robust trade between the Primes, but many of the lesser worlds are quite undeveloped.” The pitch of his voice changed and Lucerne knew he had piqued his interest.

  “As you know, Your Excellency, I am a soldier. Economics and industry are not my areas of expertise. But I consider economic outreach to these worlds an essential component of successfully integrating them into the confederation.” Lucerne paused deliberately, taking a moment to gauge Lancaster’s reaction. “I was hoping you would be willing to give me some insight in this area—and possibly even help by serving as the leader of the confederation’s economic development programs. Assuming, of course, that Antilles chooses to become a part of the confederation. I would never ask you to do anything that ran counter to the interests of your world.”

  Lancaster nodded. “I would be very pleased to assist in such a capacity. And let’s forget the stifling formality. Please call me Danellan. I am not all that tired, Marshal—do you care to speak of it a bit now?”

  Lucerne smiled. “Augustin, please. And yes, I would be most interested in hearing your thoughts.” He gestured to a set of stairs along the back of the stand. “Perhaps we can go to my office.”

  “Yes, Augustin, let’s go discuss what can be done for some of these backward worlds.”

  Lucerne was unnerved at the smile on Lancaster’s face. He felt a twinge of guilt for offering up the inhabitants of a dozen worlds as bait to the rapacious Antillean robber baron. The Lancaster Consortium would make those worlds into virtual colonies, stripping them of their resources and turning them into closed markets for overpriced Antillean goods.

  Still, he realized, even after Lancaster and his cronies looted the economies of those worlds, most of them would be better off than they were now, cut off from the rest of the sector and buried under stifling statist regimes. The rapid development Lancaster would initiate would lift all boats, no matter how much he stole. None of it mattered, though. Lucerne needed Antilles, and he would do whatever he had to in order to get the planet on board. And, in many ways, Danellan Lancaster was Antilles.

  Lucerne sat quietly in front of the fire, filling his glass again from the now half-empty decanter. It was extremely expensive cognac, spoils from the sack of the last warlord’s stronghold.

  He held the snifter in front of him, staring into the amber liquid. He’d never been much of a drinker, not in all his years at war, nor through all the pain and the endless death and Arnage. He’d lost friends, suffered painful wounds, unleashed death on millions, faced stalemate and even defeat. But it had taken the abduction of his daughter to drive Lucerne to the bottle.

  He had continued his schedule, without change, without pause. To do less would be to hand Astra’s abductors the victory. And that he would never do. But the pain was there, every moment of every day, wherever he was, however crucial the task at hand.

  The loss of his daughter was painful enough. But the guilt was there too, and it tested the limits of his endurance. Astra had been taken because of him, because of the things he had done and the causes he had championed. Her kidnappers had abducted her from right under his nose, through the security he had put in place to protect her. Her guards fought to the death, but they were overwhelmed. If he’d protected her more carefully, he thought, put more men into her security detail . . .

  He knew it hadn’t been that simple. Astra was temperamental, with a wild and independent streak. She’d resisted every attempt he made to beef up her security, to surround her with bodyguards and keep her in protected strongholds. Anyone who knew Astra Lucerne realized she was uncontrollable. She may have been born the daughter of the man who conquered Celtiboria, but she did what she pleased whenever she wanted. He understood that intellectually, but the pain eating away at his soul wouldn’t let him release himself from the blame, not even partially.

  He drained his glass in one gulp, feeling the fiery liquid slide down his throat. He didn’t particularly enjoy the sensation, but he knew it would dull the pain. If he drank enough, he might even sleep tonight, escape the images of Astra that haunted him in the evening darkness. He’d come to appreciate anything that could provide a few hours of numbness. It was the closest thing he felt to happiness. The rest of his life was duty and pain.

  He’d taken another step earlier in the day, one that promised tremendous progress toward achieving his dream of confederation. Antilles, like Celtiboria, was one of the Prime worlds, the six planets in the Far Stars with the longest histories and largest populations. The talks with the Antillean delegation had gone better than he’d dared to hope. He’d bought Danellan Lancaster’s support with promises of economic opportunity, and the mogul now clearly supported Antillean membership in the confederation. He’d assured Lucerne he would speak out loudly for a positive vote in the Senate.

  A crucial first step. Lucerne knew he needed to secure the cooperation of the other Primes for his plan to succeed. He could invade minor worlds, topple their petty rulers and force them into the confederation, but war with another Prime was unthinkable. It would be a cataclysm for both worlds.

  The other Prime worlds would be impressed by early adoption of the Confederation Treaty by the Antillean Senate. The planet had the largest navy of any world in the Far Stars, and the Antilles Naval Academy produced the best pilots in the Far Stars. The alliance between Celtiboria and Antilles would create a power bloc stronger than any in the Far Stars. The others would be spurred to join for fear of their own power and influence waning.

