Enemy in the Dark (20 page)

He'd stopped trying to get an accurate count of the enemy soldiers bunched up in the hallway. He'd taken down eight, but more had come, and they were stacked up behind the corners of the passageway. His accurate fire had turned the connecting hallway into a death zone, and he'd managed to keep his attackers at bay. But he was almost out of ammo now, and he knew they'd rush him as soon as he emptied the last magazine.

The captain had almost called the others, but he still didn't know the king was down here. For all he knew, he'd been given misinformation, sent into a trap in the bowels of the palace while the king sat laughing in bed. Maybe the others were closer. There was no point in dragging them down here, especially if it was a trap. He wasn't going to get his friends killed to save himself.

He glanced around the corner, his eyes focusing instantly on one of the enemy doing the same. His hands moved swiftly, and he fired a single shot. The target fell instantly, blood pouring from the between his eyes.

That
'
s nine. But I
'
d wager there are another ten over there. Maybe more.
He glanced down at his rifle.
I need to make these shots count.

He stood still, listening for any moves. He could hear his enemies talking among themselves, but he couldn't make out what they were saying.

               
They are discussing an attack with gas grenades. Apparently, they are expecting further reinforcements so armed momentarily.

Blackhawk nodded. He wasn't sure exactly how Hans was able to use his own senses with greater effectiveness than his own brain, but he couldn't question something he'd seen hundreds of times either.

               
I would suggest that time is not your ally at present.

When has it ever been for me? Any idea what I should do about it?

               
Your options seem limited at present. If you are unwilling to call for aid, I am unable to devise an alternate exit strategy.

If I call any of the crew they will come. And they
'
ll just get stuck down here with me. No. We either get out of this ourselves or we don
'
t
.

               
Your attitude is courageous, at least within the computational range of my limited understanding of human emotions and motivations. But your parameters severely restrict your options. Our options, as you acknowledge with your use of the pronoun “we.”

Blackhawk's head snapped around. There was a burst of fire, and the sound was coming from a distance.

               
That is a 50 mm autocannon. Correction: two autocannons.

The Twins!
He hadn
'
t called them, but they were coming anyway.

Now he could hear return fire. Just a few guns, and the sound was sporadic. The cracks of the assault rifles sounded almost like children's toys next to the loud bang of the big automatic weapons. He felt a rush of adrenaline, and he gave himself up to instinct again, taking a deep breath and spinning around the corner, racing down the hallway.

There were bodies all over, the men he'd killed, and another pile at the intersection. The newer corpses were almost torn to shreds by the heavy projectiles from the autocannons.

Tarq came down the hallway, firing as he ran. “Glad to see you in one piece, Cap,” he said as he passed by Blackhawk, pursuing the last of the guards as they fled down the hall.

Tarnan came up behind his brother. He'd slung the autocannon back over his shoulder and drawn his massive claymore. The blade was polished steel, over a meter long, and it was thick and heavy. Blackhawk had lifted the thing before, and he'd have bet it weighed fifteen kilos, maybe more. He could see the muscles flexed in Tarnan's massive arm as he held the terrible weapon, ready to strike.

“We figured you could use some backup, Captain.” The giant stood in the intersection, surrounded by bodies.

“You figured right, my friend.” He hadn't wanted to call the Twins and get them trapped with him, but sometimes he forgot just what a pair of true killing machines they were. They'd cleared the enemy position in less than a minute, obliterating everyone in sight. Tarq returned a few seconds later, having blown the last of the fleeing guards into bloody chunks.

“Thanks for the assist, guys.” Blackhawk held his elation in check. He knew more enemy soldiers would come and they were far from out of the woods yet. But things were looking better than they had a few minutes before. “We need to get this door open.” He pulled out the card he'd taken earlier, but the plate around the slot was riddled with bullet holes. He slid the card in anyway just to be sure, but nothing happened.

“Shit,” he muttered, jamming it in again, as much out of frustration as expectation it would work.

“Step back, sir.” He felt Tarq's huge hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him to the side.

The giant aimed the heavy autocannon where the door met the locking mechanism, and he opened fire. The heavy slugs tore the plate apart and pounded huge dents in the metal door itself. After a few seconds of fire, Tarq turned toward his brother and nodded. Then he hurled himself at the stricken door.

The entire room shook as his massive weight slammed into the straining iron. The door rattled and almost gave way, the broken remnants of the lock almost breaking. But it held—barely. He took a deep breath and pulled back, throwing himself once again at the door, even harder than the first time.

The metal groaned for an instant before the lock shattered and the door slammed open. Tarq went tumbling through the now-open portal, landing hard on the stone floor inside the room.

Blackhawk ran in right behind. Tarq's solution wasn't elegant, but Blackhawk couldn't argue with its effectiveness. “Are you okay?” he yelled, as he hurried over to his crewman.

“Yeah, Captain.” Tarq was picking himself up slowly. “Shoulder hurts a little, but no big deal.”

Tarnan had walked in behind the two, and he was facing to the side, holding his massive blade watchfully over a single man sitting on a bench.

