Enemy in the Dark (19 page)

“Very well, Legate. I will remain for the first several days to observe. Then I will go to the capital and stay with the ka'al for a few weeks. I will check back with you before I return to Galvanus Prime.” He took a deep breath and stared out over the vast camp, imagining the beehive of activity it would become as more and more recruits were shipped in.

“In any event, Legate, I will be making regular visits, perhaps every three or four months. This project is of the highest priority.”

It is the army that will conquer the Far Stars.

BLACKHAWK WAS HALFWAY DOWN THE WINDING CIRCULAR STAIR
when the lights went out. For an instant it was pitch-black, and then the emergency lights went on.

The dungeons were an ancient section of the palace, only marginally updated to modern standards. The battery-powered lights were dim, and they were spaced too far apart. It was better than total darkness, but it wasn't much more than a sort of deep inside dusk.

Blackhawk's eyes adjusted immediately. But he stopped for a second and turned back toward the Twins. “Be careful, boys. It's pretty dark, and these stairs are tricky.” He didn't want either of them to fall, and he certainly didn't want them tumbling down the stairs on top of him.

“Got it, Captain.” Tarq's voice was tense. Blackhawk could tell he was having trouble navigating his way down the staircase in the near darkness.

I wonder what caused the power failure. Coincidence? What
'
s the chance of that? Maybe one of the others?
Taking down the power hadn't been part of the plan—but it seemed like a decent way to disrupt the enemy. Blackhawk discounted Sarge immediately. The old noncom was as solid as they came, but he'd never show that kind of initiative. Not without checking in with Blackhawk first. That left Shira and Katarina.
And either of them might do just about anything they thought made sense.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped in front of a large iron door. They'd searched the other levels already, albeit quickly. They could have missed something, but if the king was down here somewhere there'd be some kind of sign. Servants, guards—something.

“You guys hang back. I'm going to scout the other side of this door. If I don't come back in two minutes, come and get me.”

“Yes, sir.” Tarnan nodded, but it was clear from his tone he didn't like the idea of Blackhawk going forward alone.

That
'
s a nice thought, old friend, but you don
'
t get a vote.

Blackhawk reached out and pushed the door slowly open. His pistol was out, ready to deal with any enemies he encountered in the hallway. He was listening carefully, but he heard nothing. He leaned through the doorway and looked quickly in both directions. The corridor was dark and dismal, with small lamps positioned every seven or eight meters. The dark stone walls seemed to soak up the light, creating a deep gloom that permeated the place.

He walked out into the hall and stopped again, listening carefully for any sounds at all. There was a small humming
noise, probably the building's power plant in the distance. He tried to discern any other sounds, but he wasn't sure. There might be something, but then again . . .

               
There are voices coming from the north end of the hallway. Estimated distance sixty to eighty meters. Lack of knowledge on layout and composition of walls and doorways accounts for the larger than usual range of values.

Whatever else he thought of the AI that shared his consciousness, Blackhawk had to admit the thing made better use of his senses than his own brain did.

Sixty-plus meters. He'd never get there and back before the Twins came to his aid, no doubt as subtly as an armored division advancing across a battlefield. He'd expected to encounter more resistance, but whoever blew the power had probably drawn away the enemy's attention. He felt a momentary rush of concern for his crew, wherever they were in the building, and his mind flashed with an image of Katarina and Shira surrounded by enemy soldiers. He shook the picture out of his head. There was no point in worrying about that now. They had managed to take some heat off him, whether they realized it or not, and he was going to use it to find the king and get to the bottom of whatever was going on.

Blackhawk ducked back into the stairwell. “You guys sit tight for ten minutes, okay?” He could see from their expressions they wanted to argue. But he knew they'd obey him. The giant brothers were simple creatures at heart, and they didn't have it in them to disobey his orders. He imagined how much more difficult it would have been to get Katarina or Shira to sit tight.

Slipping back out into the hall, he moved quickly down the north passage. He came to an intersection, and he stopped dead. Now he could hear voices, even without the AI's assistance. There were several, four or five. One of them was yelling, and at least two others seemed to be arguing.