  The access to Lancaster funds doesn’t hurt, either.

  Lucerne reached out and grabbed the decanter, filling his glass again. Yes, the summit with the Antillean delegation had been an enormous success. It was as good a reason as any for a drink, he thought, and he emptied the glass in one gulp.

  CHAPTER 18

  “HOW D
OES IT LOOK, SAM?” BLACKHAWK WAS STANDING BEHIND his engineer, watching her examine the spy ship’s hyperdrive core.

  “It looks like some kind of damned alien artifact, Captain. This thing is the most advanced piece of machinery I’ve ever seen.” There was frustration in her voice, but excitement as well. Blackhawk did his best not to get impatient with her. He knew there was nothing Sam Sparks loved more than analyzing a sophisticated spaceship system, and if she had her way, she’d sit there all day, puzzling over the sophisticated imperial tech. As far as he could tell, that’s exactly what she was doing. She’d removed the access plate and set up two battery-powered lanterns so she could see what she was doing, but since then she’d just been looking at it and poking around at the fiber optic connections surrounding it.

  Blackhawk put his hand on her shoulder. “Sam, I know this is a tough job, but we’ve got a time limit here. We’ve got to get this thing loaded and out of here before half the revolutionaries in New Vostok show up and blow us away. I can tell it’s a complex device, but you’re just going to have to go with your gut. We should have been on our way back to the Claw by now.”

  “I understand, Ark.” She looked at the toolkit sitting on the floor next to her, retrieving a small power flow scanner. She glanced behind her toward Blackhawk. “I could really use some quiet.” She looked at him knowingly.

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, Sam—you’re the boss.” He turned and looked at the others. “Everyone out. Now.” They shuffled quickly out of the room, leaving Blackhawk alone with his engineer. He walked to the door himself, pausing and giving her a quick wink as he stood there. “Just do the best you can, Sam. There’s no one I trust more than you.” He turned and walked through the door, sliding it closed behind him.

  He walked down the dimly lit corridor and into the wardroom. Sarge was sitting up on a table with Doc working on his wounded arm. From the haggard look on the noncom’s face, Blackhawk guessed it had been an unpleasant experience.

  “There.” Doc’s voice was thick with satisfaction. He pulled out a pair of small forceps and dropped the projectile in his palm. “The damned thing dug its way into the bone. It was a bitch to get out.”

  “It damned sure was.” Sarge’s voice was a little thin, which gave Blackhawk an idea just how painful Doc’s probing had been. He’d seen Sarge coolly ignore pain that would have reduced most people to sobbing hysterics.

  “You’re lucky you’re going to keep that arm, my friend,” Doc said. “You can thank me for that, and not that pathetic dressing you managed yourself.” He paused, expecting a comeback, but Sarge was just too spent. Doc picked up the projectile with two fingers and held it up to the portable light he’d placed next to Sarge. It was small, and much flatter than a normal bullet, and the edges were sharp and jagged. “It’s so small, yet it caused such massive tissue damage.” He looked over at Blackhawk. “I wasn’t kidding. He came a hairsbreadth from losing that arm.”

  “It’s an imperial buzz dart, designed for close-in fire, where a particle accelerator or other heavy weapon isn’t practical.” Blackhawk had barely looked at the thing, but he had no doubt. “It’s designed to rotate as it penetrates the target’s flesh, causing the nastiest possible wound. A hit anywhere in the torso is probably mortal, so you’re lucky it was just an arm shot. It’s small so a clip can hold a lot of ammunition.

  “Ace, I want you guys to be extracareful. These things are no joke. They’re made to kill. They’re top-of-the-line imperial weapons, used mostly by Special Forces and intelligence units.”

  “Yeah, Sarge. Try not to walk into any more enemy fire.” Ace was smiling ear to ear as he ribbed the straitlaced noncom. Sarge was as tight and by the book as they came, and Ace enjoyed giving him shit.

  Sarge glared back for a few seconds, but he didn’t answer. Then Doc got his attention again when he started fusing the wound shut. He’d offered Sarge a painkiller, but the big soldier had refused. Blackhawk knew Sarge well enough to understand. If there was going to be any more fighting, the old veteran wanted to be 100 percent alert and ready.

  “Are we covered outside?” Blackhawk spoke softly to Sarge. The fuser was a great piece of medical technology, accomplishing in minutes what nature would need weeks to complete. But he knew from experience, the thing hurt like fucking fire without an anesthetic.

  “Yes, sir.” Sarge’s voice was weak, strained. “Ringo and Von are outside guarding the ship. I sent Buck and Drake to do a patrol sweep around the perimeter.” He paused, sucking in a tortured breath. “Everything’s quiet so far, Captain.”

  “Katarina’s out taking a look around, too,” Ace chimed in, and there was a twinge of irritation in his voice. “I . . . ah . . . suggested that she stay with the ship, but she just nodded and went anyway.”

