Enemy in the Dark (8 page)

Vos already knew most of what Wilhelm was telling him. His
mind was already moving forward. “Perhaps we need to take a look at the Lancaster companies. Economic pain is the way to control a clan like the Lancasters. Their greed is their weakness.”

“The Lancasters are extremely wealthy, Your Excellency. It will be a considerable challenge to damage them sufficiently to exert meaningful control over them.”

Vos looked across the table at Wilhelm. “Difficult. But not impossible.” He paused for a few seconds, thinking. “We need not reduce the Lancasters to poverty to exert meaningful influence. Men like Danellan Lancaster do not accept losses well. If we can bring enough pressure to bear—and offer our own inducements—no doubt we can persuade him to withdraw his support from Marshal Lucerne. His alliance has to be based on the expectation of profits. Augustin Lucerne is a patriot and a man of principle.” Vos's tone was a strange combination of admiration and mockery. “Danellan Lancaster is neither. He is motivated solely by financial gain.”

“Yes, but our resources are already quite extended, sir. Is it feasible to commit a sufficient sum to mount a meaningful assault on Lancaster Interests? The Far Stars Bank is a daunting target by itself, notwithstanding our intentions toward the transport guilds and our support programs for worlds under attack from the Celtiborians.”

Vos nodded. “Which is why I have requested additional financial support from the emperor.”

Wilhelm put his fork down and looked across the table. He opened his mouth, but a second later he closed it, without having spoken.

“Yes, I know,” Vos said to his friend and subordinate. Both men were well aware that Emperor Valens was a volatile man, one who rarely responded well to such requests.

“But you have to realize that the Far Stars is a unique problem for the empire,” Vos continued, “and I believe the emperor understands this in a way his predecessors have not. First, because of imperial unwillingness to risk significant military assets on a crossing of the Void, we are compelled to operate without the strength available in the other provinces. Economic power is all we have. We have money and weapons, but not enough ships and soldiers. So we must rely on proxies. We can bribe them to bring them to our side and equip them with imperial weapons they can barely use, but we lack the strength for direct military action.” He made a face. “Other than a few squadrons of old rust buckets, two moth-eaten legions—barely enough to defend Galvanus Prime.”

Wilhelm shifted in his chair. “But will the emperor agree the Far Stars are worth the investment? It is a backward sector on the edge of human habitation. There are only a handful of worlds of any real value. And even they shrivel to insignificance next to planets like Optimus Prime or Vaconis.”

“But they defy imperial will, Mak. They mock the emperor.”

Wilhelm shrugged. “That has been the case for centuries.”

“Yes.” Vos's tone was firm, confident. “But things are different now. The emperor could tolerate a divided Far Stars full of bandits and primitive societies fighting each other with the same enthusiasm with which they curse imperial edicts.” He paused. “A sector united under the leadership of a man as capable as Augustin Lucerne is a different matter entirely.”

Vos reached out and took his goblet in his hand, taking a long sip. “Danellan Lancaster is an arrogant man, but that doesn't mean he is a fool. If Lucerne puts him in charge of economic development on pacified planets, we could be looking at an enormous problem. He would no doubt rob those worlds
blind, but he—or his people—could also spur unprecedented economic development. The Far Stars is a joke because it is backward and fragmented. If its resources are ever properly exploited, though . . .” He let his words trail off.

Wilhelm didn't say anything, but Vos could tell from his expression he agreed. “It is amazing,” Vos said, “is it not? How much difference a single man can make? Marshal Lucerne is capable of building a strong and independent Far Stars if we allow it. Can you imagine the effect of that in the empire itself? The emperor is the anointed ruler of mankind. It is one thing to have a cluster of rogue planets and pirate havens nipping at the imperial feet with their defiance, and quite another to have a strong and successful interstellar nation setting an example to every rebel movement and nest of traitors in the empire.”

“I hadn't considered the Far Stars situation on such a macroscopic level, but I see your logic. We seek to take control and bring the Far Stars to heel as an obedient sector within the empire. But whatever happens, we must ensure this confederation is stillborn.” Wilhelm paused, staring down at his plate for a few seconds, but making no move toward his utensils. “But will the emperor heed your warnings? Will he supply the immense financial resources your plans require?”

