by Jay Allan
Then the lights went out.
“Sam,” Blackhawk muttered to himself, not at all surprised she’d managed to plunge the enormous Grand Palais into total darkness. So much for the cameras and alarms, he thought.
He slowed abruptly, stepping much more carefully in the total darkness. Blackhawk had an eagle’s eyes, but even his uncanny vision couldn’t cut through total darkness. He and Katarina could do little but wait. Can’t risk breaking our necks. But shouldn’t be much . . .
The emergency lights flipped on.
“Finally.” Blackhawk’s voice was heavy with frustration.
“Luckily, we’re almost to the ground floor,” Katarina said. “This stairwell will exit on the far end of the casino, I believe. We will need to go east to reach the main entrance.” Katarina’s voice was calm, sure. She had stayed right behind Blackhawk, stopping every few flights to turn back and make sure no one was catching up to them. She’d picked off two more guards already, but there hadn’t been any others.
Which means that they’re engaged somewhere else.
“Be ready. We don’t know what we’ll find down here.” He ran down the last few steps and turned back toward her with a nod. Then he kicked open the door.
There was pandemonium on the floor, people running and screaming and guards desperately trying to restore order and stop patrons trying to get to the exits with stacks of stolen chips. The light from the emergency lamps was dim, but Blackhawk’s vision sliced right through the gloom.
He hugged the wall, trying to move around the edge of the worst chaos. There were guards everywhere. At first they were trying to stop the looters with intimidation, but it wasn’t long before they resorted to more persuasive measures.
They started firing into the crowd.
Blackhawk ducked behind a pile of broken chairs, with Katarina close behind. “Ace, where are you?” He spoke into the small comm unit on his wrist. Radio silence didn’t seem so important anymore.
“I’m in the high rollers’ room, with Shira. We’re fine. How are you?” Blackhawk could hear the fire in the background, and he knew immediately Ace and Shira were anything but “fine.”
“Stay put. We’ll be there in half a minute.” He turned back toward Katarina. “Let’s go. Everybody gets out of here tonight.”
Including this heavy son of a bitch.
They crept around the outside edge of the gaming area, taking whatever cover they could behind the rubble and debris. Aragona was starting to become a real burden, and even Blackhawk’s considerable strength was waning. He shifted around, swinging the unconscious hostage to his other shoulder.
Blackhawk moved up to the series of arches that separated the high-end gaming area from the main casino floor. He could see Ace and Shira, pinned down on the far side of the room. They were having a firefight with at least half a dozen guards. They’d already taken out at least that many more, but the survivors were behind hard cover now, and the exchange had turned into a stalemate.
“They’re trapped in there, cut off from any exit.” Blackhawk looked back at Katarina. “Ready?” She nodded. He took a quick look around, and then he ducked inside the room, firing the pistol as he dove for cover.
He took out two guards before he fell behind an overturned table, dropping Aragona hard as he hit the ground.
I need to get him out alive. No one said he had to be in one piece.
He turned in time to watch Katarina, unhindered by the burden he carried, open up with two pistols, taking down the remaining guards with precision shooting.
“Let’s go!” she shouted across the room, waving to Ace and Shira. Kat was standing upright in the center of the room, wearing a slightly disheveled but enormously expensive evening gown and brandishing two smoking pistols.
She still looked like she could seduce any man left alive in the casino.
Blackhawk pulled himself up and looked around. Too much damage. Too much noise. We’re never going to get out of Madrassa on foot. Even if we steal a vehicle, we’re screwed. Which could only mean one thing: he had to risk bringing the Claw in to get them. He hated putting the ship on the line, but there was no choice.
He tapped the comm unit. “Lucas, you need to get the Claw to Madrassa as soon as you can. As close to the Grand Palais as possible.”
“I’m here already, Skip. I just picked up Sam and dropped off the Twins to go in and get you guys. Get up to the fifth-floor roof deck, and I’ll bring the ship around there.”
Blackhawk heard the sounds of heavy automatic fire coming from the main entrance, the massive autocannons the Twins used as hand weapons. He smiled. Damn, he was proud of his crew.
