Enemy in the Dark

by Jay Allan

  “What are you talking about?” Ace’s voice was soft, barely a whisper, and he spoke slowly, deliberately, forcing painful words from his parched throat. “Never felt better.”

  Blackhawk smiled. Ace was full of shit again. That was the last indicator, the sign he’d been looking for. Now he knew the fool was going to pull through. The day his sidekick could stay serious for more than a minute he would know they were in real trouble. “So what the hell was that, you moron? You thought you could take all of them on yourself?”

  “You got hit, Ark.” Ace turned his head slowly, painfully. “I had to take over . . . and I knew what you would do . . .”

  Blackhawk hid a wince. He didn’t like to think of his friend almost dying trying to emulate him. He knew Ace was right, but he didn’t want his people following his example, because they didn’t have the advantages he had. Blackhawk had all his enhancements, physical capabilities none of his crew could match. And then there were years of experience doing things they couldn’t even dream of. Most important, though, Blackhawk didn’t fear death. Indeed, there was a part of him, where the guilt and self-loathing lived, he suspected would welcome it. He could do things because the consequences meant nothing to him.

  He never wanted his people to think that way.

  “Well,” Blackhawk said, changing the subject, “Doc was able to put you back together, so I guess we both owe him a debt of gratitude.”

  Ace moved his head slightly, the closest he could come to a nod. “It feels like he smashed my chest with a sledgehammer.” His tone changed slightly, a bit of disbelief creeping in. “I’m surprised you’re not in a bed next to me. I know you got hit.”

  Blackhawk nodded. “Yes, I caught a round. It was just a flesh wound. Doc patched it up after he finished with you.” It had been considerably more than a flesh wound, but it hadn’t hit anything vital. It was still a little tender, but his recuperative powers had already begun their magic, and he was half healed. “You’ll feel better soon, Ace. Doc told me you’re past the worst.”

  “Easy for him to say,” Ace croaked. “It feels like he did a little dance inside my chest.”

  “I’m sure it does, but I promise you’ll feel better soon,” he repeated. “He told me you’ll be up and around in a couple days . . . and causing trouble not long after.”

  “Me? Cause trouble. Never.” He forced a smile. “Are we on the way to Vanderon? Kat told me we got Aragona out. So mission completed. Again.” His voice was still weak, but there was satisfaction there too. Ace liked to win. At cards, in the field—anywhere.

  “Well . . . we do have him. He’s sitting in the brig now, no doubt pondering just how dark his future looks.” Blackhawk allowed himself a grin. “I worked him over pretty well. I think he’ll feel lucky if we don’t sell him for parts on the black market.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “What?”

  Ace simply raised an eyebrow. Blackhawk sighed.

  “Fine.” He paused. He hadn’t intended to get into anything this serious until Ace had gotten some more rest, but he realized his inquisitive friend wasn’t about to let the subject drop, so he reluctantly decided to bring him up to date. “You were in the Grand Palais, so you don’t know why we changed the plan at the last minute. We were outside Aragona’s estate, and we saw a troop convoy pull up to the grounds.”

  Ace took a raspy breath. “Too much firepower to break in? Is that why you went with the backup plan?”

  “Partially. Maybe. But there’s more to it than that. The convoy had some serious firepower, yes. High-tech armored vehicles, top-of-the-line weapons.” He paused. “Imperial ordnance.”

  Ace turned his head abruptly, wincing at the pain as he did. “Imperial? You’re sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  Ace just nodded silently. Finally, he said, “First Saragossa. Then Castilla.” Ace paused, struggling to take in another deep breath. “What’s going on, Ark?”

  “I don’t know. Once could be a freak event. Twice is something else. If the empire is starting some kind of move against the Far Stars, we have some dark days ahead, my friend.” He sighed softly. “Aragona didn’t know much. He had a contact, a man he knew only as Tiger. This Tiger offered him enough support to effect a coup and to assume the sole rule of Castilla. Aragona was suspicious at first. He’s not smart, but he’s not an imbecile, either. But Tiger delivered a shipment of high-tech weapons, stuff so advanced Aragona’s greed overcame his caution. He was hooked.”

  “You think this Tiger was an imperial agent?” Ace looked exhausted, but he was focused like a laser on Blackhawk.

