Enemy in the Dark (32 page)

Cedric Kandros was bleeding from a dozen cuts, and his left arm was broken, twisted out at an obscene angle. Katarina been far from gentle, but she hadn't killed him either. She'd wanted to. But something had stopped her short of the fatal blow, and she had brought the prisoner back to Blackhawk. Now the wretched creature stood in front of the entire crew, facing his own nightmarish judgment day.

Kandros's people were all dead, lying on the blood-soaked floors of the landing bay. Even the massive Mallock Debarnan was sprawled on the ground just outside the
Claw,
his enormous neck broken in an epic struggle where Tarnan's sheer strength and rage had won the victory.

Blackhawk looked back toward the sick bay station, to the unmoving form lying on the sole cot. He felt sick to his stomach, and his joints tightened with unfocused rage. He knew his people felt the same, that despite having killed all of Kandros's people, their bloodlust still howled for satiety. They faced a desperate struggle still ahead, a race to stop a pointless and tragic war. But they knew, even if they prevailed, there would be no sweetness to their victory. Today they had lost one of their own. Tarq had been a great warrior, a fiercely loyal member of the crew, and he'd saved more than one of their lives.

And I just killed him,
Blackhawk thought morosely.
I chose the life of another man, a stranger, a moral coward who had treated with the enemy . . . over my friend.
He tried to tell himself he had cho
sen the millions on Antilles . . . and the billions in the Far Stars, but even though it was true, it felt hollow, empty.
Tarq is dead, abandoned by the man he trusted most. Me.

Blackhawk turned away from Tarq's body and walked over toward Kandros, stopping just a few centimeters from the man's face. He stared at the captive, and his eyes held icy death. “Crowns?” he spat. “You did this for crowns? To collect a blood price placed on me by minions of the empire?” His voice was thick with rage, with roiling hatred.

“Your men are dead, Kandros. All of them. Was it worth it? Your greed brought you—and them—to this. And now you will pay the price, as those who followed you already have.”

He turned and walked back toward the cot, looking down for a few seconds at Tarq's lifeless form. He felt the fury coursing through his body, the need for blood, the lust for vengeance. He leaned down and grabbed Tarq's belt, lying discarded at the side of the bed in a pool of partially congealed blood.

He held it up, pulling the heavy, notched survival knife from the sheath. His hands were still covered with blood—his friend's blood. He drew his hand across his face, smearing streaks down his cheeks, scarlet warpaint, a silent tribute. For now he would take vengeance for his fallen comrade.

He walked slowly toward Kandros. The mercenary was conscious, his eyes wide with fear. He struggled to free himself, but Tarnan's grip was like a vise. He whimpered as Blackhawk approached, but no words could come forth from the gruesome wreckage of his mouth. Katarina had hit him hard with his own rifle butt, shattering his teeth and turning his face into a bloody mess.

“This is what you have earned, Cedric Kandros,” Blackhawk said, every word dripping slowly from his mouth, like venom
from a cobra's fang. “Now you die, you piece of garbage, and I will leave your body to rot until even the carrion birds are turned sick at your stench.”

He moved right up to Kandros, his eyes just a few centimeters from those of his victim.

He moved the blade forward, slowly, steadily. He felt the resistance of Kandros's skin for an instant, then a small pop as the heavy blade penetrated.

Blackhawk stared into Kandros's eyes as he shoved the blade deeper, pushing slowly, so slowly. His victim whimpered, tried to scream through the broken wreckage of his mouth, spitting out blood and shattered bits of tooth as he did. His eyes looked into Blackhawk's, a silent plea for mercy. But they met only coldness, a frigid stare like the icy depths of space. Kandros's hopelessness and despair only energized Blackhawk, and he twisted the knife harder, drawing the last waves of agony from his dying victim.

Tarnan and Katarina tightened their grip as Kandros began to slide down, his own body surrendering the last of its strength. Blackhawk could see the cloudiness in Kandros's eyes as death began to take him, but his victim still convulsed in pain as he shoved the blade upward, slicing from the abdomen to the chest.

“And now I send you to hell, Cedric Kandros.” He shoved the blade hard, again and again, slicing and tearing through the mercenary's body. Blackhawk was covered in blood, but still he kept thrusting, until finally he took a step back and let the blade drop to the floor.

He stood there drenched in blood, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing.
You were a great warrior, Tarq Bjergen, and a loyal companion. Take what solace you can. Your comrades in arms
have avenged you.
He paused, struggling to hold back the grief threatening to overwhelm him.
And forgive me, my friend, if you can. Though I doubt I will ever forgive myself.

