by Jay Allan
Blackhawk was a coldly decisive man, with an almost inhuman ability to analyze facts and commit to a course of action. But this time he didn’t know what to do. The young Arkarin Blackhawk had been calculating—and brutal—capable of doing whatever got the job done without concern for consequences or cost. And his crew was pulled together with people who knew the inherent risks in this line of work. But this would be different than going into a fight together, where one of his commands might lead to a crew member’s death. No, this time Blackhawk would be giving the order that killed Ace. He might not actually pull a trigger, but he’d be murdering his friend all the same.
Failure to jump prior to engagement reduces the chance of escaping the system from 99.2 percent to less than 50 percent. Each additional minute’s delay after entering combat range correlates to a further 0.75 percent reduction in survival probability.
Yes, Blackhawk thought back, not doubting Hans’s predictive capability. But if we jump now, Ace will die.
Jason Graythorn is one man. There are currently fourteen crew and one prisoner on Wolf’s Claw. Logic dictates a clear choice.
Fuck logic and fuck you. Blackhawk knew the computer implanted in his head was right, but he just couldn’t accept it. The younger version of himself would have pitied—and loathed—his indecisiveness, but that just made them even, because Blackhawk hated his past self, and he’d sworn never to become that again.
All I can do now is try to buy us all a little more time.
He pressed one of the buttons next to the comm unit. “Shira, Tarq: I want you both sharp. We may have some fighting to do after all.”
“We’re ready, Ark.” Shira’s voice was unemotional, as usual, but Blackhawk could hear the relief there, too. Ace and Shira sparred constantly, but Blackhawk knew she’d rather fight the devil himself than run away at the cost of her crewmate’s life.
Well, we’re about to enter hell . . .
“You are commanded to power down immediately and surrender. Failure to obey will result in immediate attack.” The voice on the comm dripped with arrogance. Castillan commanders had the Claw bracketed and outnumbered, and they knew it.
Shira sat in her turret, watching the enemy ships approach on the 3-D display projected all around her. Her hands were on the laser controls, ready to fire as soon as the targets moved into range—and the captain gave the word.
She listened quietly, waiting for Blackhawk’s response. She knew he’d try to buy time, but she doubted it would do any good. The Claw’s captain was a gifted bullshitter when necessity arose, but the crew had snatched one of the Castillans’ most powerful lords, shooting up half a major city in the process. They had to be pissed.
“This is the free trader Wolf’s Claw, on a private flight plan, bound for Vanderon. You have no authority to . . .”
“You are a rogue vessel, and you have kidnapped Oligarch Aragona. You will yield immediately, or we will open fire.”
Bullshit. You’re nowhere close to being in range with your popguns. On the other hand, the Claw’s laser turrets are effective out to a hundred thousand kilometers. Shira took a deep breath. If Ark gave the word quickly enough, she’d have maybe two minutes before the enemy could respond to her fire. She had to do as much damage as possible before the fight became two-sided.
She heard a staticky sound as the Castillans cut the connection. They were playing this to the hilt, but she knew they had to be careful. If they wanted Aragona back, they were going to have to disable the Claw, not destroy it.
She’d be under no such restrictions.
C’mon, Ark. I know you don’t want to fire first, but it’s the only option. She gripped the firing controls tightly, watching the plotting display. They’d be in range soon, and if they didn’t open up, they’d squander their only advantage. Ark . . .
“Shira, Tarq . . .” She could hear the resignation in Blackhawk’s voice. He paused and sighed softly. “Open fire as soon as we’re in range. Target enemy ships as soon as they come into your firing arcs.” Another pause. “And try to disable them, not blast them to atoms.”
A feral smile grew on Shira’s face. She wasn’t as reluctant as the captain to resort to violence. The Castillans shot Ace—she didn’t even know if he was going to survive. As far as she was concerned, the crew of the Claw had a score to settle.
She watched silently as the closest enemy vessel slipped into range. She closed her eyes, concentrating as the targeting system projected the display directly into her brain. She turned off her other thoughts, focusing, feeling the triple laser turret as if it was part of her, another arm or leg.