  “Of course she did.” Blackhawk sighed and looked over at Ace. “Any sign of Shira yet? Or Arn and his people?”

  “Nothing from the rebels, but Shira just got back a few minutes ago.” Ace was clearly amused about something. “Wait until you see what she got.”

  “What is it?” Blackhawk wasn’t in the mood for Ace’s sense of humor. Not right now.

  “She’s outside pulling it around. Let’s go take a look, and you can see for yourself.”

  Blackhawk sighed. There was no point in arguing. “Okay, let’s go.” They walked down the corridor toward the airlock. It was closed, and the control plate next to it was dead. With the reactor down, the automated doors were not functioning. Blackhawk grabbed the handholds and slid the hatch open, stepping through and climbing quickly down the ladder.

  Ringo was standing guard just below the airlock. He snapped to attention and saluted when Blackhawk walked past. They’d been on the Claw for years now, but Sarge and his boys still ignored the informality of the rest of the crew, giving Blackhawk the salutes and ceremony they felt a commanding officer deserved.

  Blackhawk returned the salute, feeling a little uncomfortable as he did. In truth, military ceremony made him uncomfortable. It brought back memories he had tried hard to forget. But he understood that Sarge and his people were showing him respect in the only way they knew, and he appreciated the loyalty.

  He panned his eyes around the ship, looking for Shira and the vehicle she had commandeered. He stopped abruptly when he saw it: a giant transport of some kind, sitting right behind the ship. It had some kind of scoop on the front, and it looked like it opened from both the top and the back. He walked toward it and stopped in his tracks about five meters away. “What is that smell?” He turned back toward Ace, who was trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh.

  “It’s garbage, Ark.” Ace could barely speak through the laughter forcing its way out. “She got us a garbage transport.”

  “I’m glad you’re so amused, Ace.” Shira came walking around from behind the massive truck. “I live to keep you happy.” Her voice was biting, dismissive. “But this thing is perfect. It’s big, so it can hold the core and all of us too. It’s unobtrusive, and its sides are heavy, almost like armor plating, so we’ll have some protection.”

  “It’s perfect, Shira.” Blackhawk flashed a cold stare at Ace. “Just ignore our friend here.” He walked toward the massive truck. The stench was making his eyes water, but he smiled and nodded. “Perfect.” He turned back toward Shira. He pointed toward the heavy ramp that led to the spy ship’s main hold. “We’ll bring the core out that way, so bring it around with the back hatch toward the cargo door.”

  Of course, it will all be a waste of time unless Sam manages to disconnect the thing, he thought. By rights that job should take a crew of four a full day or more. But if anyone could do it alone and in a couple hours, he knew it was Sam Sparks.

  “What are you doing on Saragossa with a shipment of high-tech weapons?” Blackhawk was glaring at the prisoners. There were three survivors from Sarge’s attack on the ship, and he’d locked them up in one of the detention cells. Blackhawk had ordered them shackled to the bench as well. These w
ere dangerous men, and no one knew that better than he did.

  He’d known the instant he’d laid eyes on them. They were imperial intelligence, all of them. He couldn’t quantify the look, but he’d seen it enough times to be sure. There was death in their eyes, the frigid iciness of space itself. These men were soulless killers, among the most brutal and dangerous of the emperor’s servants.

  They stared back at him silently, their faces hard in defiance. Blackhawk knew he could break them, make them talk—no man was unbreakable. But it would also take time, and he would have to do things he’d sworn long ago he would never do again. Imperial agents were conditioned to resist pain and brainwashing. He would have to torture them to get information from them, break them down into quivering wrecks. He just wasn’t sure he could make himself do that, at least not if there was an alternative. He knew he’d break his vow and do whatever he had to if his ship or his crew were at stake, but not to satisfy his curiosity about why the imperial governor was getting involved in a petty revolution in a forgotten corner of the frontier.

  No, he couldn’t return to what he had been. Not for that.

  Still, he was uncomfortable. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. These weapons were enormously expensive, and their distribution was strictly controlled. He wanted to write it all off as a random incident, but he knew it had to be more than that.

  “Astra,” Blackhawk muttered inaudibly. Was the empire involved in her abduction too? He hadn’t thought about that before. He’d assumed the ka’al had been paid by Lucerne’s enemies. The Celtiborian warlords Lucerne had defeated weren’t all dead. Some had fled, leaving Celtiboria with shiploads of treasure for a gilded life in exile on some other world. It made sense that the kidnapping had been planned by one of them, seeking revenge on the man who’d toppled their regimes and taken their power. Now, though, he began to wonder if there was more to the whole plot than simple vengeance, and that led him to a question he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to: Was the imperial governor involved? The thought sent a chill down his spine. He had to get Astra back to the safety of Celtiboria. Immediately.