Enemy in the Dark (18 page)

“Be careful, guys. I know you think nothing can take you down on one shot, but those guns are no joke. Sarge caught one of those rounds in the shoulder on Saragossa, and he came a hairsbreadth from losing his arm.”

“Got it, Captain.” Tarq was standing right behind Blackhawk, his brother a few meters farther back. Blackhawk was no one's idea of a small man, but the hulking warriors towered
over him. It felt comforting knowing that two giants seemingly plucked from some primitive world's mythology had his back.

Blackhawk pulled a grenade from his belt and sighed. “Well, I guess surprise is out the window already anyway.” He leaned forward and tossed the weapon around the corner. “Down, boys,” he yelled to the Twins, and he hunched lower, putting his hands over his head.

The explosion was loud, and a jet of flame burst down the hallway from the direction of the guards. The fire had stopped.

Blackhawk swung around the corner, whipping his rifle from his back as he did. He was ready to unload on full auto, but he held his fire. The guards were gone, blown to bits by the heavy incendiary grenade. He looked around as he ran down the corridor.
Three,
he thought.
There had been three guards.

At least that's what it looked like from the body parts.

“Let's go, guys,” he yelled back to the Twins. “We've damned sure announced our presence, so we better keep moving.”

“DeMark's troops seem to be making serious progress. They've advanced almost twenty kilometers since the attack began.” Ace sat at his station on the
Claw,
trying to hold his exhausted body upright. He'd taken half a dozen stims already, and he didn't dare pop another one, not unless things got really hairy. He was pretty sure if Doc knew he'd taken this much, he'd be in trouble. He'd argued so hard that he was capable of manning his post, he'd half convinced himself. But his body was delivering a harsh reminder that he was far from recovered and ready for duty.

None of that mattered, though. His friends were down there, and he was going to stay at the needle gun controls until everyone was back on board.

“I thought they were just mounting a diversion.” Lucas was
leaning back in his chair. He'd pulled the
Claw
up a couple of kilometers and engaged the nav AI. The field was keeping them effectively invisible, but it did nothing to mask sound. And the
Claw
's engines were working hard to keep the ship airborne, not a quiet undertaking by any measure. They'd be a lot harder to detect up here where no one could hear them, and if Blackhawk needed help, they could still be ten meters above the palace in a few seconds.

“That's what I thought, too.” Ace leaned over his board, wincing as he did. His chest felt like someone had hit it with a hammer, and the rest of his body wasn't much better. Just about every movement hurt.

He pulled up a series of maps on his screen, superimposing the scanner data on top of them. “This definitely isn't a diversion—it's an all-out attack.” He started to turn to glance over at Lucas, but he winced at the pain and decided it wasn't worth it.

“Well, if anything, it will only get more of the enemy's attention. If the Celtiborians are really breaking through, that will give the Nordlingeners something to focus on.”

“Let's hope.” Ace's voice was edgy. Diversions aside, he knew how dangerous a mission this was. The chance of the others making it back—all of them—was pretty damned poor. He knew he couldn't go along, but sitting on the
Claw,
waiting to see if his friends survived the next few hours, was torture.

They
'
ll make it. Blackhawk will bring them all back. I know he will.
Ace tried to convince himself, but the doubt still tugged at him. Visions of the mission on Castilla kept going through his head. He knew they'd barely made it out of there, and ever since he'd been unable to get it out of his mind. He'd been in tough scrapes before, more than he could count, but it was different this time.

Maybe you can only laugh at death so many times
. . .

“Where is the king?” Blackhawk wasn't shouting, but his voice was threatening nevertheless. He was pretty sure the man cowering in front of him was some kind of low-level palace staff, a cook or member of the cleaning crew. But this prisoner was what he had to work with. He and the Twins had run into over a dozen guards, but they hadn't managed to take any live prisoners. Until now.

They had managed to find the king's apartments, but the rooms had been empty, and from the layers of dust on the furniture, they hadn't been used for some time.

“I don't know.” The man was kneeling on the floor, trying to summon the courage to look up at Blackhawk. “They took him. They took him away.”

