Enemy in the Dark (13 page)

Tragonis's eyes narrowed with understanding. “You have your eyes on the chancellorship.” Vos could hear the respect in his friend's voice. Ambitious men respected ambition, and Vos understood Tragonis had just realized how high the governor of the Far Stars had set his sights.

“I do.” It was a direct question, and Vos saw no reason not to give an equally straightforward answer. “I did not come out to this forsaken shithole to get a medal and a meaningless title. I came to achieve a level of advancement not possible through
anything accomplished in the empire proper. And now that you're here, I think I can do just that. So,” he asked, “will you support me on this, Draco? Will you cast aside ambitions for petty rewards and the crumbs left after the noble-born feast on the cake?

“Will you reach for the heights of power with me?”

Vos looked across the table as Tragonis opened his mouth to reply. But he could already see from his friend's expression, his words had done their work. Draco Tragonis was with him.

“I knew there was a reason I came out here . . . besides friendship, that is. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Kergen. If you have the courage and determination to reach for it, I will join you, and together we will conquer the Far Stars.” He paused and picked up his full glass, downing it in a single gulp. “So about building this army?”

Draco Tragonis sat in his cramped quarters on the cruiser
Vandaris
. He held fiefs and manors on a dozen planets, and he was used to considerably more comfort than an imperial warship offered. But he was a longtime operative as well, the veteran of countless missions, and he'd been in far worse places, too.

That said, he was particularly averse to space travel, and crossing the Void had been like a nightmare become real. The thought of disappearing without a trace in the depths of that starless expanse struck at his deepest fears. It was only his ambition trumping this dread that allowed him to make the journey, but make it he did.

And now he was very glad to have done so.

He'd come to help Governor Vos, because they were friends, but mostly because he recognized his ally's genius and he wanted to attach himself to the victory he anticipated. It had
taken almost three months to reach Galvanus Prime, and he'd expected to remain on the firm ground of the sector capital for a good long time. Instead, he was back aboard
Vandaris
after less than a week—and willingly. He'd agreed immediately with Vos's plan to utilize his legion as a cadre to train a large army. He'd assumed that would take place on Galvanus Prime, but Vos had a different idea in mind.

Kalishar.

Tragonis had heard the name before, at least he thought it was vaguely familiar. It was way out on the periphery, a backwater even by the standards of the Far Stars. But he hadn't realized what a shithole it was until he scanned the library computer entry.

He'd almost backed out, or at least insisted the recruitment and training program be carried out on Galvanus Prime. But again, he realized Vos was right. There were probably spies all over the imperial capital, operatives working for the Far Stars Bank, the guilds, Marshal Lucerne—even the other Prime worlds. Tragonis didn't think they could raise an army anywhere without someone noticing, but they'd come a lot closer in a place like Kalishar.

The pirate haven was also a likelier spot for recruiting. Galvanus was populated mostly by imperial bureaucrats supported by a native servant class. There was very little raw material to build an army of effective soldiers. And it was in the middle of the sector, close to the Primes. The citizens of the Prime worlds had the closest thing in the Far Stars to a sense of patriotism, and besides, there was no way any of the governments of those planets would tolerate imperial agents recruiting their citizens.

The worlds along the Rim had weaker governments. They
were poor planets, offering few opportunities to the lowliest among their populations. Several were in a state of near anarchy, and many of the rest were fractured into warring factions constantly at each other's throats. It was an ideal recruiting ground.

Finally, the local monarch—an ex-pirate named Rax Florin—was one of Vos's allies, and he owed his throne to imperial support. By all accounts, the ka'al—
where do these wogs come up with these names?
—had an independent streak. But he'd sworn loyalty to Vos, and he'd seen in his own rise to the throne and the demise of his predecessor just what happened to those who failed the governor.

He will cooperate
. . .
or I will have his head removed from his body.
Tragonis had agreed to go to Kalishar and see to the training of the new army, but he'd demanded—and received—Vos's permission to handle the ka'al any way he saw fit.
I didn
'
t come all the way out to this miserable corner of space to prance around some barbarian playing at kingship.

