Enemy in the Dark

by Jay Allan

  He walked down the street toward Ravenna Orestes’s command post. Orestes was technically fourth in command, but Callisto knew the brigadier was the most gifted officer in the expeditionary force, and he included himself in that calculus. Orestes commanded the elite Black Flag regiments of the army, units consisting only of veterans of five years or longer and intended to serve as the sharp edge of any attack. His units had served with great distinction, and they had paid the heaviest price.

  Callisto moved to the side, avoiding the spray of water from a severed main. The city was without water or power, and its infrastructure was in ruins. He wondered if it was even possible to repair the damage.

  It’s probably just easier to start again somewhere else.

  He saw the cluster of portable shelters just ahead, and he quickened his pace. He needed to speak with Brigadier Orestes, but he wanted to talk to the officer in person. And alone.

  The guards at the perimeter of the command post snapped to attention when they saw him approach. He was impressed how quickly they had recognized him, bedraggled as he was. But it didn’t surprise him: his men were the best. Being observant had kept them alive for many years.

  “At ease.” He waved his hand downward as he spoke. “Where is Brigadier Orestes?”

  “Straight ahead, sir. Third shelter on the right.” The soldier’s voice was sharp, crisp. He sounded as if he was on duty back on Celtiboria, not like a man who’d just come out of a nightmare. But Callisto knew the man had been in the line. All of Orestes’s men fought. Sentries, aides—everyone rotated in and out of the forward units. Marshal Lucerne’s armies had always had a high ratio of tooth to tail, but Orestes took the concept to an almost absurd extreme, embracing the notion that a combat soldier couldn’t truly respect a comrade who didn’t share at least some of the hardship and danger.

  “Very well.” Callisto snapped the sentry a salute. It wasn’t really appropriate since they were still technically in a combat zone. But Callisto knew the area had been swept for snipers, and he felt the trooper deserved the respect from his commanding officer.

  The startled soldier returned the gesture. The crispness of the guard’s salute created an amusing contrast with his filthy and battleworn appearance.

  Callisto walked briskly down the street, pausing in front of a pair of sentries standing outside a large shelter. The guards snapped to attention, and one of them turned to open the door. “General Callisto to see you, sir.”

  Callisto nodded and walked through the door. Ravenna Orestes was standing in the middle of the structure’s single room. There were half a dozen other officers engaged in various tasks.

  “Greetings, General.” Orestes bowed his head slightly. “We were not expecting you. This area is not entirely secure yet, sir. I don’t think you should be out by yourself without an esc—”

  “I’m fine, Brigadier. I’d like to speak with you about something.” Callisto panned his head around the room as he spoke. “Alone.”

  “Out. All of you. Now.” Orestes’s voice was firm, insistent, and everyone else in the room jumped to their feet and raced for the door.

  The brigadier watched as the last of his aides left, closing the door behind them. “Can I offer you something, sir? I’m afraid we don’t have much. Water? We may have some coffee left.”

  “No, thank you, Ravenna.” Callisto’s tone relaxed a bit now that they were alone. “I wanted to talk to you about something. I need your help.”

  “Of course, sir. Anything.” Orestes pulled a chair around from behind one of the desks, moving it toward Callisto. “What can I do?”

  Callisto tossed the assault rifle on the desk. It landed with a thud. “I’m worried about these, Ravenna. And the other high-tech weapons your people encountered.” He paused, sitting slowly. “We were up against more here than just the Rykarans, and we need to know what. Or, more accurately, who.”

  Orestes nodded, pulling around another chair and sitting down. “Yes, that is an important question, sir. Someone armed these people with some serious stuff . . . millions of crowns’ worth of very high-tech weapons.”

  “We need to know who.” Callisto’s tone was matter-of-fact. “And soon. So that’s your new mission: finding out how the Rykarans got these weapons.”

  Orestes sat quietly for a few seconds. “We need to find some of the Rykaran nobles, then. We’ve taken a lot of prisoners, but no one of consequence in their command structure. They must be hiding somewhere, if they haven’t managed to escape off-planet.”