Blackhawk turned to face the prisoner. He was wearing a pair of canvas trousers and a matching tunic, clearly some kind of prison uniform. His blond hair was long and filthy, twisted into large clumps that hung about his face. He looked up at the newcomers, his blue eyes bright and defiant despite his situation.

“Who are you?” Blackhawk demanded, holding up his hand and motioning for Tarnan to pull his blade back. The man did not look threatening, though he bore himself with a certain stature, despite his position.

“I am Gustav Algonquin. The king of Nordlingen.”

AUGUSTIN LUCERNE SAT ON THE EDGE OF HIS BED, RUBBING HIS
face with his hands. Maximus, the larger of Celtiboria's two moons, was high in the night sky, and his windows glowed with its reflected light. It had been even brighter earlier, but Minimus had since set, leaving its larger sibling to stand watch alone until dawn's first rays.

Lucerne knew morning wasn't far, barely an hour. He'd always struggled to sleep, but things had only gotten worse since his final victory on Celtiboria. So long it had been his goal, the driving force of his existence, yet its attainment had produced so little joy—and no rest, no peace. Only a sharpened focus of all that remained to be done. There were so many wars to fight, so much treachery to counter, endless terms to negotiate.

He'd expected some of it, but other problems had taken him by surprise. When his wars had been restricted to his home world, he'd been close to his officers and men. He'd shared their risks, their deprivations. But now his armies were scattered across light-years of space. Their losses—their pain—were now reduced to words on an endless stream of reports. He hated the pointless luxury of the palace, despised the meetings, loathed the diplomats. He wished he could walk through the door, to lead his men in the field as he had for three decades. But duty was still his master, and it had taken him from the battlefield and cast him into the webs of ambassadors, politicians, and businessmen.

Rest had always been elusive, but now it had become a forgotten dream. He'd slept some, two hours in total perhaps, though as usual it had been fitful and broken into short stretches. He was tired. Indeed, he'd never felt so worn, so used up. So old. Yet sleep still played its frustrating game with him.

The worries weighed on him, more even than usual. His armies had fought with their accustomed courage and success, but some of them had run into greater resistance than expected. He wasn't concerned about the final outcomes of those battles. He had every confidence his people would prevail. But he mourned the extra losses, thousands more dead soldiers than he'd anticipated. And he was troubled by the unknown. Someone was opposing him, interfering with his campaigns. He wasn't sure who it was, but he'd considered every reasonable option, and every one of them was bad news.

Either one of his allies, one of the other Primes, was conspiring against him, dangling support in his face as a distraction, while supporting his opponents secretly—or it was the empire. He found it disillusioning, though not really surprising, that
one of the Primes would stab him in the back, despite assurances of solidarity. They were the strongest worlds in the Far Stars, and a successful confederation would foster sectorwide development. The lesser worlds would gain prosperity, and they would lose their dependence on the six great planets that dominated the economy of the Far Stars.

He'd even wondered if it was Antilles. The economic powerhouse had the most to lose in terms of dominating commerce, but Lucerne had addressed that, offering Danellan Lancaster and his planet the lead role in developing the lesser worlds. He'd given them a virtual license to steal, the price of their support. It made him sick to do it, but he'd long ago realized that sacrifices were essential to greater success.

It didn't make it any easier to swallow. He was trying to free the Far Stars, not replace military dictators with economic ones.

Perhaps his one comfort was that, as far as his intelligence had been able to confirm, none of the Primes had the technology to produce the weapons his soldiers had faced. He obviously couldn't be 100 percent sure, but his gut told him it wasn't one of the Primes, or even an alliance of several. Which had his mind drifting back over and over to the same ominous thought: the empire was trying to oppose the confederation before it even took shape. He had always feared that the empire would one day look again to the Far Stars and seek to bring its people under the emperor's heel, and that was why he had started this war in the first place. But if the empire had already begun its campaign, before he was ready to stop it . . .

Blackhawk will discover what is going on. He brought Astra back to me, and he will help me yet again.

Lucerne rose slowly. Sleep was truly over for the night, that much was clear to him. He walked across the room to the large
table in the corner. It was the field desk he'd used on campaign, and now it was set up in his room, an odd sight amid the splendor of the great palace.

He had a massive office elsewhere in the building, surrounded by attendants and support staff, but he did much of his work here. He'd acceded to the demands of his position in almost every area of his life, but he'd made one concession to himself. In his inner sanctum, the room where he slept, where he worked when he needed solitude, all but a few close associates were banned. When he toiled in his refuge or took a meal as he worked at the old field desk, only men who had served with him in his wars attended his needs. It was the last special relationship he had with them. Ambassadors and political hacks had claimed much of his time, but he had reserved at least some of his moments for those who truly mattered to him.

He punched a small button on the table, and his screen came to life. Another report from General DeMark. Blackhawk had arrived on Nordlingen. He had been too late on Rykara. Whoever was behind the intervention there had already covered his tracks. Lucerne tried to imagine what his enemies had said to the feuding nobles to convince them to cast aside their arguments and join against the Celtiborians. It was a war they could never have won, even with the advanced weaponry their backers provided.

It doesn't really matter, I guess.
They were always pawns in the struggle, useful but expendable, but they'd listened to lies, and they'd paid the price.