  “Yes, I do. This is exactly how the imperials would begin a move against the sector: by backing local warlords, establishing puppet regimes through clandestine support.”

  Ace closed his eyes for a few seconds. Blackhawk wanted to let him rest, but he knew Ace wouldn’t let him until he had brought him up to date.

  “Maybe he’s just a smuggler who managed to get some imperial stuff across the Void,” Ace suggested.

  Blackhawk shook his head. “No, that doesn’t make any more sense than it did on Saragossa. Do you have any idea what that ordnance is worth? Imagine what Marshal Lucerne would have paid for it, even to keep it out of an enemy’s hands. Castilla isn’t quite the forgotten backwater Saragossa is, but there must be fifty planets that could have paid more for a weapons cache like that. What smuggler turns his back on a fortune to sell to some middling racketeer on an unimportant planet?

  “No, it has to be from the imperials themselves. And in a way, it makes sense. If Lucerne has to scramble all over the periphery planets to maintain order, when will he have time to consolidate the core?”

  Ace lay quietly for a few seconds. Finally, he turned his head slowly and said, “You’re right, Ark. But what do we do now? The bank’s expecting us to deliver Aragona. We have a reputation for getting the job done.”

  “I don’t know if Aragona’s going to be any use to us or not in tracking down whatever imperials are operating in the sector. He says he didn’t know anything and that his contact did not ask anything of him except to move quickly to seize power. The coup was scheduled for two days after we snatched him. So the oligarchs on Castilla owe us a favor, though they don’t know it. I doubt Aragona’s lieutenants were able to pull off the coup without him. And I don’t imagine they could hide the preparations forever, either. I suspect things are about to get a little hairy on Castilla. If they haven’t already.”

  “Hopefully that pompous shit who thought he’d fleece me at cards while Aragona screwed my wife is sitting in a Castillan prison cell. Or worse.”

  “Probably.” Blackhawk smiled. Ace always put priorities first, but the Claw’s captain knew letting Cordoba win at poker was still gnawing at his friend.

  “So what are we going to do, Ark?”

  Blackhawk took a deep breath. “Well, you’re going to get some rest now.” He paused. “And we’re going to find out exactly what is going on . . . somehow.”

  “Launch the drone.” Blackhawk leaned back in his chair. His side still hurt, but it was more soreness than serious pain.

  “Launching.” Lucas pressed a button on his workstation. “It’s away.”

  The hypercomm drone was a sophisticated piece of equipment, a communications device with its own miniature hyperdrive. Such drones were enormously expensive and very difficult to acquire. Blackhawk had a small supply of them, mostly for emergencies, but he was expending this one to pull off a bit of subterfuge. Arragonzo Aragona was safely stowed in the Claw’s brig, but Blackhawk wanted to keep that a secret for now. The drone was en route to Vanderon, carrying a communiqué to the Far Stars Bank Executive Directorate, a report stating that Aragona had slipped through Blackhawk’s trap and disappeared.

  It was a gamble lying to the bank, but it was a chance Blackhawk was prepared to take. His people had done a number of jobs for the massive institution, all of them highly successful. He expected them to take the rep
ort in stride and to accept his assurance that he was still on the job and confident of ultimate success. That would buy some time, at least, though he couldn’t be sure how much. Castilla had been two days from a planned coup d’état when the Claw blasted off and made a run for it. They’d been three days in space since, and he had no idea what had happened since they’d made their run for it. If the bank had spies on Castilla, they might report back that Aragona was missing. Still, that wouldn’t contradict his story, not directly at least. It was reasonable to assume a scared Aragona might go into hiding after a botched kidnapping attempt.

  “I don’t know if Aragona is worth anything to us anyway. I’m inclined to believe he doesn’t know anything more.” He wondered again if he should just turn the Castillan over to the bank. If he didn’t know anything, there was no real reason to keep him. He might report Blackhawk and the Claw to his imperial contact, but there was very little chance Aragona would ever leave Vanderon anyway. He’d stolen millions, a blatant fraud that made the bank look foolish. The Far Stars Bank could afford a few losses here and there, but its directors could never tolerate a scam that sapped their reputation for skillful finance—and brutal toughness. Aragona was as good as dead if he set foot on Vanderon.

  No, we will hold on to him for now. He may yet prove useful.