Blackhawk grabbed the man by the shoulder and jerked him up hard. He felt a small wave of guilt for tormenting the poor servant, but fear—unlike time—was his ally. If he could scare the captive into telling him everything, he wouldn't have to hurt him.
I'd much rather release the poor bastard instead of gutting him like a fish.

“Took him where?” He stared into the man's eyes, almost melting the miserable captive with his glare. Blackhawk listened to the man whimpering unintelligibly for a few seconds, and then he grabbed harder and yelled, “Where?”

“T-t-to the lower levels, the . . . the old d-dungeon.”

“Where is it?” Blackhawk loosened his grip on the man's shoulders. “How do I get there?”

The man cowered miserably, but he didn't say anything.

“How?” Blackhawk pulled his sword from its sheath.

“My people have served the royal family for over a century.”
The man was clearly trying to summon his courage, with only moderate success. His eyes locked on Blackhawk's well-worn blade. “No . . . please.”

“I am not here to harm your king. And I don't want to hurt you.” He glared at the sobbing man. “But I will if I have to. Now tell me how to get to the king.”

The man was crying piteously, barely able to speak intelligibly. “G-go down the h-hallway. Turn left. There is . . .” The man slid down slowly, falling into a heap at Blackhawk's feet.

“There is what? Finish.” Blackhawk softened his tone slightly.

“A large metal door.” He sucked in a deep breath, struggling to hold back his sobs. “It leads down to the sublevels. To the dungeons.”

“And where is the king? Those levels must be huge.” Blackhawk looked up at the Twins, motioning for them to start down the hallway.

“I don't know.”

Blackhawk tightened his grip again and pulled the man's face up toward his.

“I don't know, I really don't know. Please . . .”

Blackhawk raised his blade and brought the hilt down hard on the man's head. He fell backward, unconscious, but very much alive. Blackhawk knew it was a risk leaving anyone alive, but he did it anyway. Murdering a servant in the name of efficiency was something his imperial enemies did, not him. Not anymore.

He stood up and slid the sword back in its sheath. Then he took one last look behind him and trotted off after the Twins.

Katarina slipped through the open door, quickly, silently. She and Shira had managed to remain hidden. They'd dispatched
the few guards they'd encountered quickly and quietly. Katarina had taken two of them down with her throwing knives, and Shira had slit the throat of another with the heavy combat knife she carried on her belt.

There was something about the guards that was bothering Katarina. They didn't look much like the other Nordlingeners. The planet's inhabitants tended to be very fair-skinned, with blond or light brown hair and slight of build. But two of the guards were markedly different, stocky with thick black hair. The observation probably meant nothing. Even on a planet with near-universal genetic similarities in the population, there were those who differed from the norm, often significantly. But she'd been trained to notice every detail of a situation and to separate out anomalies.

She looked around the room carefully, her eyes moving across every millimeter. Sebastiani training covered many areas of discipline, but paramount over them all was
irishu,
the sense of awareness. Sight, sound, even the vague sensation of instinct—things like the proverbial bad feeling—were deemed important. A Sebastiani assassin might be bested in battle, but she should never be surprised by an enemy.

The room housed rows of machinery, pumps and conduits that were part of the massive mechanical systems providing water and heat to the many chambers of the palace. There was a faint hum in the background.

She turned and glanced at Shira, then she pointed toward a large metal box on the wall. “I think that is an electrical routing station. We may be able to cut the power to much of the palace, at least temporarily.” Unspoken was the question—would that be helpful or not?

Shira walked up to the box and slid the small door open.
It was indeed full of wiring and circuits. “I think you're right. Should we blow it?”

Katarina was silent for a few seconds. She wasn't accustomed to indecisiveness, but now she didn't know what to do. A power failure would alert the guards, though they might attribute it to mechanical problems and not an attack. Regardless, it might put them on a heightened alert. “As long as we're undetected, I think we should leave it alone. Let's see if . . .”

She stopped abruptly and held up her hand. “There. Do you hear that?” It was distant, somewhere far away in the massive structure, but she was sure. Gunfire.

“Yes, I think I just heard it too.” She turned to face Katarina. “Ark? Sarge and his people?”

Katarina just nodded. There was no way of knowing, but the odds were it was one of the other teams. “So much for our surprise. Maybe we should rethink this circuit . . .”

