Enemy in the Dark (12 page)

His mind drifted back across the years, to other battlefields, other destroyed cities, but he forced himself back to the present.
There are enough nightmares now to worry about nightmares from the past.

He looked straight down the street. For an instant, he thought he saw something, a dim flash of some kind.

               
That was a reflection off some type of glass or hyperplastic. A lens, 57 percent chance. Caution is highly recommended.

Blackhawk frowned and started to direct a scathing thought
back to the AI when his instinct took over. He let his legs go limp, falling hard to the ground, just as a muffled shot rang out.

               
Sound analysis suggests a high muzzle velocity, nonautomatic weapon with silencing device attached. Probability: a sniper's rifle of modern design.

Blackhawk scrambled behind a pile of broken rubble lying between him and the direction of the firer.

Thanks,
he thought back at the computer in his head.
You saved my life right there
.

               
No thanks are necessary. Assisting you is my purpose. And this is not the first time my counsel has saved your life.

               
It is the fourteenth.

Blackhawk went back to ignoring the AI. He knew on some level he enjoyed sparring with Hans, but now wasn't the time—the warning was quite welcome, though. He scrambled around, looking for a weapon. His hand dropped to his side. There was nothing there but his sword.
What the hell am I doing out here with no gun and no comm unit? You're an arrogant fool, Blackhawk. You should know better after all these years.

He crawled into the remains of a building, trying to keep hard cover between him and the sniper as he worked his way forward. He pulled his sword slowly from its worn sheath. The blade had been with him in many difficult spots, and it had seen him out of more than one. But now he was pinned down by a sniper. He doubted his adversary would let him get close enough to use the deadly blade.

He crouched low, crawling behind the collapsed wall of what looked like it had been a small apartment building. He was trying to stay focused, but he couldn't help but notice the debris lying about: charred clothing, wrecked furniture, a little girl's toy doll. The remains of war often painted the truest picture of its cost.

It was then he noticed something: it was too quiet.

No more shots. This is a professional I
'
m dealing with.

An amateur would keep firing, even without a clear target. But that would only give away the firer's position. The silence was ominous. Far from being a sign of safety, it told Blackhawk there was someone out there good enough to win this exchange.

He crept forward, listening for any sounds, trying to zero in on his adversary. He knew the AI could make better use of his senses than his own brain, but Hans was silent. And that meant his enemy wasn't moving. He was staying put, waiting for Blackhawk to make a mistake.

He thought about calling out. Callisto's men weren't far away. He doubted the single silenced shot had been heard, but if he screamed, someone might hear.

And then they
'
ll come running down the street, and the sniper will drop them in a heartbeat.

Blackhawk knew that would give him a chance to locate his adversary, but he refused to put Callisto's soldiers at risk. Once, he would have done whatever was necessary, but never again. If he was fated to die here, so be it, but he would not sacrifice innocent Celtiborian soldiers to escape from his own folly.

He crept along, heading toward his best guess of the sniper's location. The single shot hadn't given him a good fix, but where he lacked knowledge he decided he would go on instinct.

Where would I be if I was trying to ambush someone?

He peered carefully through a small hole in the wall, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for a good position for a sniper. He tried to anticipate his enemy's moves. Once again he thought,
Where would I be?

His eyes fixed on a semicollapsed building. It was strong cover, and it was an excellent vantage point overlooking the entire street.
That
'
s it,
he thought, tightening his grip on his trusty blade.

               
I concur. It is your best option. However, assigning above-median skills to your assailant, I project the odds of a satisfactory outcome at less than one chance in six. Satisfactory being defined by your survival for the next hour.

Your survival, too, smart-ass.

It was less than ten meters away. He had a good chance of making it across the street, at least if his enemy hadn't heard him approaching. He didn't like it, but he couldn't think of a better option. He took a deep breath and . . .

“Captain . . . are you here, sir?”

He spun around. The call was coming from down the street. “Sarge, get down! Sniper!”

The area all around him was hosed down with automatic fire. He dove to the ground, wincing as he felt a round graze his back.
Fuck, he
'
s got an assault rifle, too.

He'd given his position away, but he'd probably saved Sarge in doing so. Of course, this meant getting across the street now was going to be next to impossible.