Blackhawk remained still, his mind deep in dark places. He'd longed for vengeance, ached to make Kandros pay for what he'd done. He wasn't proud of it, but he knew it was true. Cedric Kandros had deserved no better than he'd gotten, but Blackhawk reminded himself yet again that the darkness he'd run from for two decades was still inside him. He'd felt the savagery, the raw brutality, like a beast released from its cage.

He knew the satisfaction of the kill was a poor substitute for a friend who was now gone, that gruesomely killing Kandros wouldn't bring Tarq back. He'd have chased Kandros to the ends of the Far Stars for vengeance, but in the end it was hollow and empty, as he knew it would be. The pain of loss was still keen, as it always was.

He forced himself back to the present. There was no time for mourning or self-doubt. Those were indulgences that would have to wait.

He knew the entire crew was staring at him, and he could only imagine what they were thinking. The
Claw
's crew had always been like a family, standing side by side against any danger, and trusting one another without question. That was what Blackhawk had built, and it had been the proudest accomplishment of his life.
And now I've destroyed it.
He didn't know how his people would react to what had happened, but he was sure of one thing. Nothing would ever be the same.

He forced himself to lift his eyes, to look at each of his crew members in turn, returning their stunned stares. All but Tarnan. For all Blackhawk's strength and courage, for the raging darkness deep inside that drove him ceaselessly forward, he
couldn't bring himself to face Tarq's brother. Not yet.
Will I ever be ready?

He forced himself from his introspection. He didn't have time for this now. If they didn't hurry, it would be too late to stop the war. And then his terrible decision would be futile. He'd have killed his friend for nothing.

“Lucas, Sam . . . we have to get out of here. We're out of time.”

“ALL ANTILLEAN PERSONNEL, THIS IS THE VESSEL
WOLF'S CLAW.
We are launching in thirty seconds, with or without clearance. We do not wish to injure anyone, so please clear the area around the ship immediately.”

Blackhawk sat in his command chair. He'd expected to have Danellan Lancaster on the bridge, arranging launch clearance with one of his government cronies. But Lucas's father was on the lower deck, badly wounded and unconscious. Blackhawk had almost ordered Doc to pump the Antillean full of uppers and get him to the bridge, but he held back. He needed Lancaster awake and alert to deal with Marshal Lucerne, and he wasn't sure just how much the wounded man had left in him, even with Doc's pharmaceutical assistance. After what he'd
done to save the industrialist's life, Blackhawk wasn't about to let the bastard die—not until he'd served his purpose. After that, he honestly didn't give a shit.

Blackhawk looked like hell. His clothes were soaked with blood. Some of it was his, some Tarq's, which was still smeared across his face in his own primal tribute to his fallen friend. But most of it was from the men he'd killed, Cedric Kandros and his people. The crew of
Wolf's Claw
had been hurt, and one of them lost forever. But no one from
Iron Wind
had escaped.

“Vessel
Wolf's Claw,
this is Major Pollis of the Antillean Defense Force. You are ordered to power down immediately and surrender. You will not be allowed to leave Antilles. If you do not comply and exit your vessel, we will open fire.”

Blackhawk sighed grimly. He'd never liked being told what he was and wasn't
allowed
to do, and he rarely let inconvenient rules interfere with his actions. Besides, it was an empty threat. Pollis's troops had small arms only, nothing that could pierce the
Claw
's armor. Until they managed to get a tank or some heavy weapons sent in, Blackhawk could just ignore them.

“Lucas, get us out of here. Now.” He sighed again. He knew some of the men surrounding his ship would be incinerated when Lucas fired the engines. He had warned them, though, and that was all he could do. If he didn't get the
Claw
off Antilles and close enough to contact Marshal Lucerne, the cost would be incalculable—to everyone, not least the Antilleans themselves.

“Fire a half-second burst. Then wait ten seconds before you fully engage,” he added.
Maybe they will run at the first small blast.
It was a chance, at least, to send some soldiers back to their families that night instead of killing them pointlessly.

“Got it, sir.” Lucas's voice was strange, distracted. Blackhawk
knew the last day had been difficult for all of them. Beyond all they had been through, the pilot's estranged father lay on the lower deck, badly wounded, and despite his repeated protestations about not caring, Blackhawk knew his young pilot's true emotions were vastly more complex and confusing.

The ship shook as Lucas fired a quick pulse from the thrusters. He sat quietly, eyes locked on the timer, waiting to engage the main engines.

Come on, guys. You know you can
'
t stop the takeoff. Run. Get behind cover.
Blackhawk nodded to no one in particular. He'd done all he could. There just wasn't any more time.

“Liftoff in three . . . two . . . one . . .”

Wolf's Claw
shook hard for a few seconds as the massive output of its engines overcame Antilles's gravity and pushed the ship up from the landing bay.