They turned simultaneously at the sound of a loud boom, an explosion of some kind. Whatever doubt Katarina had was now gone. The enemy knew they were there.

She turned and glanced at her companion. Shira just nodded. Katarina pulled the carbine from her back, and she smashed the butt of the weapon into the circuit box.

A shower of sparks cascaded around her, but the lights stayed on. She flashed a quick look back toward Shira, and then she hit the circuit board again, harder this time. There was a blinding flash this time, and then the room went dark.

WILHELM SAT IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM, STARING ACROSS THE
table at Danellan Lancaster. The patriarch of the wealthiest family in the Far Stars was white as a sheet. He looked like he might be sick at any moment, and Wilhelm realized the enormity of his predicament—and his own hubris—had finally sunk in.

Lancaster had a difficult choice to make. To fight the governor or to yield and succumb to his demands. His choice would be a true test of the man.

Wilhelm had played his hand perfectly, and he could see in his adversary's eyes how deeply the fear ran. Danellan Lancaster was afraid of losing his company, the legacy of his family for twenty-five generations. Wilhelm had understood that
all along, and he'd made his moves accordingly. The imperial agent knew Lancaster had the strength to fight back, to resist his demands, but it all depended on Lancaster seeing past the risks. Wilhelm had played up those hazards, a carefully choreographed routine intended to convince Danellan his only choice was to ally himself with Kergen Vos.

The facts were less clear-cut. While Governor Vos had indeed managed to purchase over 30 percent of the outstanding shares of the giant conglomerate—threatening the beleaguered master of Lancaster Interests with a stake almost as large as that controlled by his family—the matter was far from concluded. And if Danellan Lancaster held firm, the contest for control could go either way. Now, Wilhelm would find out for certain if he'd faced down the Lancaster patriarch—or if a brutal fight lay ahead.

Wilhelm knew Lancaster had the tools to mount that fight, to challenge the governor's takeover attempt. The imperial move was half bluff. Yes, the governor could command the resources to outbid the Lancasters for the remaining stock needed for ironclad control. But that didn't mean they could find the shares to buy. The 31 percent Vos had already acquired was the low-hanging fruit, the stock readily available in the market. Much of the rest was held deep in multitiered family trusts or institutional endowments, where any sale involved endless bureaucracy. Purchasing those shares could take months, even years, and if word leaked that the empire was the buyer, the whole scheme would collapse.

Other holdings were owned by close allies of the Lancasters, and Wilhelm was counting on Danellan's fear to blind him to his chances to call on their loyalty, on their willingness to hold their shares with his to form a controlling bloc. While he
couldn't match the governor's bids on a purely cash basis, a large percentage of his shareholders did long-term business with Lancaster Interests, relationships that often dated back centuries. There were many permutations and agreements to be made with the right negotiation.

But, for all his wealth and power, Lancaster was proving to be a moral coward. Wilhelm's gut told him his adversary didn't have the strength for a fight with such grand stakes, nor the willingness to risk total defeat in a bid for total victory.

Silas Grosvenor sat at his side. Wilhelm knew the capable aide had tried to warn Lancaster, that he had been suspicious of the mysterious move against the stock long before his arrogant master. There wasn't a doubt in Wilhelm's mind that Grosvenor would have shown him the door by now if it had been his decision.

But it wasn't his choice. Sure, Grosvenor would continue to counsel resistance, but that was all he could do. If Lancaster didn't capitulate soon, he'd have to do something about Grosvenor, something with a significant degree of finality. A well-timed accident might do more than just remove an obstacle—it might make a point to Lancaster. A reminder that Kergen Vos had weapons in his arsenal beyond simple financial maneuvers.

“So, Danellan.” Wilhelm's voice was controlled, disciplined. He continued to call Lancaster by his first name, though the terrified industrialist had reverted to calling him General Wilhelm. “What will it be? Profitable cooperation and a bright future together or a proxy fight and financial ruin?” He made sure to sound as if he didn't particularly care, though he was hoping Lancaster would capitulate so he could get back to Galvanus Prime. Antilles was a comfortable enough spot, far preferable to shitholes like Kalishar and Saragossa, where many of
the more junior agents had been sent. But he longed to return to Vos's side, to be there as the great plan continued to unfold.