He slowly eased his rifle off his back and double-checked the magazine. Once he whipped around the corner he knew things would move quickly. He'd have to make a split-second decision on what he faced and, if they were enemies, take them down before they did the same to him.

Blackhawk wished he had the Twins with him for the fight he suspected was coming, but the two brothers would have been too loud stomping down the corridor. He knew the entire facility had to be on alert already, and he needed to keep whatever shreds of tactical surprise he had left.

He took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly, quietly. He closed his eyes and centered himself, preparing his psyche for the battle trance. He had been bred for fighting and trained to surrender himself to his instincts in combat.

Blackhawk spun around the corner, staring straight ahead. There was a group of men standing around in a small room at the end of the hall. His eyes were focused like lasers, and he saw two of them as they began to react to his presence. He knew immediately they were enemies.

Moving instinctively down and to the side, Blackhawk ducked away from where he knew the guards would target their fire. As he did, his own gun began to spit out death, ten rounds a second ripping through the air toward his targets.

He felt time slow, as it always did when he fell into the trance. He could hear the rounds his rifle fired individually, each tenth of a second slipping by, marked by the crack of another deadly shot.

Blackhawk could feel the bullets of his enemies, too, zipping by into the empty space where he'd been standing an instant before. His eyes were locked on the figures down the hall, and he saw as the first one went down, struck by at least three of his shots.

The guard fell back, and for an instant a spray of blood filled the air where he had stood. He was still dropping backward when Blackhawk's rifle moved to the left, almost cutting another guard in half with its fire.

Two.

Blackhawk dropped to one knee, steadying himself and moving his weapon yet again, taking another guard in the head.

Three.

He let his knee give out, dropping onto his belly as a burst of fire blasted just above him. He shot again, taking his target in the leg. Then another hit in the midsection. The guard had been about to fire, but now his gun slipped from his hands as he crumpled and fell.

Four.

The last guard dove to the side, leaping for cover. Blackhawk saw him disappear behind the wall, out of sight.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. He was screwed if his enemy could bring a weapon to bear from behind cover. Blackhawk was in the middle of the corridor, with nowhere to hide.

He dropped his rifle and pushed himself up with his hands, bending his knees and springing himself forward with all his strength. He still felt as if he was operating in slow motion, conscious of every fraction of a second that ticked by. For an instant he didn't know if his push had been strong enough to take him past the corner, where he'd have a shot at his adversary.

His hand reached to his side as he lunged, whipping out his
trustworthy pistol. It was an old piece of imperial tech itself, a tiny coilgun with enough power to fire a dozen rounds at hypersonic velocities between charges.

Blackhawk swung around, bringing the gun to bear as he sailed past the corner. His enemy was turning just as he did, bringing an assault rifle—a Hellfire—around. He ignored it, pushing aside any concern about the gun's deadly projectiles. His eyes locked on his target as his finger squeezed firmly on the trigger.

Feeling the recoil as his pistol fired, he saw his enemy twist hard to the side, his own shot going wide as he did. Blackhawk hit the ground with a thud, despite his instinctive efforts to take the fall in a graceful roll. He felt the pain as his shoulder slammed into the stone floor, but he managed to hold on to his pistol as he spun around and leaped back to his feet. He turned and scanned the room, checking for any remaining threats. He was light-headed from the fall, but he forced himself to focus. He looked over at his last opponent. He was lying on his back, dead. Blackhawk's shot had taken off the top half of his head.

And that
'
s five.

He stumbled around the room, checking the others. Only one was still alive, but he wouldn't be for long. He lay in a pool of his own blood, staring up at Blackhawk in disbelief as he gasped desperately for his last few breaths.

Blackhawk stood still, breathing deeply, regularly, following the battle mantra he'd been taught so long ago. He felt his focus returning, the pain from his injured shoulder receding. He turned and scanned the room again. There was a single large door, reinforced iron with a key lock to the side.