“Everybody ready? We need to hook up with the Twins and get to the fifth-floor deck. Lucas has the Claw flying over the hotel, and he’ll get us out of here.”
The others nodded. Blackhawk leaned down and scooped up Aragona. Standing, he waved his arm forward. “Let’s move.”
“They’re heading up to the fifth level, Sarge. You guys follow them up there, and I’ll pick you all up.” Lucas had been following Sarge’s crew on the scanners.
Lucas knew the radio traffic was going to mean trouble. He was pretty sure the Claw had made it to Madrassa undetected. He’d taken a huge risk and flown over with the field up and engines blasting away. He was damned sure putting Marshal Lucerne’s reactor through its paces. Thank Chrono Sam is back on board. Pushing a fusion reactor to the brink was crazy enough, but doing it without the ship’s engineer on board was downright insane.
Which pretty much describes everyone on this ship.
“Understood, Lucas. We’re on our way.”
Lucas glanced at the scanner. Nothing yet. But that was only a matter of time. The comm signals he was sending out were like a beacon, and they led back to the Claw. “And hurry it up, before half the Castillan air force gets here and starts shooting at us.”
He flipped the comm to the intraship channel. “How are things down there, Sam?”
“Shitty, Lucas. What the hell are you doing to my ship?”
He suppressed a laugh. “Just what I had to do, Sam.” She’d still been wearing her costume from the op when he picked her up, and he tried to imagine her down in the Claw’s tiny engineering space, shoving the layers of silk out of the way as she worked at her familiar controls. Now that’s a scene I wish I could capture on camera.
“Just hold her together, Sam. The others are in deep shit, and we’ve got to pluck them off the roof. Drop the field if you have to, but I need full engine power.”
“No problem. I’ll just sprinkle some fairy dust on it, Lucas.” Sam was very protective of the ship and its systems—and she was pissed. Lucas was sure she realized he’d had no choice, and he knew for a fact she was just as concerned about the others. But that didn’t stop her from getting mad at him all the same when he was too hard on the Claw. They all loved the ship; it was their home. But Lucas knew it was Sam’s baby, and she protected it like a mama carnasoid.
“Let’s go, boss. The way to the stairs is open.”
Blackhawk nodded with a smile. It’s open because you hosed the whole area down with 12 mm rounds. Looking at the shattered wreckage of the casino floor, he remembered what a force of nature the Twins truly were in battle.
“All right, everybody, let’s get the hell out of here.” Blackhawk took a deep breath and hauled Aragona with him.
“I can carry him, boss.” Tarnan stood next to Blackhawk, reaching out his arms. “You look tired.”
Blackhawk almost laughed. “Yeah, Tarn, I’m pretty fucking tired.” The giant reached over and plucked Aragona from Blackhawk, throwing the Castillan over his shoulder like a rag doll.
They ran to the stairs and raced up to the fifth floor, ducking back as a burst of automatic fire shattered the glass wall and raked the landing just outside the stairwell.
“Fuck. There are at least a dozen guards out there, and they’re not firing those little popguns they had downstairs.” Blackhawk turned
back, looking toward the rest of his crew. They all had assault rifles now, courtesy of the Twins.
“We don’t have time for a firefight, Ark.” Ace was looking all around. “What do you have in those sacks, Tarq?” He’d just noticed the small bags hanging from the Twins’ shoulders.
“They’re flashers, sir. We got a dozen in each bag.”
Ace turned toward Blackhawk. “What do you think? Throw a dozen stunners out there and charge?” He stared at Blackhawk for a few seconds. “I don’t see any other options.”
Blackhawk took a deep breath and nodded. It was a desperate plan, but Ace was right. They didn’t have time. More guards would be coming any minute, and if they screwed around long enough, they’d have Castillan army units on their asses too.
“Let’s do it.” He turned back toward the crew. “Everybody take two. We throw on my command, and then we charge ahead, firing full. Got it?”