“I have several questions regarding various aspects of your proposal, General Wilhelm.” Wilhelm could tell Lancaster was trying to sound resolute, but the weakness behind it was obvious.

He sighed hard. “I have had my people at the disposal of your staff for almost a week now.” He paused, deliberately sighing again. “If this is your way of stalling, I can assure you . . .”

“General Wilhelm, I assure you I am not stalling. But if we can just focus on these matters of concern.” Lancaster looked across the table at Wilhelm, who nodded for him to go on.

“You wish for me to appear to proceed with the development plans for the worlds conquered by Marshal Lucerne, but in actuality, we will be serving primarily as cover for you to sneak soldiers and weapons onto the planets with the ultimate goal of seizing control from the Far Stars Confederation.”

“Yes, in essence that is correct.” Wilhelm glared across the table. “Is that a problem?”

“Of course it is! General, the cost of initiating planetwide programs like those proposed are enormous. While I am not above skimming easy profits, if we divert the focus to providing cover for your armies instead of building factories and digging mines, there will be no return. No financial return that is.” He paused again. “Lancaster Interests will bleed to death of a thousand cuts. Our investments will be lost, with no income to offset them.”

Wilhelm sat for a few seconds. He knew what he was going to say, but he wanted to let Lancaster stew a bit. “I would hate to go back to the governor and tell him your commitment to our plans is halfhearted, Danellan.”

“I assure you,” Danellan replied, “if we proceed, we will do everything necessary to assist you in achieving success.”

Wilhelm felt a wave of amusement. He couldn't help but think that Lancaster
'
s lies weren
'
t even good ones.
I can see what a loyal ally you are right now, you piece of carnasoid dung, watching how easily you sell out Marshal Lucerne. Who, by the way, will crucify you if he finds out about this.

Lucerne was the part of the whole plan that had Wilhelm worried. If he found out about Vos's moves on Lancaster and the Far Stars Bank, there was no way of knowing what he would do. His reaction might be swift, and extremely violent. Wilhelm had discussed it with Vos before he'd left for Antilles, but the governor seemed less concerned about it. It was one of the few areas where Wilhelm thought Vos himself was being careless. Unless the governor had plans he hadn't yet disclosed to his second in command, that is.

Which I wouldn't put past him.

He stared at Lancaster. “I am gratified to hear what a loyal ally you will be, and I can assure you that we have no desire to bankrupt Lancaster Interests. So let us say that the governor will provide an annual stipend of one billion imperial crowns for Lancaster Interests' services on the worlds in dispute.” The words
one billion
seemed to have their effect. Lancaster was interested, but there was still doubt in his eyes.

And here I sweeten the pot—and close the trap.

“Further, once each world is secured as part of the new imperial demense, Lancaster shall have a monopoly hold on the subsequent exploitation of all resources. We will give you what Marshal Lucerne offered, minus the need to pretend to care about the indigenous populations or play at allowing other firms to participate.” The doubt in Lancaster's eyes was quickly replaced with a sparkle. “You may squeeze these planets dry, Danellan. Subject to a 25 percent imperial levy, of course.”

Wilhelm had to fight to hold back a smile. He'd hit Lancaster right at his greatest dream. The fool would imagine himself becoming a true robber baron, stripping dozens of worlds of their resources, all without having to hide it from the prying eyes of an idealist like Augustin Lucerne. He knew Lancaster was already counting the untold billions in profit his company would reap. Lancaster Interests would achieve total economic domination of the Far Stars.

For as long as Governor Vos thought it was advantageous to allow it, at least.

Wilhelm stared across the table. He knew he'd offered an enormous bribe, one he wasn't sure Governor Vos would sanction. But none of that mattered. When Lancaster had served his purpose, the governor could reevaluate. If he was still useful, he would remain an ally. If not, well, he wouldn't be the first powerful man to disappear without a trace.

“So what will it be, Danellan? The time for a decision is now. This offer is contingent on immediate acceptance.”

Wilhelm glanced at Grosvenor. The aide looked to be on the verge of an apoplectic fit, but he sat silently. Lancaster had forgotten his adviser completely, and Wilhelm knew the fool was lost in dreams of untold riches.
Greed. How many men have been ensnared by its siren call?