Vos looked back across the table, his expression utterly noncommittal. “I am confident that he will . . .” He paused. “But only time will tell for certain. In the meanwhile, let us put our plans in motion. I will find the resources we require. One way or another.”

“I agree, Your Excellency.” Wilhelm looked like he still had some doubts, but Vos knew his second in command was on board. Which made this next part easier.

“I am sorry, Mak, but I don't have anyone else to send to Antilles, no one with the capability to direct our efforts against the Lancasters.” Vos's regret was evident in his expression. He didn't want to do without Wilhelm's support and counsel for the months he would be on Antilles. But he needed him there.

“I understand, Your Excellency. I will prepare to leave immediately.”

“WE CAN MAKE THIS EASY, OR WE CAN MAKE IT HARD. YOUR
choice.” Blackhawk stared down at the prisoner, his expression devoid of emotion. He was alone, as he preferred when interrogating a prisoner. He didn't like his crew to see his darker side, and he suspected it might come out if Aragona was uncooperative.

“Fuck you, you bounty-hunting scum.” The captive stared at Blackhawk with venom in his eyes, the look of an egomaniacal elite staring at someone he viewed as an inferior. “When my people catch up with you, you're going to wish you were never born.”

Blackhawk sighed.
If only Aragona knew what I am capable of, what I have done to others in his position. He
'
d piss himself in
those expensive pants
. Blackhawk was ashamed of his past, but there were times it provided an interesting frame of reference. “First of all, if you were aware who was paying that bounty, you wouldn't be so cocky, my friend.”

The Far Stars Bank had a fearsome reputation for dealing with those guilty of fraud or theft. It was hard on any who defaulted on its loans, but those who deliberately set out to steal from its coffers could expect the harshest treatment.

“But I'm afraid things have gotten much worse for you. There are more terrible adversaries in the universe than the Far Stars Bank.”

Aragona sat quietly, and the
Claw'
s captain could feel his prisoner's arrogance suddenly draining away. The mention of the bank had definitely caught his attention, but there was also something in Blackhawk's voice, a coldness, and it was clear Aragona felt it. Blackhawk watched the prisoner, and he could see the change in the Castillan's expression as he began to realize he was not dealing with some ordinary mercenary or bounty hunter.

And yet, there was a touch of arrogance in Aragona's eyes, because he still didn't understand the monster standing before him.

No, he doesn
'
t understand, but if he forces me, I will show him.

Oh yes, I will show him.

For now, though, Blackhawk would fight down his former self. He sat down on the bench opposite Aragona. “I saw the troop convoy moving toward your villa last night. Now, normally I wouldn't care about bullshit wars and coups among petty wog lordlings, but I am very concerned with how
your
backwards-as-fuck personal army was able to acquire imperial equipment.” He leaned forward and stared at Aragona's stunned face with icy eyes. “Yes, I know that equipment is imperial in origin. I'm
also well aware you'd never manage to find that much of it on the black market.” Blackhawk could see the panic building in his prisoner's face. “Besides, you couldn't afford it even if you did turn it up for sale somewhere—and yes, I know how much you're worth, especially with the money you stole from the bank. I'd wager just the stuff I saw from a distance was worth more than everything on your stinking planet.”

Aragona stared back at Blackhawk. The arrogance was finally gone from his face, replaced by a look of astonishment—and fear.

There it is. Now we can start.

“I . . . I insist that you return me immediately. I am a duly appointed member of Castilla's ruling council . . .”

“Yes, and abducting you is an act of war. Your people will hunt us down, wherever we go and rescue you.

“Blah. Blah. Blah.”

Aragona could only stare.

“That's what you were going to say, right? More or less?”

“Whatever the bank is paying you, I will double it if you release me.” His growing panic was clear in his tone.

Blackhawk suppressed a smile. It was a pretty typical progression. Aragona realized his threats weren't getting anywhere with Blackhawk, so he moved on to bribery.

“Assuming we could get past the fact that I do not trust you in any way, it is laughable to expect that you could match the resources of the Far Stars Bank in some kind of bidding war. Or that I would destroy my relationship with Vanderon and risk retaliation for the miserable coin you could offer me.”