She felt her hands tighten, her finger brushing against the firing stud. Another second or two . . .
She pulled the trigger, watching a projection of the shot lancing through space, slamming into the image of the enemy vessel. She felt the elation she always did when she scored a hit, and she waited for the AI to complete the damage assessment while her guns recharged. An instant later, the projection disappeared in a bright flash.
“Nice shooting, Shira, but what happened to disabling them?” Blackhawk’s voice seemed hollow, distant. Shira had surrendered herself completely to the neural targeting system, and outside stimuli had to fight to penetrate.
“Sorry, Ark.” That’s a lie, and he knows it. “I must have hit their reactor. These Castillan ships are piles of junk.”
“Well, try to cool it, Shira. Let’s try to cut down on the body count for once.”
“Got it, Cap.” Her attention snapped back to the tactical display. Her guns would be charged and ready to fire again in ten seconds, and she needed another target.
She fired again, another hit. This time the ship survived, but it stopped accelerating. She must have taken out the engines. There were half a dozen vessels moving into range, and in another minute they’d be firing back. She pulled the trigger again. And again. Two more hits, but the targets kept coming, accelerating toward the Claw.
The ship shook hard, and alarms started to sound. The one-sided fight was over.
Shira locked her thoughts on her target, firing again, but the Claw shuddered a second time, and her shot went wide.
Fuck.
Four enemy ships were firing on the Claw now, approaching from three different trajectories. If they managed to score a solid hit and knock out the hyperdrive, that would be the end. The Claw would put up a tremendous fight, but there were almost thirty enemy vessels in the hunt now. Eventually, they’d pound her into a floating hulk. Then they’d come for Aragona. Shira promised herself she’d put a bullet in the fucker before anybody boarded the Claw. One last act of defiance before death.
Suddenly, the comm crackled to life. “Ark, it’s Doc. I just got Ace all stitched up. He looks like shit, but he’s out of danger. You can get us out of here whenever you’d like. Now would be good.”
Shira felt a wave of relief. She could hear the exhaustion in Doc’s voice, but also the satisfaction. He wasn’t the cutting edge of the Claw’s combat power by any measure, but Rolf Sandor carried his weight and more. Shira would never admit it, least of all to Ace himself, but she’d been scared to death they were going to lose him. For all the caustic friction that sometimes crackled between them, deep down, she thought of the pompous windbag as an older brother. She owed Doc a big wet kiss.
“All right, everybody. Hang on to something. Shutting down all systems. Hyperjump in one minute. Shira, Tarq, get the hell out of the turrets!”
Shira popped the hatch and shimmied through the access tube. She was halfway back to her chair when the lights went dim, and she felt the familiar feeling, like a hundred small electrical shocks all over her body. The Claw had jumped. They were out of the Castilla system.
CHAPTER 5
KERGEN VOS STARED ACROSS THE TABLE AT HIS GUEST. “SO YOU are telling me that the Far Stars Bank has hired Arkarin Blackhawk and his people on multiple occasions. That he is indeed on a mission for the bank even as we speak?” He was calm, his tone pleas
ant as he spoke. His eyes flitted to the side for an instant, flashing a brief glance toward Mak Wilhelm before returning his gaze to the nervous man sitting across the table.
“Yes, Your Excellency. Blackhawk is extremely reliable. The bank has utilized him for dealing with . . . ah . . . troublesome clients before. Cases of fraud mostly, where the bank felt it was necessary to set an example.” The man sitting across from Vos wore a perfectly tailored suit made from Troyan silk. Vos could only guess at its price, but he had a pretty good idea his bribes had paid for it.
Trayn Ballock was an executive at the Far Stars Bank, fairly junior in rank, but fortunate enough to work in the chairman’s office. That fortuitous positioning had opened another door, one to an even more lucrative, though dangerous opportunity, and now the banker had another role: informant for Vos.
The governor suspected Chairman Vargas wasn’t a pleasant man to those who failed him—that he was cold and unforgiving to those who fell from favor. The politics at an entity as large and powerful as the Far Stars Bank tended to be rough. Still, he wondered if Ballock truly understood how much more serious the game had become for him. Vargas might fire him for a failure, even blacklist him and drive him to one of the backwater worlds along the Rim if he was displeased. But Kergen Vos would feed him to a pack of starving carnasoids a centimeter at a time and consider himself merciful.