Blackhawk felt the g-forces pushing him hard into his seat. The dampeners reduced the effect the crew felt inside the ship, but takeoff was still a rough ride by any measure.

“As fast as you can, Lucas.” Blackhawk was sure his pilot knew what to do. Giving the order was as much for him as for Lucas. The hardest times for a commander were the ones where there was nothing to do but sit and wait. Blackhawk hated feeling ineffectual.

“Pushing it right to the edge, sir.” A short pause. “Altitude five kilometers.”

Blackhawk knew the Antillean forces were scrambling to face Lucerne's fleet, rushing strength to meet the threat. Hopefully, that would give the
Claw
a chance to slip away. She was faster than anything in the Antillean fleet, so maybe, just maybe, if enough vessels had already been dispatched to the outer system . . .

“Shira, you better get down to the turrets. We don't want a fight here, but we've
got
to get to Lucerne. At any cost.” He paused. “And see if . . . Tarnan is up to manning the other gun.”

“Yes, Captain.” Shira's voice crackled through his headset. Her tone was stilted, unusually formal.

“No,” he heard on the comm, in the distance behind Shira. “I'll go.” It was Ace. His voice was weak, and Blackhawk imagined him standing there about to fall over.

“Forget it, Ace. You sound like shit. Get back to bed.”

“C'mon, Captain. Listen to me. If we get into it with the Antilleans, we have to disable them, not blow them away. You need your best shots in the turrets. And that's me.” He paused. “And then Shira. And you can't send Tarnan. Not now.”

Blackhawk stared emotionlessly forward. Ace was right, and he knew it. And their lives were all at stake.
It
'
s not like Ace
'
s life wouldn
'
t be in danger lying in his cot
.
If we get blown to bits, he dies too
. “All right, Ace, but if you can't manage it, I expect you to tell me straight out.”

“I promise, Captain.” Blackhawk didn't believe it for a second. He wondered if Ace did.

No—I
'
ll find Ace dead in that chair before he
'
d tell me he couldn
'
t handle it.

“Fifty kilometers,” Lucas said. “Passing lower orbital threshold in twenty seconds.”

Blackhawk nodded. “Full thrust as soon as we clear orbit, Lucas. We're on borrowed time here.”

“I'm ready, sir.” The strain in Lucas's voice was clear. “Should be about four more minu—” His head snapped around. “Bogies, Ark. Multiple contacts in pursuit.”

Fuck.
“Time until they're in range?”

“Not enough. Two minutes, maybe two and a half.”

“Prepare evasive maneuvers.”
That will slow us down, but we don
'
t have a choice.

“Yes, sir.”

Blackhawk hit the comm switch. “Shira, Ace, you guys better get a move on. Looks like we've got a shitstorm heading our way.”

Two fleets were approaching each other in the emptiness of space. They were among the largest forces of war ever gathered in the Far Stars. Both were on full alert, their crews at their stations, ready for combat. One was in perfect battle formation, arrayed for the fight to come. The other, somewhat smaller, was still gathering, its scattered units rushing to take their places in the battle line.

Deep in the control center of the
Glorianus,
Marshal Augustin Lucerne sat quietly, lost in thought, as the razor-sharp instrument of war he'd spent his life building hurtled toward its greatest test.

This wasn't the war he'd imagined, the righteous struggle he'd prepared so long to fight. The ships his forces approached should be allies, not enemies, but once again betrayal and treachery had destroyed the best-laid plans. The spacers manning those ships were innocent, he knew. At least the vast majority of them. But they would die all the same, their lives forfeit because of the actions of their corrupt and duplicitous leaders.

Many of his own people would be lost too, Lucerne realized. Men who served him loyally, who trusted him to lead them . . . thousands would never return home again, leaving behind broken families and orphaned children. They would die in space, far from home. They would die because faithless men had betrayed their promises.

Lucerne tried to tell himself all that, but he also knew they
would die because of
him,
because of his unbreakable, unbendable will. He would pursue his dreams of confederation until they were reality—or until he breathed his last ragged breath. He'd always considered strong will to be a virtue, but now he wondered if too much was as great a sin as too little. Was it arrogance driving him forward so relentlessly? Pride?

“Incoming message . . .” The communications officer looked back at Lucerne, who gestured toward Admiral Desaix. “Incoming message, Admiral,” the lieutenant repeated, now staring at the fleet admiral. “We are ordered to leave the system at once and under no circumstances are we to move closer in than three billion kilometers from the primary.”

Desaix looked over at Lucerne. The marshal sat completely still, not moving, hardly breathing, staring down at the floor. Finally, he turned toward the admiral and nodded his head. Simple, wordless, but completely understood. It was his authorization to start a war.