He'd been shocked by the true extent of Vos's ambitions since their first conversation in the capitol. His ally had always been aggressive and fearless, but his plans exceeded even Tragonis's wildest aspirations. The Far Stars had resisted imperial control for nearly a millennium. If Vos's plan succeeded—if he brought the entire sector under imperial rule—it would be the greatest victory in five centuries. And he would have achieved it without any substantial military support.

Tragonis had brought his legion to the Far Stars to act as a spearhead, to lead the invasion of a key world, possibly two or three. But now he would disband it instead. His common soldiers would become corporals and sergeants, and his existing noncoms would see themselves promoted to junior officer ranks.
They would command the vast numbers of new troops he would raise, and train them until they were up to imperial standards.

His senior officers, cohort leaders and above, would have their own legions to command. And when the new units were ready, Marshal Lucerne wouldn't be the only one in the Far Stars with a large and formidable army. The struggle for dominance in the sector would change radically, and he and Vos would squeeze the defiance out of these arrogant frontier folk.

SARGE WAS LYING ON THE GROUND, HIS RIFLE POINTING AHEAD.
“Everybody okay? Sound off.”

One by one, his four troopers responded. Nobody was hit, but that hadn't been because of their skill or their fast reactions, or even luck. There was heavy fire farther down the road. Whoever was out there was ignoring them—and shooting at Blackhawk.

“We need to get to the captain.” Sarge turned his head, looking down the rubble-strewn road. “Drake, Ringo, to the right. It sounded like the captain's voice came from that side of the street. Get to his position as quickly as you can.”

“Got it, Sarge.” The two men responded almost as one, and they crawled off into the wrecked building to the right.

“Von, Buck, with me. We need to take out whoever is out there shooting at the captain.”

“With you, Sarge.”

He flipped his comm unit to the ship's frequency. “Sarge to
Wolf's Claw
.”

“
Wolf's Claw
here.” It was Lucas. “Did you find the skipper?”

“We've run into hostile fire, but yes, I think we found him. Unfortunately, I believe the captain is pinned down by a sniper approximately sixty meters ahead of my position. I do not know his condition or if he has been hit. Moving forward now.”

“Don't waste time with me, Sarge. Go get him.”

A veteran of many combat situations, he didn't need to be reminded about the task at hand, and his mind was now focused like a laser. “Von, get up to that pile of debris twenty meters forward and get yourself set. That's a strong position to support our advance.”

“Yes, Sarge.” The soldier crept forward, trying to stay low. There was another burst of fire, but it was directed at a spot up ahead. The sniper firing at Blackhawk again. There was no return fire.

Sarge put the thought out of his mind.
Captain Blackhawk is a survivor. We'll get him out.

He waited half a minute for Von to get into position. “All right, Buck, let's get down that street. Stay low. You ain't gonna save the captain by getting yourself scragged.”

The two moved slowly down the street, rifles at the ready.

“Remember, Buck, the captain's out there, too,” he said quietly. “So we don't just blast away at any sound. You make damned sure it's a hostile before you pull that trigger.”

“Got it, Sarge.”

He took another step forward, Buck following on his heels.

We
'
re coming, Captain. Just stay low, and we
'
ll be there in a minute.

Blackhawk was definitely staying low. He was on his stomach, practically holding his breath as he listened for any sounds from across the street. There was nothing but silence. Whoever was over there was good. Really good.

The sniper had given his location away with all that fire, so that meant he moved. Staying in place was a rookie mistake, and this shooter was no raw cherry. He'd never hold in a compromised position. So that begged the question:
Where'd he go?

Blackhawk crawled forward toward the wall. The wound on his back hurt, but he knew it was nothing. The bullet had barely clipped him. It was his side that really hurt. The hit he'd taken on Castilla had healed considerably, but it was still tender, and he'd slammed it hard into the ground when he took cover.

None of it mattered. Blackhawk slipped into his battle trance, and the pain moved to the back of his mind. He'd fought on in far worse shape many times, though he'd usually been better armed and equipped.

He pulled himself up to the front edge of the building, now no more than a meter-high wall surrounded by chunks of debris. He crept up toward a small gap, trying to get an idea on the sniper's location.

Suddenly, he heard something. It was coming from above—a dull roar. A few seconds later, a light gunship came into view, moving roughly toward him, hovering over the street.
Callisto
'
s men!

Blackhawk stared across the street, looking for any trace of movement. There was nothing. His attacker had simply disappeared.