He scrambled around, frantically looking for a working gun. There was nothing, just a bunch of bits and pieces. Callisto's
men must have collected all the functional imperial weapons after the battle.

His back hurt like fire, but he put it out of his mind.
That
'
s twice you caught a round in less than two weeks, Blackhawk. You
'
re getting slow, old man. And stupid, too.
He knew he was in trouble. He'd been a damned fool to wander out into a half-secured combat zone by himself. It had been a stupid thing to do, and arrogant. He'd have torn any of his crew a new asshole for doing something as idiotic. But there was no time for that. Sarge and the boys were here now too, and he needed to hold out. He was exposed and facing a dangerous enemy. The fight was still his and his alone. At least for another minute or so, until his people could get to him. And a minute was far longer than it would take to die.

He felt the tension in his arm as his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He knew he'd put it to good use at close quarters, but how the hell was he going to get across the street now?

“HIS EXCELLENCY, GENERAL DRACO EUDUROVAN TRAGONIS,
Count of Helos, Baron of Saraman and Thebes, Lord of Westorland, Neustria, and Veland . . .”

Vos sat back, hiding his amusement as the chamberlain rattled off Tragonis's titles. Draco Tragonis was a soldier of the empire and one of its most proficient spies. Like Vos, he had clawed his way up the imperial hierarchy, and also like the governor, he had left a trail of bodies to mark his ascent. The two were remarkably similar, though Tragonis was rather more interested in the titles he had gained than Vos, an affectation that tended to make the announcement of his arrival a long and drawn-out affair.

Indeed, few men in the empire held as many titles as
Tragonis. His collection of noble patents owed much to his pacification of the rebellion on Thuringia. The planet's loyal lords had proven themselves incapable of crushing the revolutionaries, so the emperor sent Tragonis with a legion of imperial guards and the enticement that, as his reward, he would have the title of every rebellious noble whose head he brought back to Optimus Prime. Even the emperor was startled when that number turned out to be sixty-three, but he honored his word and bestowed all of them on Tragonis.

“. . . Knight of Vicarus and Besenzia, and Constable of the Graylands.” The chamberlain nodded, trying to hide his gasps for breath. He rapped his staff on the ground twice and stood at attention as the nobleman he'd just announced with such formality walked through the massive doors and into the reception hall.

“You may leave us.” Vos watched as the chamberlain hesitated. He knew it wasn't proper form for the attendants to leave before Tragonis had at least crossed the floor and greeted the governor, but he was sick to death of the cloying court formality so heavily ingrained in life on Galvanus Prime.

“Go!” He grabbed a heavy goblet and hurled it across the room. It landed about halfway to the door and skittered another five or six meters before coming to a stop, still well short of its target. “Out, I said!”

The guards scurried out into the anteroom, but the door wardens still hesitated, holding the great portal half open while the ancient chamberlain hobbled slowly out.

Vos watched with amusement. The former inhabitants of the capitol had been noble-born and vain. Disgraced and exiled to rule the tiny scrap of imperial territory in the Far Stars, they'd indulged in every manner of hedonism and temper tantrum.

Vos was normally much more reserved, like a viper silently waiting for its prey. He was far deadlier than the fops who had preceded him, but sometimes he thought the members of the staff were too dull witted to realize that—so he occasionally threw a dinner plate or smashed a work of art for their benefit. If that was what they understood, he could give it to them, though he thought the whole thing seemed rather foolish.

He waited for the loud clang as the metal-plated doors slammed shut then he bounded up out of his chair. “Draco, you Drusanian serpent!” He moved swiftly toward the new arrival.

Draco quickened his own pace, and the two men met in the center of the room and embraced. They had been allies for years, and each had aided the other in their many endeavors. They were different in temperament and behaviors, but they shared an overwhelming thirst for power. Too, both men had crawled up from the lowest levels of the empire's peasantry, and they had risen on the strength of their own abilities. As much as it was possible for men like them—cold-blooded and madly ambitious—they were friends.

“It is good to see you, Kergen my friend. It has been what? Three years?”

“Nearly. Far too long. I have been here for almost two and a half already. It took me most of the first year to clean the place up. It had the stink of centuries of failure and incompetence.” He glanced back toward the doors, where the wardens and chamberlain had fled. “I still have a few things to bring up to standards, but I couldn't delay my plans any longer. I do not intend to spend the rest of my life on this forsaken frontier. Once I break these people and bring them back into the empire, I shall turn over the acting governorship to one of my lieutenants and return to Optimus Prime.”