  Castillo sighed. “That’s possible, but not likely.” The Celtiborian forces did not have a complete satellite network, so it wasn’t inconceivable that a few ships could have gotten off-planet undetected. But Admiral Suchet was blockading the system, so any escaping Rykaran lords would have had to launch undetected and also slip past Suchet’s ships. Again, not impossible, but not likely, either.

  “No, Orestes,” he concluded, “we have to go with the assumption that they’re still on Rykara somewhere, hiding. Find them. At least some of them. It’s the only way we’re going to find out where they got those weapons.”

  Orestes took a deep breath. “You’re right, sir.” He paused. “Unless someone has already gotten to them. I imagine whoever supplied the Rykarans wants to keep their identity a secret.”

  “I’m inclined to agree, Ravenna. Which is one reason I want you on this immediately.”

  “I will do all I can, sir.”

  “I know you will.” Callisto got up slowly and turned toward the door. He paused and looked back. “And, Ravenna . . . do whatever you feel is necessary. It is crucial that we discover who is behind this, so use any means to get the information you need.” His eyes locked on his subordinate’s. “Any means at all.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was a coldness in Ravenna Orestes’s voice, and Callisto knew the officer understood him perfectly.

  “Thank you for coming, Ark.” Augustin Lucerne walked up and threw his arms around Blackhawk. “It is good to see you, my old friend.”

  Blackhawk returned the embrace. “Of course, Augustin. When would I ever not come?”

  “I knew you would answer my call, but that doesn’t mean I can’t—and shouldn’t—appreciate it.” He turned and gestured toward a small table with two chairs. “Come, let’s sit and talk.”

  The orbital station was the new headquarters of Celtiboria’s space-based defense grid. It was a massive structure, over a kilometer in length, and its exterior bristled with weaponry. The levels above where they stood housed dozens of technicians, constantly monitoring scanner and communications panels, directing the operations of Lucerne’s spacefleets and standing guard over Celtiboria itself. Below were magazines and power plants and a series of launch bays housing four squadrons of interceptors, one of which was on alert at any given time.

  Newly operational, the station’s construction had been one of the first major projects implemented by Marshal Lucerne as he undertook the duties of Celtiboria’s head of state, and he’d poured enormous resources into it and its companion satellite arrays.

  It’s certainly impressive, Blackhawk thought.

  He nodded to his friend and walked toward the table, sliding into one of the black leather chairs. This level contained Lucerne’s offices and the reception rooms used to greet visiting dignitaries. The furnishings were lavish, the specifications for the public areas the work of Lucerne’s civilian staff and not his rough and rugged soldiers.

  “So what is troubling you, Augustin? Why did you wish to speak with me?” Blackhawk was concerned himself, and his mind was on Aragona and the situation on Castilla. But he had decided not to trouble Lucerne with that. The founding father of the Far Stars Confederation had his plate full already, and, besides, Blackhawk didn’t really know anything. He just had suspicions. He’d decided to focus on whatever Lucerne needed.

  “I remember you speaking of imperial weapons on Saragossa. Indeed, of a ship from the empire that delivered them.”

&n
bsp; Blackhawk shifted in his seat. Perhaps they were worried about the same thing. “Yes. It was definitely an imperial spy ship.” He glanced around the room, confirming they were alone. “You know I know, Augustin.”

  “Yes, Ark.” There was a deep weariness to Lucerne’s voice. “I know. That is why you are here. Because I know of no one with greater insight on such matters.”

  “Have you encountered such weapons? Elsewhere, I mean?” Blackhawk felt the tension in his knotted stomach. Saragossa, Castilla—and now Lucerne has encountered imperial weapons? The odds of coincidence were rapidly dwindling to zero.

  Lucerne reached behind him and opened a box. He pulled a dark shape out and dropped it on the table. “Is this familiar to you?”

  Blackhawk felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. “Yes. That’s an imperial Hellfire assault rifle. Standard issue to shock cohorts in their frontline legions.” His eyes drifted up toward Lucerne. “Where did you get it?”