“Patience, Blackhawk,” he whispered to himself.
He could be out there anywhere, just waiting for you to make a stupid mistake.

There would be Celtiborian troops behind the gunship. In a few minutes, Callisto's men would be all over this area. Blackhawk was grateful for the aid, but he was determined to catch his would-be assassin. The Celtiborians were good troops, veterans of Lucerne's great battles. But they were soldiers, and they were out of their league tracking a top-level assassin.

And even if they do, they're more likely going to kill him, rather than capture him
. . . and Blackhawk wanted answers.

The odds seemed more and more to be in his favor, but he was worried his attacker might escape. The next time they met, Blackhawk might not be as fortunate. He fought the temptation to run across the street, to frantically look for the man who was trying to kill him, knowing it was reckless. To be honest, his enemy was probably gone already, but if he wasn't . . .

It's been a long time since I've been suicidal.

So he stayed behind the shattered wall, watching and listening until he heard someone scrambling up behind him. He swung around, knife at the ready, but he relaxed immediately as he saw Drake sliding down a pile of rubble, followed by Ringo.

“You guys are a sight for sore eyes,” he said gratefully, but his frowning face was turned away from them, staring vainly across the street for a sign he knew wouldn't come.

Mox slipped between two twisted girders and continued on to the south. He'd had Blackhawk in his sights. He'd been half a second from taking him out when the bastard ducked. He knew enough about his target to realize that Blackhawk had a history of escaping close calls.
Well,
he thought,
here
'
s one more for his record.

Mox was confident, even cocky, but he was still a Sebastiani-trained assassin, and he knew when to pull back—to escape and
try again another day. Only fools, rookies, and brainless thugs stayed in a fight when the odds had shifted. Mox was none of those things. He didn't miss many opportunities, but when he did, he was smart enough to abandon the effort and flee.

He raced from one shattered building to the next, avoiding the open streets whenever possible. The Celtiborian troops would be out in force by now and on full alert. He could handle a few if he absolutely had to, but he preferred to avoid a pointless fight. A couple dead soldiers meant nothing to him one way or another, but he was far better off just slipping away. He'd get another chance at Blackhawk. He'd make sure of that.

He leaped across piles of rubble and slipped through narrow openings, all without a sound. This was where the training was most valuable. Not in the kill itself, but in the maneuver, the gracefulness. Anyone could learn to shoot, but to do so and then evade capture—that's what separated the Sebastiani from everyone else. He could hear the Celtiborians stumbling down the streets looking for him from a kilometer away. But they wouldn't find him. There was no one on this godforsaken rock with the skills to track him.

He swung around the corner, catching a shadow in the corner of his eye. He froze. It held still for an instant, and then he caught the motion. He dove to the side, but not quickly enough. A knife bit deeply into his side.

There's no way . . .

He rolled over a large chunk of twisted steel, putting distance between him and his new enemy. He flipped over onto his feet, turning to face his attacker.

There was blood pouring down his side. The blow had been a deep one, but not mortal. It was serious nevertheless. He
replayed the meditative chant in his head, using the Sebastiani art of discipline to banish the pain.

He stared back at the spot where he'd been hit. His assailant stood there, blood dripping from the knife she still held at her side.

“Hello, Mox.” Her voice was frigid and there was death in her eyes.

“Venturi,” he spat. “Why? We have no quarrel.”

“We do. You have forsaken our way, Mox. But more important, you attacked my friend. Now it is time for you to die.”

“Your friend?” Mox's voice was thick with derision. “We of the guild do not have friends. We are solitary hunters, alone, focused solely on our purpose.” He was stalling for time. He knew Katarina Venturi was one of the most gifted assassins who'd ever graduated from the guild school. He'd always rated himself the best, but now he felt the clammy grip of fear on his spine.

“Perhaps I too have strayed from the path. Because I do have friends. Indeed they are family. And you tried to kill the head of that family. For that, I claim the Askarizan, the death oath. Only your blood shall sate my vengeance.”

She crouched down, holding the knife in front of her. He opened his mouth to speak, to try to convince her this was not her fight, but her gaze told him all he needed to know. Only one of them would leave this place.