“To accept your rewards?” Tragonis laughed. “Indeed, the first governor in a millennium to tame the firebrands of the Far Stars? No doubt his Imperial Highness will shower you with rewards.”

“No doubt.”
And that's all you'll get from me about this subject, Tragonis
. “But for now, come, let us sit and drink. Believe it or not, a few of these backwater planets actually produce some palatable vintages. Particularly Antilles.”

Tragonis returned his friend's nod. “By all means, Kergen.” He followed Vos toward a small table with two chairs. “Antilles is well known in the empire, among the educated classes, at least. It is said an Antillean would sell his grandmother to a Rutarian slaver if the price was right.”

“It is an extremely mercantile world for certain. The richest world in the sector, though not the most powerful, I would venture.” Vos reached out for a large decanter and poured two glasses full of the deep red wine, holding one out toward his visitor.

“That would be Celtiboria.” Tragonis extended his hand, taking the offered glass.

“Indeed. Certainly since Marshal Lucerne has unified the planet.” Vos sat, motioning for Tragonis to do the same. “There is still some disorder while he continues to reorganize the economy, but Celtiboria is the most populous planet, and one of the most advanced as well. And its army is unmatched in the sector.”

“Even by yours.” It wasn't a question, and there was definitely the hint of an insult. But Vos knew it was bait not worth taking.

“Exactly.”

“So, Lucerne is your biggest obstacle then?” Tragonis asked, disappointment touching his eyes briefly.

“Yes.” Vos hesitated for a few seconds. “Certainly he is the most obvious, and the most powerful, too.”

“But?” Tragonis set down his glass and stared at Vos. “There is something else. I can feel your concern. Something unexpected, no?”

“It is probably nothing. Just an adventurer, a mercenary—name of Arkarin Blackhawk. He interfered with one of my plans, by coincidence it seems, but then he went on to wreck another operation. In a few weeks, he cost me a very valuable hostage and control of an entire planet.”

Tragonis took another drink from his glass. “Coincidence? Or something deeper?” He looked at his glass as he set it down. “You are right, by the way. I had no idea such excellent wines were produced all the way out here.”

Vos pushed the decanter toward Tragonis. “Please,” he said, gesturing toward the wine. As Tragonis poured, Vos continued. “I had thought coincidence at first, but then I discovered this Blackhawk has some kind of connection to Marshal Lucerne. I have had him thoroughly researched, and it appears he is more capable than a typical mercenary or smuggler. Vastly so.”

“Perhaps he is one of Lucerne's people.”

“I thought that, but most of his past operations seem to have no connection to Lucerne. Indeed, the marshal fought a long and bloody war to unite Celtiboria. I have uncovered a few instances of this Blackhawk assisting him, but for the most part, he and his crew have operated elsewhere. But that is not the strangest thing.”

Tragonis took the wine and refilled his glass again. “What is?”

“There is no trace of him, none at all, prior to approximately twenty years ago.”

“Perhaps he was simply unknown back then. If he hadn't yet
achieved a sufficient level of notoriety, you wouldn't necessarily find any . . .”

“No, my friend. You do not understand. I have found
nothing
. No hints about his past. No information about what planet he came from, the names of his parents . . . not even anecdotal references to anything at all.” He paused for a few seconds. “It's almost as if he'd been . . .”

“Been what?”

“Erased.”

Tragonis had been reaching for his glass, but he stopped suddenly and focused on Vos. “You mean you think he had another identity? That he was someone of consequence before he became Blackhawk?”

Vos exhaled hard. “I don't know, Draco. Yet it's the only thing I can think of that makes any kind of sense. I can't find a trace of him further back than twenty years, either as Blackhawk or as anyone I can tie to him.”

The two sat silently for a moment before Vos slapped his hand on the table. “But enough about Blackhawk. He is hardly my only problem. You are not out here on holiday, I imagine, so tell me. What brings you to the Far Stars?”

Tragonis's face became serious. “I have brought you several things. First, a warning. As you know, you have enemies at court, and they have not been idle. Your operations to date have been enormously expensive, and there are those who have not hesitated to suggest they have been
too
costly. Some have whispered that you have been embezzling the funds. I even heard one rumor that you are planning to make yourself king of the Far Stars, using imperial resources to do it.”