Vos had ensnared the fool through greed, an ancient and reliable tool of the trade. The payout had been a hundred thousand platinum crowns to start, with the promise of much more if he proved his worth.
Wilhelm had suggested starting with a lower figure, holding back the truly large sums until Ballock had displayed his usefulness. But Vos knew the easiest way to cultivate an asset’s avarice was to give him a true taste of wealth. Most men could only look so far above themselves, and the surest way to make them crave more was to give them all they wanted. Invariably, the taste of luxury and power became the most addictive of drugs and ensnared the target, creating an insatiable lust for more. Possessing all they had once desired, they would take ever greater risks and engage in more blatant treachery to satisfy their new cravings. They would become slaves to their paymaster.
Now it was time to back up bribery with its even stronger cousin: fear. Trayn Ballock needed not only a taste of the rewards to come, but also to understand the cost of failure. “Are you aware that I have placed a price on the head of Arkarin Blackhawk?” Vos’s tone was calm, but there was an undercurrent of menace there too.
“No, Lord Governor, I wasn’t.” Ballock fidgeted nervously. Vos suspected the banker was indeed aware of the bounty.
“It is one million imperial crowns. A substantial sum, wouldn’t you say?”
Ballock’s eyes widened. “To say the least, Lord Governor. I imagine every bounty hunter and freelance mercenary in the Far Stars is after Blackhawk.”
“It is fortunate for you then, is it not?” Vos stared at his guest. He reached under the table and pressed a small button.
“For me, Lord Governor?” Ballock paused, an uncertain look on his face. “I’m afraid I do not understand.”
“It is fortuitous that you are in a position to deliver Arkarin Blackhawk to me. I had not imagined our new relationship bearing such fruit so quickly.” A door at the far side of the room opened, and a man stepped through and walked toward the table.
Ballock looked briefly behind him at the sound of the door before turning back toward Vos. “Lord Governor . . . I, um, appreciate your confidence, but Blackhawk is on a special mission for the chairman; I’m afraid I do not have the authority to intervene.”
“Allow me to introduce my associate, Mr. Ballock.” Vos looked up at the new arrival with a grin. “This is Sebastien Alois de Villeroi, one of my most trusted associates.”
Villeroi nodded. “Thank you, Governor.” He turned to face the nervous banker. “Mr. Ballock.” His tone was devoid of emotion.
Vos smiled. “Lord Villeroi is . . . how shall I put this . . . a specialist. He handles particular situations, often involving those who have failed to follow through on their promises to me.” Vos let the smile slip off his face as he watched Ballock. He could see Villeroi was having his usual unsettling effect. The operative’s words and expressions were utterly unremarkable, but there was something about the man that made people nervous. And Vos could see Villeroi was definitely getting to Ballock.
The banker fidgeted nervously. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Villeroi.” His tone suggested it was anything but.
“You are aware of the recent coup on Kalishar, are you not?” Vos knew Ballock was well aware of what happened at Kalishar. Indeed, the bank had just recognized Rax Florin as ka’al and in return, the new ruler had renewed the existing charters, assuring the bank a continued monopoly on formal financial transactions.
“Yes . . . of course.” Ballock’s voice was confused, uncertain. “May I ask what that has to do with our topic of discussion?”
Vos smiled. “Nothing directly. I just thought you might be interested in how the transition of power on Kalishar took place—and how the previous ka’al perished.” The imperial governor stared across the table. Ballock squirmed.
“You see, Mr. Ballock, the ka’al was an ally of mine, much like yourself. He took my coin and made great promises to me.” Vos paused, just for an instant, and then he leaned in across the table, bringing his face closer to Ballock. “But he failed me, Trayn. He failed me badly. I gave him a second chance, but to no avail. Lord Villeroi was compelled to defend my interests.” He turned and looked to the side, at the grim-faced man standing at attention next to the table. “Perhaps, Lord Villeroi, you could provide some details on how the ka’al met his . . . ah . . . unfortunate demise.”