He began searching the guards. The last one he'd killed
had a card in his pocket. Blackhawk turned and walked back to the door. Then he stopped dead.

Did I just hear
. . .

               
Multiple footsteps approaching. Estimate ten plus, approximately fifty meters down the north corridor.

Blackhawk took a deep breath and scooped up his rifle, ducking behind the corner as he ejected the clip and slammed a new one in place.

Ten more. Just great.
He paused and took another breath.
That
'
s just fucking great.

“Captain Rhemus is dead. His company is on your right flank. I want you to take command. With his men added to yours, you should be pretty close to full strength.” Colonel Martine's voice was hoarse and the tension obvious in his tone. But he was steady, and it was clear he was firmly in charge, despite the losses his regiment had taken.

“Yes, Colonel.” Zel felt a twinge in his gut. Rhemus had been his friend since the two had been junior lieutenants. He was a good officer, and he would be sorely missed—by his peers and by the men he so ably led.

And his wife and two children.

“Your people are to be commended, Captain,” Martine was saying. “You are at the forefront of the advance. One more big push and the enemy lines will break.” The colonel was a veteran, one who typically addressed a battlefield situation with calm deliberation and not wishful thinking. But now, Zel figured the regiment's commander was halfway between the two.
The vicious attacks had definitely pushed the Nordlingener forces back. But he wasn't sure they were quite on the verge of breaking. Not yet. Still, he couldn't fault Martine for needing to see some payoff for the men he'd lost. Soldiers dealt with the deaths of their comrades in many ways, but no one wanted to think their friends had died for nothing.

“Thank you, sir. The boys have been giving their all.” Zel was an enthusiastic follower of Marshal Lucerne's philosophy. Credit for victory begins at the bottom of the organizational chart, and the men in the trenches, fighting it out along the line, deserved the largest share.

“Your men have performed admirably, Captain. They are to be commended.” A short pause. “But there is little time for well-deserved rest, I'm afraid. I want you to be ready to move forward again at 1730. The entire regiment will be attacking. We're going to break the enemy lines once and for all and finish this fight.”

Zel hesitated. Half an hour wasn't much of a break for his exhausted soldiers, and it didn't give him a lot of time to consolidate his two companies. But he realized Martine was right. It was hard to push his exhausted troops so hard, but time would only benefit the enemy. They were disordered now, on the run. Staying hard on their heels was the right tactical move. And pushing his soldiers now might end the fight sooner—and save a lot of their lives in the longer run.

“Yes, sir. We'll be ready.”

“Very well, Captain. Martine out.”

Zel turned and looked over toward Sergeant Bella. He almost hit the communicator clipped to his collar to call the noncom, but Bella was only twenty yards away. “Sergeant Bella,” he yelled.

The veteran turned and ran over. “Sir!”

“Bella, I need you to go to Captain Rhemus's company command post straightaway. Rhemus is dead, and we're merging what's left of their formation with ours. Figure out who is left over there and tell them to take position on our right, extending our line from Tarik's platoon.” Zel could have called over on the comm, but he suspected things were a mess after Rhemus's death. He only had half an hour, and he knew Bella would see his orders carried out. The sergeant was a twenty-year veteran, and Zel was sure he wouldn't let some half-hysterical lieutenant push him around.

“Yes, sir.” Bella didn't salute. By all accounts, the enemy had pulled back completely, but the company was still in the battle zone.

“Go, Sergeant. And if anybody gives you shit, call me immediately.” Zel nodded. “Dismissed.”

Zel turned and looked out over his men. They were sitting on rocks, piles of debris, anything that got them off the wet, muddy ground. Most of them were still eating. It was the first real meal they'd had in two days, and the chance to eat something other than a nutrition bar was something veteran soldiers rarely passed up.

He would have to get them up and organized for the attack soon, but for now he'd let them have another fifteen minutes of rest, miserable reward though it was for what they'd been through. Then he would order them back into the line. And more of them would die.

Blackhawk had his back pressed up against the cold stone wall. He pulled the release on his rifle, sending another spent cartridge flying across the room. He reached around his belt for his last one.