Aragona seemed to deflate just a touch more, and Blackhawk finally allowed himself a smile. Of course, it was—along with the mockery—all a part of the interrogation. By stripping Ara
gona of his pride, Blackhawk established his own dominance, and in turn, demanded compliance. He'd seen far tougher sorts than the Castillan gangster broken by words alone. Blackhawk was prepared to move past the verbal abuse if necessary, but he found himself hoping Aragona would yield and not force him to more extreme measures.

“You have been cloistered on your shithole planet for too long, Lord Aragona. You have a distorted view of your own power, one I suspect has been fed by the obsequious parasites hanging on your every word back on Castilla—the same idiots who had us surrounded and
still
couldn't stop us. You may dispense with such foolish views now. You are nothing, a piece of meat subject to whatever fate I choose to pronounce for you. The men and women on this ship will space you without a second thought.” He paused. “No, that's not true. They might think of what a waste of oxygen it was, and maybe ask if they could skin you alive instead.

“Messier, but ultimately less wasteful.”

Blackhawk stared at his prisoner, his expression cold, almost inhuman. Fact was, he had no intention of killing this man. But this was the second unexplained imperial intervention he'd encountered in less than a year, and he was determined to find out what was going on before he turned Aragona over to the bank. “The sooner you accept that you are utterly without power and completely at my mercy, the better chance you have of coming out of this alive.”

Aragona's eyes widened. The mention of survival had clearly piqued his interest. Because while he wasn't going to execute this petty lordling, Blackhawk knew his captive was well aware of what the bank would do to him. The suggestion of a way out was like music to the miserable Castillan.

Blackhawk leaned forward. “I am going to ask you once again, Lord Aragona.” His voice was soft, almost like that of an adult addressing a child. “Do you wish to tell me how your forces obtained imperial weaponry, or would you prefer to continue to lie to me while I set a course for Vanderon?”

Aragona sat silently, looking at Blackhawk for an instant before letting his eyes drop to the floor. It was obvious he was torn between fears. Of the bank, of Blackhawk—and of someone else, too. Blackhawk didn't imagine some imperial agent had just given him a huge cache of high-tech weapons without expecting something in return. He suspected there had also been a discussion of the consequences of treachery and failure, and Aragona's nervous fidgeting only confirmed that.

“Look at it this way.” Blackhawk's voice took on an edge, and he grabbed the sides of his captive's face, jerking hard until they were staring at each other with only a few centimeters between them. “You are afraid of them and you are afraid of me.” Blackhawk paused, the calm demeanor gone, his angry glare itself a blood-chilling threat. “But you are in
my
brig. They can threaten you”—he pulled out his sword, shoving the point hard against Aragona's neck—“but I can cut you into a pile of chunks right now and feed you to a Delphian battle cat.”

Blackhawk held his position. His blade was razor sharp, and a small trickle of blood dripped down the prisoner's neck. “So make your choice, Lord Aragona. And I will make mine. Whether to slice you open and watch you bleed to death or leave you to the tender mercies of the Far Stars Bank. Or to spare you . . . if you can make yourself useful to me.”

Aragona was defeated, and he sat trying to hold back tears. Blackhawk stared down at him with disgust in his eyes. He
didn't doubt he himself could be broken too. Anyone could. But he knew it would take a lot more than threats and the touch of a blade to his neck. Aragona was like hundreds of local bullies he'd encountered in his life. They were ruthless and cruel—when they were abusing the weak and helpless. But he'd never met one he couldn't turn to a quivering creature begging for his life.

“So what is it going to be, Aragona?” Blackhawk's voice was like death. “Because I don't have any more time to waste with you.”

Aragona looked at Blackhawk with moist, red eyes. “I will tell you what you want to know.”

Blackhawk turned away and allowed himself a brief smile. “Tell me how you got the imperial weapons,” he said, his back still turned. “Every detail. If you are cooperative enough, you may yet make a live prisoner.”

“You look like a pile of stegaroid shit.” Blackhawk stared down at Ace. His friend was deathly pale, and there were half a dozen tubes connected to his chest and arms. His hair was crusted with dried blood, and his breath was a ragged, raspy affair. “But at least you're alive, you crazy son of a bitch.”

“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.