They all nodded, and the Twins handed out the grenades. Blackhawk reached back and took two himself.
“Okay, one right after the other . . . then charge.” He took a deep breath. “Now!”
He pulled the pin on the first grenade and threw it out onto the terrace beyond, followed immediately by the second one. Then he lunged forward, firing his assault rifle on full auto as he ran through the shattered picture window and out into the cold Castillan night.
CHAPTER 3
THE EXPLOSIONS LIT THE INKY BLACK SKY, EACH BLAST BRIEFLY turning the moonless night to day. The valley was filled with fire, the growing conflagration of war destroying everything in its path, leaving nothing but charred ruins to attest that men had once lived amid these rolling hills and gentle plains. The battle had been raging for weeks now, without pause, without mercy. Rykara was a planet scourged by the hell of war.
Arias Callisto stared at the nightmare laid out before him. He had not expected the enemy to put up such a fight. Rykara had been a divided planet, ruled by a squabbling class of hereditary lords eternally at war with one another. By the standards of a Prime world like Celtiboria, it was a backwater, its strength and technology no match for the invaders.
Callisto had expected to topple Rykara’s petty fiefdoms and secure the planet in a few weeks. It had been four months now, and despite being reinforced twice, he was still battling his stubborn foes. The light casualties he’d expected had grown into catastrophic losses, and many of his lead units were down to 50 percent strength. His soldiers were the hardest veterans in the Far Stars, forged in the furnace of Celtiboria’s wars—in the endless, brutal battles it had taken to unite that great world. Now they were dying in the thousands, at the hands of an enemy they had expected to sweep away.
Callisto was shocked by the status of the stalemated campaign—and ashamed. One of Augustin Lucerne’s top commanders, Callisto was a man who had fought for almost thirty years at the great marshal’s side, and his history was one of victory, his sword among the most reliable serving Lucerne.
Until he arrived on Rykara.
The lords he’d expected to find fractured and struggling against one another were instead united into a single power bloc, prepared for war and focused as one against the invaders. Their old and unreliable weapons had been replaced with modern arms, equipment, and technology far beyond anything Rykaran industry could produce. Indeed, much of the enemy ordnance was more advanced than the equipment used by the Celtiborians. Clearly, someone had aided the natives and prepared them to face the expeditionary force. He’d wondered at first if it could be the empire, but then he put the thought out of his mind. There had been nothing but ineffectual governors on Galvanus Prime since his grandfather had been a boy. And this was serious intervention, not the passing efforts of some imperial peacock sent to the edge of civilization for not bowing low enough in the emperor’s presence. Still, he couldn’t think of anyone else it could be . . .
His soldiers fought on, ignoring their losses and the superior weapons of their enemies. They were Augustin Lucerne’s warriors, the proudest army in the Far Stars. Not many could claim to be their equals. But on Rykara they were outnumbered and dependent on a tenuous supply line stretching back to Celtiboria. When the expected quick victory failed to materialize, the impact of their weak logistics moved from problematic to critical. The longer the battle went on, the worse the situation would become. Celtiborian resources were already stretched thin, supporting wars of liberation—or conquest, depending on point of view—on almost a dozen worlds. Callisto knew time wasn’t his ally, and so he did the only thing he could: he pushed his forces even harder.
The people of Rykara might not have liked their lords, but the Celtiborians were still the invaders, and the people were too downtrodden and uneducated to understand that Callisto’s soldiers had come not to enslave them but to free them from oppression. And while the Celtiborians had no desire to kill any of the Rykaran peasants, without the ability to convince them they were liberators, they were forced to shoot them down in the thousands.
Captain Darius ran up the small hill toward Callisto. “Sir, Brigadier Orestes reports his forces have taken Lusania and now occupy the city and its environs. The surviving enemy forces are retreating toward the Olsyrus Mountains in considerable disorder.” The aide’s enthusiasm was tempered, understated. Both of them knew just how many casualties Orestes’s troops had sustained in their triumph.