  “Rykara. General Callisto sent it. It was one of maybe a hundred thousand used against my men.”

  Blackhawk could hear the anger in Lucerne’s voice. The marshal rarely lost his temper, at least openly. But Blackhawk had seen his rage once or twice, and he knew that the thought of thousands of his men dying because of weapons like this had Lucerne livid. Blackhawk had a good idea of how his friend would deal with whoever was behind supplying his enemies with the guns.

  “Imperial tech on Rykara.” Blackhawk’s voice was grim. “I just ran into weapons like this somewhere else, Augustin. On Castilla.”

  “It’s what I’ve feared.” Lucerne took a deep breath. “My people have run into stronger than expected resistance elsewhere, too. I don’t have the level of confirmation I do from Rykara, but my gut tells me we’ve run into these weapons on at least four worlds. That would be six planets in less than a year with highly advanced weapons that have no place on any of them.” He paused and stared at Blackhawk. “I need your input, Ark. What the hell is going on?”

  Blackhawk knew. He didn’t have any proof, but he was as sure as he’d ever been about anything. “This isn’t a case of the weapons being smuggled in by some sort of entrepreneur—it’s just too big, too widespread, and too directed. So it’s got to be the empire itself behind this, Augustin. Or at least this new imperial governor acting on his own.”

  Lucerne blinked and held his eyes closed for a beat. Blackhawk could see his friend had suspected the same thing. It was the worst possible answer. One of the other Primes—or even the guilds—would have been a problem, but the empire . . .

  “I need proof.” Lucerne opened his eyes and took a deep breath. “Real proof. Whatever is going on, whomever the empire is supporting, if we can bring it to light, they’ll all have to run for cover. The people of the Far Stars have lost their fear, but if they knew the empire was manipulating the affairs of free worlds, they’d get it back in a hurry. Anyone caught dealing with imperial agents would be dragged into the streets and slaughtered by the mobs.”

  Blackhawk was silent. He knew Lucerne was right. Any imperial plots would have to remain secretive, at least until they’d progressed much further. The inhabitants of the Far Stars might not regard the empire as a threat the way their ancestors had, but they couldn’t escape the fact that it was there, just across the Void. Imperial power and brutality was the stuff of legend, and it was only by virtue of the great starless dark that separated them that they’d been free for a millennium while the rest of humankind lived in servitude.

  “You want to expose their involvement.” It was a statement, not a question. “But that might be difficult. I know how imperial intelligence operates, Augustin, and by all accounts, this Kergen Vos was one of the agency’s best. It’s not going to be easy to catch one of his agents or tie him publicly to any of this.”

  “I know, Ark.” Lucerne had a sad look on his face, as if he regretted drawing his friend into the whole affair. “I also know this won’t be an easy path for you to tread. I fear it will reopen old wounds. But there is no one better prepared for it.”

  Blackhawk looked down at the floor and sighed. No one would ever call him a coward, but he was afraid now, dreading to dig too deeply into imperial affairs.

  As Lucerne noted, Arkarin Blackhawk was no stranger to the ways of the empire. Indeed, he had served it for many years, with a zeal and cold efficiency that he still remembered like it had been yesterday. Blackhawk had blood on his hands from those days, and he knew he always would. His crew knew nothing of his past, no specifics at least. In fact, no one in the Far Stars knew what he’d done. No one save the man sitting across the table from him.

  And now he was asking him to face the evil he had once served.

  “I’ll do it, Augustin.” Blackhawk’s voice was somber. “I will get you proof, whatever it takes.”

  Lucerne looked back at his friend and his eyes were soft with empathy. “This is your penance, Arkarin.” He leaned forward and put his hand on Blackhawk’s arm. “Promise me, my friend . . . if you do this, you will forgive yourself, and accept that you are a good man, whatever you may have done twenty-five years ago.”

  Blackhawk stared at his friend and forced a small nod. “I will,” he croaked. But he wondered if he really would. If he ever could. Some guilt was incurable; some crimes unforgivable. In his heart he knew he’d just lied to Augustin Lucerne for the first time since they’d met almost a quarter century before.