  “The drone’s course checks out, Skip. It should get to Vanderon in about a week.” Lucas spun around on his chair and looked over at Blackhawk. “So where to now, Skip?”

  Blackhawk opened his mouth . . . then closed it again. He had no idea. He was sure the empire was involved, but Aragona’s lack of knowledge left them with no direct leads.

  “I don’t know, Lucas. Maybe I should work Aragona over again. Maybe he knows something more than what he told me.” Unfortunately, he didn’t actually believe that.

  The Klaxon sounded and Lucas’s head whipped back to his board. “Contact, Skip. Emerging from hyperspace at 120,000 kilometers, coordinates 201.332.181.”

  Blackhawk tapped the comm unit. “Shira, Tarq . . . get to the turrets. We’ve got an unidentified contact.” He had no idea if the incoming vessel was hostile, but he’d found it to be much healthier to assume everything was an enemy until it proved otherwise.

  “Got it, Cap.” Shira’s voice was crisp, alert. She never sounded tired or distracted. Blackhawk used to wonder when she rested, but he’d long ago decided she didn’t sleep any more than he did. An hour here, an hour there. It was all the ghosts allowed him. And apparently Shira, too.

  Tarq’s response came half a minute later, and it was clear he’d awakened the giant. The Twins didn’t have any trouble sleeping. Waking up was definitely more of a challenge.

  “Lucas, got an ID yet?”

  “No, Skip. Their identification beacons aren’t broadcasting.”

  Blackhawk exhaled. That wasn’t a good sign. “Shira, you in yet?” They weren’t in laser range, but Blackhawk wanted to be ready for whatever was going to happen.

  “Climbing in now, Cap. We’ll be charged and ready before they’re in range.” Shira’s voice was harsh, predatory. Blackhawk knew, as always, she was ready to fight.

  “It looks like a frigate, Skip.” Lucas’s voice was subdued. The Claw was a tough ship, and its weapons had a hell of a bite, but a frigate was a tough opponent. Probably more than they could handle, even with Lucas at the controls and Shira manning the guns.

  I’d give us maybe one in four odds.

  One in five is more accurate.

  Thanks.

  “We’ve got communications incoming.” Lucas was staring at the screen as he spoke.

  “Put it on speaker, Lucas.”

  “. . . repeat, please identify yourselves. This is the Celtiborian frigate Aquillus. Are you Wolf’s Claw?”

  Blackhawk felt a wave of relief, but it was short-lived. He was glad the ship was not an enemy, but he couldn’t think of any good news that would have caused Marshal Lucerne to send his ships out looking for the Claw.

  The captain nodded over toward Lucas, who flipped a switch and nodded back.

  “This is Arkarin Blackhawk on the vessel Wolf’s Claw. Greetings, Aquillus.” He paused for an instant. “What can we do for you?”

  “Wolf’s Claw just jumped, sir. It appears to be following the Celtiborian vessel.”

  Cedric Kandros turned and stared at the pilot. His greasy hair was long and gray, and it hung about his timeworn face in large tangled hanks. He was a grizzled fighter, and he bore the scars of many battles, including the mark of one old wound that ran down his face, all the way to the side of his neck.

  Kandros was a smuggler and a mercenary, just like Blackhawk and his people. Indeed, he was one of Blackhawk’s rivals among that curious breed of disreputable but highly sought after adventurers. But this time he wasn’t competing with Wolf’s Claw to run guns or smuggle supplies to a redlined world. No, this time the competition with Blackhawk was far more direct—and personal.

  “Prepare to jump.” Kandros and his people had gotten to Castilla half a day too late. They’d found the planet in an uproar and martial law in effect. They’d had to shoot their way out of the spaceport to take off after Blackhawk.

  Cutting the red tape was how Kandros had referred to it.

  Kandros had managed to track down the Claw without being detected, no small feat considering the skill of Blackhawk’s people. He had no idea where Blackhawk had been planning to go next. He’d considered attacking the Claw in space, but he put that thought out of his mind almost immediately. He’d run into Blackhawk and his ship too many times, and he was well aware that the Claw was a hell of a lot more than she appeared to be. The pockmarked and peeling hull didn’t tell the whole story, and everybody knew Lucas Lancaster was damned near the best pilot in the Far Stars. No, Kandros knew his Iron Wind couldn’t take Blackhawk in space. He’d have to follow the Claw and make his move on the ground somewhere.