“Please send Brigadier Orestes my congratulations.” Callisto knew he should call his subordinate himself, but he needed a little time. Time to absorb the magnitude of his army’s ordeal—and to convince himself this was a victory. Orestes was a good officer, and he deserved his commander’s heartfelt thanks, but Callisto didn’t know if he was capable of that. Not yet.
He didn’t blame Orestes for the losses. He doubted even Marshal Lucerne himself could have won Lusania at a lower cost. But those were still his soldiers out there, and a lot of them were dead or mangled in the field hospitals. If fighting at the side of Marshal Lucerne for three decades had taught Callisto anything, it was never to forget the common soldiers. Generals were prone to blindness toward the suffering their campaigns caused, to the misery of the men they commanded, seeking only personal glory and justifying any amount of pain and suffering with victory.
Officers like that didn’t last long in Lucerne’s army.
Callisto knew his first stop. He was going to visit the field hospitals to pay his respects. He owed them nothing less, miserable tribute that it was.
Then he would go to Orestes’s headquarters. He’d known Ravenna Orestes for a long time, and he suspected the brigadier would be as uncomfortable accepting accolades now as Callisto would be offering them. If there was one thing Augustin Lucerne had pounded into his officers, it was humility, to appreciate and respect the common soldiers, the ones who fought the battles and died in the trenches and the blood-soaked fields.
Callisto walked slowly down the hillside, his mind focused on the battle now entering its final stages. He knew the fight on Rykara would soon be over, but he felt no satisfaction.
There is no glory here. Only death and the heavy burden of duty.
“Marshal Lucerne, I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but we have new reports from Rykara and Nordlingen.” The aide stood in the doorway, clad in the absurd red-and-gold uniform the advisory council had mandated for senior staff. His voice was tentative. Like most of Lucerne’s people since the completion of the conquest, he tiptoed around the marshal like a supplicant fearful of offending. He leaned through the open door, peering cautiously toward Lucerne.
The marshal was lying on the simple cot he’d brought in to replace the ornate bed the master of the household had chosen for him. After a lifetime in the field, he couldn’t sleep a wink in the plush softness of a nobleman’s bedding. His eyes were open, and he was staring up at the ceiling.
“I wasn’t asleep, Colonel.” And if I was, it wouldn’t matter. I’ve told you all a hundred times I want to be informed when any news comes in no matter what I am doing. W
hy do you all act like I’m going to strike you down for waking me up or interrupting a meal?
Lucerne disliked the subservience of the civilian staff, but he understood it at least. To them he was a bloody conqueror, the man who’d crushed the brutal warlords who had ruled Celtiboria for centuries. Millions had died in Lucerne’s wars, and their shadows hung over all he did. He was the unquestioned master of the most populous world in the Far Stars, and all but a scant handful of men and women who breathed the air of that planet were afraid of him.
But Colonel Artemis Cross wasn’t a civilian. He wasn’t just an adjutant. He was a seasoned combat leader with twenty years’ experience in the field. He’d been neck deep in the blood and death of Lucerne’s campaigns, and he’d served with valor and distinction. And now he hovers around me like some ancient priest meekly begging favor from the gods. What have I created?
Lucerne could tolerate the foolish worship from new recruits if he had to, but since the war on Celtiboria had been won, even the hardened veterans stared at him with that stupid look on their faces. He’d shared foxholes with some of those men, eaten rancid beans in the icy rain with them—and now they acted as if he’d descended from the heavens amid a shower of light. It was driving him mad, but expressing his discontent only threw them into a stronger wave of supplication. His men would face any danger at his command, carry out any order, no matter how difficult or dangerous, but the slightest sign of disapproval from him broke down even the most grizzled veteran.
He’d learned to hold his tongue and try to ignore it all. He wanted to be respected by his men, of course, but he had always thought of himself as one of them. The near worship made him extremely uncomfortable. Though it has its uses, too.
“Report, Colonel.”
“Sir, General Callisto advises that his forces have broken the last major Rykaran stronghold. They have captured the city of Lusania and pushed the remaining enemy formations into the planet’s undeveloped areas.”