“They're coming in from multiple directions now.” Lucas Lancaster's voice was frazzled, but still strong with confidence. Blackhawk understood well. Battle was dangerous and deadly—and often wasteful. But it had a way of consuming the mind, and driving away other thoughts and concerns. At this moment, he knew Lucas wasn't a confused scion of a powerful family or the estranged son of a man he wasn't sure if he loved or hated. Or an adventurer mourning the death of a friend and comrade. He was the pilot of
Wolf
'
s Claw
and nothing more. He was undoubtedly afraid, as anyone sane was in battle, but the other emotions that had been tormenting him were gone. Blackhawk knew they'd be back, that his pilot would again face his own personal demons, but right now he didn't think Lucas gave a
damn. He had one purpose, to pilot the
Claw
through whatever was coming, and that required everything he had to offer.

“Do your best, Lucas.” Blackhawk's hand was on the comm unit, waiting to hit the button and give the order for Shira and Ace to open fire. His hand felt like a block of ice. He knew how good the two of them were. They would try to take out engines, to spare the targets any critical damage. But it was hard enough to hit a ship at all at one hundred thousand kilometers. If the fight went on, his people would kill Antillean spacers. And the disaster that was unfolding throughout the system would get that much worse.

“At least a dozen ships are chasing us now, Ark. They'll trap us sooner or later. And zigzagging around is stopping us from building any decent velocity.” Lucas turned his head sharply and looked back at Blackhawk. “Even if we can stay away from these guys, at this rate we're never going to get to the outer system and reach Lucerne.”

Blackhawk sighed. The Antilleans were jamming all communications. There was no way to reach the marshal, not across two light-hours of space. And any chance of getting close enough in time was rapidly fading.

“If we can knock out one or two of them, we might be able to blast through the hole before any other ships can come around.” Lucas turned again and stared back at the command station. “If we can stay ahead of them on a vector to the deep system, we can . . .”

Blackhawk paused. “No.” He fell silent for a few seconds, staring at his screen but seeing nothing. “There's no point. We'll never get to Lucerne in time. And once they start shooting, it will be too late.”

“We can't just give up, Ark.”

“We're not giving up, Lucas.” Blackhawk took a deep breath. “We're going to jump to the outer system.” He flipped the comm unit before Lucas could respond, opening a channel to engineering. “Sam, we're going to jump in three minutes. To the outer system.”

“What?” she shrieked. “That's impossible.”

“She's right,” Lucas added. “There's just no way. I don't even have a plot. And that's serious pinpoint navigation you're talking about. If I had half a day to work out the nav, maybe, but . . .”

“Forget plotting. That's the least of our worries. The drive is stone cold.” Sam's voice was shrill and loud, even through the speaker. “It won't matter where you plan to go, 'cause we'll blow up the second I feed that much power into the system all at once.”

“Enough,” Blackhawk said, with a finality that shut both of them up immediately. “We can waste what little time we have arguing about how difficult or dangerous this is, but that won't change a thing. We've got a dozen Antillean naval ships chasing us. These aren't pirates on the fringe, half drunk and shouting wog battle cries. They're Antillean regulars. We're not getting out of this one, even if we start shooting at them and killing innocent spacers. And even if we do that, we still can't get close enough to Lucerne to burn through the jamming, not in normal space. Not in the time we have left. And once they start shooting, everything will go to hell in a hurry.”

His volume was moderate, but there was a firmness and an authority in his voice that kept them silent. “You two are the best pilot and engineering team in the Far Stars. If we're all going to bet our lives on someone, there's no one better than you. So, please . . . don't argue with me. Don't give me a list of
reasons it can't be done. Just follow my orders. And do the best fucking job you can.”

Lucas nodded slowly. “Okay, Ark.” He sounded scared, but there was determination in his tone too.

“Sam?” Blackhawk asked softly.

“Fine, Ark. I'll do whatever I can.” She paused. “I just hope you understand what a risk this is.”

“I understand.” He glanced at Lucas then back to the comm unit. “Just do the work. Both of you.”

He slapped his hand on the comm unit. “Doc, I need you to get Danellan Lancaster conscious and completely lucid. Now.”

“I'll try, Captain.” There was doubt in the medic's voice. “I need to be careful how much stimulant I give him. He's still in serious condition.”

Blackhawk felt a surge of rage. His mind filled with an image of Tarq lying on the sick bay cot . . . dead so Doc could save Danellan Lancaster. “Listen to me very carefully. I don't care what you have to pump into him. I need him awake and alert now, Doc. I don't care if he dies afterward, but he is going to tell Marshal Lucerne what he must if you have to pump him full of rocket fuel. Do we understand each other?” His voice dripped venom.