  “The hyperdrive will be powered up in three minutes, sir.” Starn Quintus was a good pilot, with decades of experience at the helm of ships like Iron Wind. He’d signed on with Kandros three years before, but he’d only been up against Wolf’s Claw once in that time.

  It wasn’t even close.

  The two ships had been racing with several others to get arms to the rebels on Persepon. There was a bonus for the first ship to deliver, double the normal rate, and it came down to Iron Wind and the Claw. But Lucas Lancaster flew circles around Quintus, and Blackhawk’s people won easily. Quintus had been angry at his defeat, but when Kandros told him that Lucas Lancaster was only twenty-five years old, the veteran pilot flew into an apoplectic rage. From that day on, Quintus hated the Claw’s pilot with an irrational passion, which was all the more inflamed by the fact that Lancaster didn’t even know who he was.

  For some reason, this always made Kandros smile.

  “Where are we going?” The pilot hadn’t even tried to get a tracer on the Claw. It was hard enough to avoid detection just sitting dead in space.

  “I didn’t know, Starn. I was trying to think like Blackhawk, to reason out where he would go. But I couldn’t come up with anything. Not until that Celtiborian frigate showed up.” He turned toward the pilot. “Set a course for Celtiboria’s system.”

  “Celtiboria?” Quintus’s voice was heavy with concern. “But there’s a death sentence on us on Celtiboria. And Lucerne’s navy will be all over the place.”

  “I know that, Starn.” Kandros’s voice was deep, and his determination came through clearly. “But that’s where Blackhawk is going, and we’re going to get that bounty before someone else does.” A million imperial crowns was a king’s ransom, and Kandros couldn’t imagine why anyone would pay that much for the likes of Arkarin Blackhawk. But he was glad to take it—and settle a few old scores at the same time.

  “Bring us out of hyperspace in the outer system. We’ll lie low while Blackhawk does whatever business he has on Celtiboria, and then we’ll follow him when he leaves.”

  Quint
us nodded. “Yes, Captain.” He didn’t sound completely convinced, but he laid in the plot anyway. “All hands, we’re jumping in twenty seconds.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE SOLDIERS MOVED STEADILY THROUGH THE SMOLDERING wreckage, chasing the last of the Rykaran defenders, gunning them down in the streets and in the dark holes where they ran to hide. They took no prisoners, showed no mercy. The Celtiborian soldiers were well trained, but discipline had failed them amid the carnage and their desire for vengeance.

  Arias Callisto stood in the middle of a street covered with shattered glass and masonry. He wore a plain gray uniform, devoid of all insignia save the four stars on his shoulder. Augustin Lucerne had set the example for his commanders, and fancy uniforms and silver lace were reserved for parades and propaganda. In the field, a Celtiborian general dressed like the men he commanded, and he served in the blood-soaked mud alongside them.

  There were half a dozen vehicles along the sides of the street, two of them still burning, the others charred hulks. The city had been virtually destroyed in the fighting, and at least half its buildings were empty shells, the residences and workspaces they had once housed consumed by the fires. Callisto wondered how many of the former occupants had been inside when the flames ravaged the dying buildings. He hadn’t even begun to try to count the civilian casualties, but he knew they were heavy.

  It would be winter soon in the northern hemisphere, where most of the people lived. The Celtiborians had no shelters and barely enough food for themselves. He’d sent a request to Lucerne for humanitarian supplies, but he doubted they would arrive in time. He had no idea how he was going to manage, but he knew if he didn’t do something, millions of Rykarans would die. And that would cement their hatred for the Celtiborians and the Far Stars Confederation for generations to come.

  Callisto held a gun in his hands, an assault rifle of some kind. His men had been bringing them in, hundreds of them stripped from the enemy dead. Its stock was made from some strange carbonite material, but he’d never seen its like before. The weapon was superior to those his troops carried, with a higher rate of fire and a faster muzzle velocity. It fired strange projectiles, darts that flattened and spun wildly inside the target, doing massive tissue damage anywhere they struck. Despite the excellent medical services of his army, he’d had twice the rate of KIAs he’d expected.