The battle on Nordlingen was still raging, though, and those in command would still be there, directing their armies. Perhaps Blackhawk would have more luck there.

He looked back at the report . . . and read about Blackhawk's
plan. Lucerne reread the passage three times, and he stared at the screen in disbelief.

I knew Blackhawk was daring, but this
. . .
it
'
s downright reckless.

And yet, if anyone can manage it
. . .

“Callas!” he yelled loudly for his aide. He turned and walked across the room, opening a door and walking into his dressing room.

“Sir!” The surprised officer was rushing through the door. He stopped and stood at attention.

Lucerne was pulling on a pair of uniform trousers. The council of advisers had retained a valet for him, a man named Dumont, who had served one of the now deceased warlords for a decade. But Augustin Lucerne had been dressing himself for almost sixty years, and that was not about to change anytime soon. He'd tasked the attendant with keeping his laundry clean and pressed, but that had been the extent of the duties he'd assigned.

“Callas, advise Admiral Desaix to prepare a ship. I am going to Nordlingen. Immediately.” He pulled a perfectly pressed shirt from the rack and put it on.

“Marshal, sir, the council will . . .”

“Callas, the day I ask the council for permission to do what I feel I must is the day I blow my brains out. Understood?”

“Yes, Marshal.” Callas paused for a few seconds. “Shall I awaken Dumont and have him pack for you, sir?”

“Yes, Callas. Thank you.” Lucerne was buttoning his jacket. “And tell the admiral he may assign an escort squadron, but I do not want him dispatching the entire fleet to nursemaid me. There is enough already for them to handle.”

“Yes, Marshal.”

“And Callas?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want to leave today. And I'd like to slip out without Astra knowing if possible. She'll insist on coming, and after what happened, I'd really prefer she stay here where it is safer.”

“Yes, sir, I will try to keep it quiet. But you know Miss Astra, sir.”

An odd smile crept onto Lucerne's face. Astra had been a handful since the days when she'd followed him around his command post, sharing her chocolate bars with him. His daughter was headstrong, and intelligent. And she damned sure didn't take no for an answer. She was a colossal pain in the ass sometimes—and he couldn't be prouder of her.

But he still intended to try and slip away.

“I know the
Repulse
left orbit this morning. And I can't find my father anywhere. Or Callas, either.” Astra Lucerne's voice was loud and deadly serious. She didn't carry an official rank, but there were few in the Celtiborian military with the courage to defy her.

The duty officer was entirely out of his depth trying to stand up to the marshal's fiery daughter, but he had his orders and he was doing his best to carry them out.

“I am sorry, Miss Lucerne, but I have no information on that at present.” His voice was a little shaky, but he was doing as good a job stonewalling her as any of her father's officers could manage.

Which isn't all that good.

“Then I suggest you log into the network and access the
Repulse'
s flight plan.” She stood less than a meter away, staring at him with ice blue eyes. She wore the usual pistol, hanging low on her hip like some gunslinger's weapon, and her hand was on her waist, just a few centimeters above. Everyone in the army knew she was a crack shot.

The officer took a step back, but he just repeated what he had already said. “I am sorry, but I am not authorized to release that information at this time.” His nerves were clearly strained. Still, he stood his ground.

Astra held her stare. She wasn't about to shoot one of her father's officers, or even threaten one at gunpoint. She'd done that to Lucas Lancaster on the
Claw,
but that had been an extraordinary circumstance, and Ark's life had been on the line. And even Lucas had been sure she wouldn't really shoot him, just like the officer standing in front of her now knew she wouldn't.

“Aaagh!” she yelled, voicing her frustration. She knew she couldn't get too angry with the officer for following her father's orders, but that didn't mean she couldn't be angry at all. She turned and stormed out of the command center and into the hallway.

Where the hell did he go?

She knew
why
her father had slipped away. He'd been doting on her ever since Blackhawk had brought her home. She couldn't get too angry with him, either. After all, she had been kidnapped and taken away to a lawless backwater on the edge of civilization. If it hadn't been for Blackhawk, she might have died there or spent the rest of her life as a captive. She knew her father loved her, and she couldn't begin to imagine how worried and scared he'd been while she was gone.

I get all that . . . and couldn't care less.

She couldn't live that way. It's just not how she was wired. Astra Lucerne was her father's daughter, in more ways than one. She didn't hide from her enemies; she faced them head-on. And she didn't cower under guard from danger. No matter how much her father—or Blackhawk, for that matter—tried to protect her from the realities of the world.

And that's where the frustration really came from. She had two of the strongest, most dangerous men in the Far Stars trying to protect her and keep her safe. She loved them both, but she had no intention of letting either one of them get away with it. They were both off somewhere again, probably getting themselves into trouble, and she'd be damned if she was going to stay behind under lock and key while the two people she loved most in the world were in danger.

She was walking down the corridor, back toward the suite of offices she shared with Lys. She was going to find out where her father went if she had to hack into the main data system to find out. And then, by Chrono, she was going to follow him if she had to steal a ship to do it.

Because wherever he went, I bet a million crowns I find Blackhawk there, too
.