“Very well, General Wilhelm. I am with you.” He paused. “But first, I want an ironclad guarantee that control of the company will be returned to the Lancaster family. The price of my cooperation is the transfer of your shares to my family's trust. All of them.” He paused. “At no cost. Consideration for services rendered.”

Wilhelm was impressed at Lancaster's audacity.
Is a traitor
'
s guilt less egregious,
he wondered,
when the price of treason is so
incalculably high? How many men could turn down such an astonishing reward? Not many, I suspect. But some. Marshal Lucerne for one. And probably the mysterious Arkarin Blackhawk. They are the true obstacles to victory, the dangerous enemies, not weak men like Lancaster, who can be bought or sold like melons in a marketplace
.

“Very well, Danellan. I accept your terms. The shares will be returned. But we shall hold them as your word bond, and they will be released to you only after Augustin Lucerne and his confederation have been destroyed.” He allowed a small smile to slip onto his mouth. “And now that we are truly aligned, we have much to gain from Lucerne's defeat, do we not?”

Tragonis stared out over the vast city of tents and portable shelters, stretching across the barren desert. He'd known in theory that his ships were packed with everything needed to build a giant base almost overnight, but seeing it actually come into being was still a sight to see.

One week after setup began, Camp Kalishar was open for business. The eight thousand men of his legion—the ones who had survived the crossing—were divided into cadres, and the first of the recruits were already arriving. They were just a small taste of what was to come, and imperial agents were swarming around the periphery of the Far Stars, seeking every down-on-his-luck criminal or unemployed peasant they could find. Men like Augustin Lucerne chose their soldiers with great care, but the imperial way was different, its methods based on the idea that any man can be broken and rebuilt in the image of a soldier of the empire.

The vermin and outcasts who accepted the imperial bounty would soon discover they were in for an ordeal like nothing they had experienced. The training program was long and brutal,
designed to weed out those without the potential to become disciplined soldiers. And in the imperial military, being “weeded out” meant dying in training. There would be only two ways out of Camp Kalishar—as a graduate and a soldier in one of the new legions, or as a corpse destined for the reclamation center.

Tragonis knew the death rate in imperial training facilities was about 15 percent, but he suspected it would be far higher out here in the middle of nowhere. These Far Stars dwellers varied enormously. There were educated Prime worlders and wild inhabitants of the frontiers, merchant princes and penniless scavengers. He decided he'd be satisfied if half of them made it. As for the rest—that was the cost of building an army. And there were always ways to process excess bodies, even if they just ended up in the food supply of Kalishar's poor. The Kalisharis were practically animals anyway, and protein was protein.

“We're starting the basic training regimen for the first class tomorrow. We have ten thousand recruits ready to go.” Hailus Fuering was an imperial legate and the commander of the Eighty-Second Legion. His soldiers were dispersed now, his elite combat unit broken apart, turned into the cadre for an army a hundred times as large. Fuering would be the field commander of that force. Like most imperial officers and ministers, his career was an ongoing exercise in gaining power. And he was about to take an enormous leap forward. If he led this new army to victory, he would return to the empire in glory, and leapfrog his peers who would still be commanding individual legions.

Tragonis nodded. “You have your work cut out for you here, Legate. I question the quality of the raw material. And the governor's plans call for a much larger force. Your class of ten thousand recruits will be an anomaly. We will be increasing that tenfold at least for subsequent drafts.”

“You needn't worry, General Tragonis. With an entire legion of veterans as cadre and training staff, we can make soldiers out of whatever human debris your recruiters bring us. The ones who do not have what it takes will die in training, and they will serve a purpose in that, instilling fear and motivation in the others. The Eighty-Second is a strong unit, heavy with veterans. I can promise you we will build the army you need.”

“I needn't express the rewards for success, Legate, save to say that subjugating the Far Stars will be an enormous accomplishment, one certain to enhance the careers of all involved.”

“I thank you for your words, General. But your word of command is sufficient.”

Bullshit,
Tragonis thought, but protocol still required such protestations. Fuering understood just what was at stake—what he had to gain . . . and lose.