“Certainly, Excellency.” Villeroi turned and focused on the extremely uncomfortable-looking Ballock. “Unfortunately, the ka’al left us no choice in how to proceed. We asked very little of him, yet he spurned our requests. He had approached us in friendship, but he failed to act as a friend. As I’m sure you know, Kalishar is a brutal world in many ways, and the prospects of a peaceful transition were scant. Civil strife would have caused considerable suffering among the populace. We were compelled to take action of greater . . . finality.”
Villeroi leaned down and opened a small box sitting on the floor next to Vos. “Meet the former ka’al, Mr. Ballock, so you may understand the price of failure.” Villeroi extended his hand.
Ballock gasped. The imperial agent held a skull.
“Sadly, the ka’al’s death was not a good one. I fear that years of soft living had drained away the toughness of his pirate days, leaving a rather weak man. His demise was a slow and unpleasant one, and he screamed like a wailing infant the entire time. Unpleasant business all around.” Villeroi’s expression suggested he considered it anything but.
Ballock stared at the smile on Villeroi’s face, and he began to shake uncontrollably. He turned his head toward Vos, his eyes wide with shock and fear.
“So, my good Mr. Ballock . . . shall we discuss Arkarin Blackhawk once again?”
“Do you think we can rely on Trayn Ballock?” Mak Wilhelm asked. He sat across the small table from Kergen Vos. The two were sharing a late dinner as they had most nights during the past few months. Operations were under way throughout the sector, and it seemed there was never enough time to properly manage it all. Vos had secured generous financial resources from the emperor, but he was always short of reliable personnel. And the disaster with the ka’al demonstrated the risk of counting on lesser retainers.
After the unification of Celtiboria and the debacle of Astra Lucerne’s kidnapping, Vos had accelerated all plans. What he had hoped to accomplish in five years now had to be done in two. There was little choice. The past six months had seen the Celtiborians begin their wars of unification on a massive scale. The imperial forces were running out of time. If Vos didn’t oppose Lucerne’s efforts and at least delay his progress, he faced the prospect of dealing w
ith a Far Stars that would be at least partially united. That would make his plans vastly more difficult.
“Certainly not.” Vos poked his knife at the slices of white meat on his plate, but didn’t eat. The Turanian pheasant was a delicacy. It commanded a king’s ransom even within the borders of the empire proper; imported across the hazards of the Void it was almost beyond price. He should have been savoring the delicate flavors, but, of late, Vos found that the mix of incompetent allies and enemies as capable as Marshal Lucerne tended to exert a suppressive effect on his appetite. He’d lost almost ten kilos since he’d taken the governor’s scepter, despite his habit of importing the very best foodstuffs the empire had to offer.
He’d been pushing the pheasant around his plate for the last ten minutes, but now he set his utensils down and looked across the table at his closest adviser. “Ballock is a weak man and an unreliable asset. But as before, I am at a loss for options. Our trustworthy personnel are already stretched thin. We must make do with the resources we have available.” He paused for a few seconds, relishing the image of Ballock’s panic-stricken face as he hurried back to his ship. “But we will no longer hesitate to use fear as a motivator. We coddled the ka’al for far too long, and we suffered the consequences of that tolerance. Had he been sufficiently focused earlier, he might have paid more attention to detail, and Blackhawk and his people would have been killed on Kalishar instead of escaping with Astra Lucerne.”
“Well, Ballock is as motivated as fear can make him.” Wilhelm was a serious man, but Vos could hear the amusement in his voice. “I suspect he required a change of pants by the time he got back to his ship.”
“Ballock is an insect. A valuable one, but not central to our plans to neutralize Blackhawk. If he is able to arrange a trap, that will be a bonus. But the bounty we have offered should bear fruit. The Far Stars sector is full of too many desperate men, and a promise of one million crowns should entice all of them.” He looked down at his food and picked up his fork. He paused before spearing a piece of pheasant. “I suspect Blackhawk and his people are more capable than most, but numbers will tell in the end. He and his little band will be hunted down and overcome. There is no other outcome I can foresee.”