He pulled his own blade from its sheath. His wound hurt like fire, but he pushed back against the pain, directing it inward. Mox had become somewhat of a sybarite, defensive of his comfortable lifestyle, but in his heart he remained a disciple of the Sebastiani school. The toughness was still there. This was a fight to the death, and in mind and body he treated it as such.

The two combatants eyed each other warily. Katarina had drawn first blood, but Mox was standing firm, knowing he showed no weakness from his wound. He feigned an attack, then another, carefully watching his opponent's responses. This was a struggle between two natural killers, not a brawl in a tavern. The first one to let discipline fail, to make an ill-considered move, would be the one to die.

Mox could feel the tension in his muscles, the energy streaming through his body. It had been many years since he'd faced an opponent he knew could best him, and he found it exhilarating.

He watched as Katarina moved slowly to the side, her eyes fixed on his, her bloodstained blade held tightly in her hand. Her face showed no anger, no fear—no emotion at all.

Mox had managed the pain, but he knew he was losing blood from his wound. Time was not his ally in this fight. He would grow weaker with each passing second while Katarina waited for her first strike to take its toll.

I have to make a move.
His eyes darted back and forth, looking vainly for an opening to attack. But Katarina stood firm, her defenses solid. She stared back warily, but made no offensive move.

Mox felt the tension in his stomach, the fear growing—a new sensation for him. His options were few. Waiting for Katarina Venturi to make a mistake was a fool's game, a bet stacked heavily against him. He felt the darkness creeping from the back of his mind, the growing realization that he stood in death's shadow.

His hand tightened around his knife, and he lunged forward, twisting to the side, moving to get around Katarina's expected counterstrike. He jerked his upper body downward and thrust his blade toward his opponent. He felt resistance as the tip of his knife bit into her flesh, but she pulled away from
his blow before he could drive it home, leaving a spray of blood behind her rapid move.

He saw her response out of the corner of his eye, her body swinging around, the glint of her blade as she slashed at him. He tried to curb his momentum, to angle his body to avoid the attack he saw coming, but there was no time. He felt the pain as her knife struck home and sliced through his shoulder and up the side of his neck and face.

He stumbled back, his blade snapping upward in a defensive motion. He could feel the blood pouring from the ghastly wound, covering his shoulder and dripping down his arm. He called on all his discipline, willing away the terrible pain, struggling to stay focused, to remain in the fight . . .

He backed away slowly, regrouping, locking his gaze on his adversary. He felt weakness, and his sight was beginning to fail. If he didn't strike a death blow in the next few seconds, he knew he never would.

Venturi was staring at him with cold focus in her eyes. She held her knife firmly, her grip so tight her fingers were white. He could see his own attack had hurt her. There was a growing patch of red on her shirt, blood soaking through. She was leaning at an angle, favoring her injured side. But he knew she was as disciplined as he, that she had compartmentalized the pain and fear.

Mox moved slowly forward. He had the more serious injury, and he could hear the sounds of the Celtiborian troops approaching. Time was not his ally.

He took a deep breath, wincing at the pain as air flowed through his severed cheek . . . and threw himself forward with all the strength that remained to him. He thrust his arm out, blocking Katarina's attack. Her blade bit deeply into his hand,
severing two fingers, but it didn't stop his momentum. He crashed into her and they both fell hard to the ground.

He brought his knife around, swinging the point of the blade to her side, but her own hand grabbed his arm, turning the strike aside. He felt her knee against his stomach, and he gasped for air.

She kicked again, and a third time, and then she pushed with all her strength, sending him rolling off her and down the gentle hill. She scrambled to her feet, her hand dropping to her side, pulling a smaller blade from its sheath.

Mox took a painful breath. His body was weak, wracked with pain, but he channeled pure discipline and forced himself to rise. His blade was on the ground, two meters away, so he raised his hands in front of him, adopting a defensive stance.

He saw Katarina's arm, moving quickly, almost a blur. He didn't see the slim blade in her hand, or even during the fraction of a second it took to reach him. He did feel the impact on his chest. For an instant, he didn't know what had happened. Then he looked down and saw the slender throwing knife, its blade buried in his chest to the hilt.

He staggered back, his mental discipline finally failing him. He felt a rush of emotions. Shock, fear, surprise. In an instant he knew she had won, that she had killed him. Then he fell to the ground, and the darkness took him.