  Blackhawk paused. Lucerne hadn’t mentioned Astra. She’s okay. He’d have told me if anything had happened to her. He leaned slightly forward, almost asking the question that was at the front of his mind, but he pulled back before a word escaped. Forget about Astra, you fool. She can take care of herself, and you are the last thing she needs.

  “I will leave immediately. I suspect time is not on our side.”

  “You have to get us out of here, Mr. Bartholomew.” The Rykaran lord spoke with a heavy accent, and his words were tinged with fear. “The war is lost, and the Celtiborians are infuriated at the losses they have suffered.” He looked over at the finely dressed man sitting quietly across from him, becoming even more agitated at the calm expression staring back at him.

  Lucius Bartholomew sat still for a few seconds, watching his companion. He let the Rykaran stew for a few seconds. Finally, he smiled and said, “Please, Lord Saka, do not lose your composure. I have arranged transport off Rykara for your nobles and their families.”

  The shelter was sparse, utterly devoid of the luxurious surroundings these former lords of Rykara had enjoyed before the war. These nobles had been enemies for years, but imperial bribery and coercion had forged them into an alliance. Now they were drawn together by fear and vulnerability. Their world was lost, and the viciousness of the battle had removed all chance of a negotiated peace. The enraged Celtiborians might spare the people of Rykara, but there was little doubt the leaders would face summary execution.

  Bartholomew looked at the disheveled nobleman with a pleasant expression, but inside he felt nothing but contempt for the miserable creature. He had used the Rykarans, that much was inarguable, though he doubted they realized how thoroughly they’d been duped. It was amazing what a minor display of power and a hoard of imperial gold could achieve. The Rykarans had never had a chance to defeat Marshal Lucerne’s Celtiborian veterans, regardless of the weapons Bartholomew gave them. But they had turned a likely two-week victory into a four-month bloodbath, and seventy-five thousand of Lucerne’s hardened troops were dead in the filth and broken cities of Rykara.

  The Celtiborian army was two million strong, and the losses in the fighting here weren’t decisive. But Bartholomew’s efforts were only part of a larger operation, and he had exceeded his goals. If the other operatives did as well, Lucerne’s magnificent army would dash itself to pieces in a dozen bloody campaigns, and the people they’d come to liberate would learn to hate and despise them. The confederation that had been conceived to bring freedom and advancement to backward planets would inst
ead become a brutal conqueror.

  And all of a sudden, the empire wouldn’t look quite so bad to these “free” planets.

  Bartholomew’s thoughts were interrupted by the lordling sitting across from him. “How will you get us off Rykara?” There was a touch of doubt in Saka’s voice, but mostly impatience. And fear.

  “I have a squadron of ships arriving tomorrow. Stealth vessels able to penetrate the Celtiborian blockade without detection.” He was making up every word, but he managed to sound entirely sincere. “They will get your people off Rykara and to safety. Then you can decide where you want to go permanently.”

  “We have lost all our power, Mr. Bartholomew.” There was exhaustion in Saka’s tone. He’d been distraught over the loss of his position, but fear for his life had gradually pushed that aside. Now, he thought only of escape, and renewed physical comfort. He turned and looked down at the row of chests at his feet. They were filled with neat rows of stamped gold and platinum bars, a fortune in imperial currency. “At least we will have the wealth to live comfortably. Perhaps we will assume new identities and relocate to Antilles or perhaps Palladia.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged.” Bartholomew stood up and turned toward the tunnel leading to the surface. “If you will excuse me, Lord Saka. I must go to the surface and contact my ship to arrange the departure for tomorrow.”

  Saka nodded. “Please. It is past time for us to leave.”

  Bartholomew walked down a short corridor that dead-ended at a metal door. He put his hands on a small wheel and turned it, popping the hatch and swinging it open. He slipped out into a small cave, closing and sealing the portal behind him.

  “Are we ready, sir?” A man was standing next to the hatch, holding a small tablet. There was an image of the inside on the screen, displaying a feed from a hidden camera inside the shelter.