Vos made a face. “It is impossible to avoid such nonsense. I cannot be there and here simultaneously, and there are always
those who will maneuver behind my back.” He looked across the table at Tragonis. “Do I still have the emperor's support?”

Tragonis smiled. “You do. The emperor finds it refreshing that a governor in the Far Stars is actually
doing something
. You have not yet exhausted your pool of imperial patience. Indeed, I have done all I could to add to it. To an extent, I have bet my own position on your success. Which is one reason, beyond simple friendship, that I have come out here to help you.”

“My thanks to you, Draco. There are few men upon whom one can rely. And you are one of those.” Vos bowed his head slightly. Tragonis was full of shit, and Vos knew it. Draco was a friend, of a sort, but he would only have come to Vos's aid if he saw potential gain in it—and he'd abandon him in an instant if things fell apart. But if he was going to help for the time being, there was no harm in the open display of gratitude.

“I would say we have two more years to achieve some significant results. Not total victory, but something noteworthy—perhaps half a dozen worlds brought under imperial control. After that, I fear the emperor will weaken in his resolve and begin to listen to some of the whisperings of your enemies.”

“I thank you for your insights, my friend. It is invaluable to know what trustworthy ears have heard.” Vos held his glass to his lips and drained it. “What other counsel do you bring?”

“I trust you know me better than that, old friend. Would I join this venture and bring nothing more than words? I bring more than advice and gossip, Kergen.” He gestured upward. “There is a fleet even now entering this system—mostly transports and a few light warships, mostly older frigates. I have brought you more coin, as well as new caches of advanced weapons.” A self-satisfied grin came over his face. “And more than that, I bring you an imperial legion. A veteran line formation,
not the rabble you have out here. Most of a legion, at least. We lost two ships in the crossing.”

Vos was rarely surprised, but his expression was one of pure shock. “I requested military support half a dozen times before I left, but the emperor wouldn't budge.”

“I think it had more to do with your operations reports—proof that he finally had a governor out here trying to accomplish something. I was able to obtain a private audience, and I pled the case that without any military power your plans were at great risk. It was difficult, but I finally convinced him to detach a legion under my command. He wouldn't risk any of the imperial guard, but he didn't send me raw recruits, either.”

Vos held up his glass. “To your persistence, and your skill in bending the imperial ear.”

Draco clinked his own glass against Vos's. “I tried for naval support too, but he was adamant on not risking any battleships in the Void.”

“Still, a legion will be enormously useful.” Vos sat silently for a few seconds, deep in thought. “I have been planning something, but I have held back for lack of resources.” He lifted his head and looked at Draco. “I may have a use for your legion, one with far more impact than its military might alone.”

“I'm intrigued.”

“It is a less glorious mission perhaps than assaulting an enemy planet, but one that will do more toward attaining ultimate victory.” He leaned back in his chair. “I have made efforts at recruiting a force of native soldiers, but they are little more than rabble. But if you will deploy your veterans as a cadre to train and lead the new recruits, we should be able to build a truly effective army, one that can face most of the other forces in the Far Stars.”

“Is that what you need most?” Tragonis's tone was inquisitive, with the slightest hint of doubt. “A legion could likely conquer a few of these worlds outright. It's the easy way to show progress to the emperor. That's why I fought so hard for direct military resources.”

Vos looked across the table, nodding toward his companion. “Of course, you are right, at least conventionally. We could pick out a few planets and occupy them—and send glowing reports back to Optimus Prime.” A strange smile crept onto his face. “But the progress will be false, and in the end take us no closer to true victory. My plan is to subjugate the Far Stars.
All of it
. Anything less will be defeat. I know I could go back to the court—we could go back—and wave a few captured planets before the emperor, the first worlds of the sector to come under imperial control in two hundred years. We would receive a reward, no doubt. A measured prize for a modest goal.

“But I came here for one thing. Total victory. I will return in triumph, having brought the whole of the Far Stars into the empire . . . or not at all. These arrogant frontiersmen will learn to bend their knees, and I—and you, if you will join with me on this quest—will ride victory to the highest levels of the imperial service.”