Enemy in the Dark (34 page)

“He was pitiless, merciless, unable even to feel human emotions it was said. Like a computer he was, a creature who existed only for war, only to serve his dark and brutal master. There were rumors about him, stories—speculations. But his origins were a mystery, shrouded in the secrecy of an ancient imperial breeding program. Umbra was conceived in a laboratory, the genetic material cultivated over centuries from the cream of the nobility. He was not the first general to be bred in that laboratory, but he was the newest, and the most capable.

“For years, Umbra was the scourge of the empire, and he brought unspeakable horror to the enemies of the emperor.
And then, one day, he disappeared, and he was never heard from again.”

He forced himself to look back into her eyes. He could see the moistness, the tears building up. She knew what he was going to say, but still it took all he had to force the words.

“I am Frigus Umbra.” He held her gaze, watching as the tears welled up and slid slowly down her cheeks. He expected her to look away, or to get up and flee the room, but she just sat and looked back at him. And, against all his expectations, he saw in her expression the last thing he'd expected.

Compassion. Urging him to continue. With a shuddering breath, he did.

“I was raised from birth to be the perfect imperial general. I was conditioned for years, indoctrinated into the service of the empire. I knew nothing else but to serve, to root out and destroy any who challenged the power of the imperial dynasty. And for years, that is what I did.

“Then I met Blackhawk. The real Blackhawk. He was a rebel, or at least he had gotten involved in the revolution on Deltara.” Memories he'd long fought to suppress were flooding into his mind. “The battle was over, the rebel armies broken. The survivors were fleeing, trying to get families out of the city before we destroyed it.”

Astra was sitting silently on the bed. Her face was wet with tears, but she held her gaze on Blackhawk, listening to every word he said.

“I was in my headquarters, directing the . . . completion . . . of the operation. For some reason that is still unclear to me, I walked out of the command post. I ordered my guards to stay behind. I wanted to be alone for a few minutes. I'd only intended to go fifty or a hundred meters, but I wandered deeper into the
city, farther from HQ. I turned and walked into a half-wrecked building. There was a man there, and a woman behind him, holding a small child.”

Blackhawk fell silent. He was telling Astra things he hadn't allowed himself to think of in twenty years. He felt as if he was tearing open old wounds. He wanted to stop, to turn and run from the room, but he tried to force himself to continue. He couldn't imagine what Astra was thinking, how her love was turning to shock . . . and revulsion.

She stood up slowly and took a single step toward him. “Tell me, Ark,” she said softly. “Finish your story.” She reached up and put her hand on his cheek. It was smooth and warm, and her touch was gentle.

He took a deep breath. “I had ordered the rebels massacred, Astra. All of them. But in that instant, I couldn't carry out my own directive. I saw this man, crawling through a nightmare of death and destruction, trying only to save his family.”

He forced himself to lift his eyes and look back at Astra. “I was going to let him go”—he swallowed hard—“but then he heard me, and he reached for his gun. I didn't want to shoot him, but my reflexes acted on their own, the training, the instinct.” His fists were clenched and shaking, but he kept his eyes on Astra's. “I shot him. And I watched him fall to the ground in front of me—in front of his wife and child.”

Blackhawk's voice had been thick with emotion, but now it was dead, almost monotone. “I had ordered the slaughter of millions, but now I was horrified at the prospect of this one man's death. I leaped toward him, turning him over. I intended to help him, to take him back to the field hospital, but I could tell immediately the wound was mortal. He looked up at me and told me his name and asked me to let his family go. I had been
pitiless my entire life, with layer after layer of psychological conditioning reinforcing my icy coldness. But now the thought of this man dying roused feelings I had never had before.

“He begged me again to spare his wife and child, and I promised him I would just before he died. They were crying and clinging to him, and I pulled them away, told them to flee. My mind was reeling. I didn't understand what I was doing. All I knew was I wanted to save these people. I tore them from his body and thrust them into the street, screaming for them to run, to escape before my soldiers found them.”

He held Astra's gaze like a lifeline. He kept looking for the condemnation, the hatred he had expected, but there was nothing there but sadness . . . and sympathy.

“They died, Astra. They didn't make it thirty meters before one of my kill squads gunned them down. I screamed for the soldiers to hold their fire, but it was too late.

“It felt like a sledgehammer came down on me. I couldn't breathe; I didn't know what to do or where to go. The soldiers were just following my orders—Blackhawk's family died because of me. I just turned and ran. I didn't know what was happening to me. I couldn't think, couldn't focus. I just knew I had to get away. I fled the city. I hid for days, without food or water. I was tormented, and it became worse every moment as memories came back, all the terrible things I'd done.”

Blackhawk was shaking, his legs wobbling. The wave of recollection was almost more than he could bear. “I'd broken my imperial conditioning, Astra, though I didn't know what was happening then. Something about the shock of watching that man and his family die reached down to me, to the man underneath thirty years of relentless indoctrination. The guilt was overwhelming, not just for Blackhawk or for those killed on
Deltara, but for the millions dead in my campaigns. For the brutality of the regime I'd fought so hard to preserve. It all hit me at once.”

He breathed deeply, raggedly. “I kept running. I ran for so long. Aimlessly, hopelessly, until finally I made my way to the Far Stars. I found service with a few smugglers and pirates. I was a mess. Until I ended up on Celtiboria . . . and met your father.”

Astra's hand was still on his face, and he put his own on hers. “He helped me to see, to understand. To find my way toward being a good man, or at least acting like one. Blackhawk had broken my conditioning, and I took his name. I have been running from my past ever since.”

“Ark, you
are
a good man. You were no less a victim of the evil of the empire than those your soldiers slaughtered. What they did to you, when you were a child—a baby—it is unthinkable. I can't imagine the pain inside you.”

Her eyes gazed into his, and she continued, “But I also can't imagine how you could think I would hate you. How could you not understand that I love you? That I always will?”

“I love you, Astra. More than you can imagine. And now you understand why we can never be together.”

“I understand no such thing, Ark. I told you I don't care. Whoever you were, whatever they did to you to make you into that, that's not you anymore.”

“But it
is
me.” Blackhawk's voice was grim. “I still feel it, Astra. In battle, when there is danger. The coldness, the feeling of the predator. It's all still inside me. That is why I cannot join your father and lead armies. The power would destroy me, make me back into what I once was. I would seek to stay true, but the brutality is still there, waiting to get out. I would start as a freedom fighter, but I would become a tyrant.”

“Then don't join the battle. You can retire to Celtiboria. You don't need to have an active role in the confederation.” Her voice was halting, as if she was trying—and failing—to convince herself of what she was saying, even as the words came from her mouth.

He tried to force a smile, but his sadness overwhelmed it. “That is a pleasant fiction, but we both know it won't work. I am involved
now,
probably more than I should be. Do you really think I could sit by while you face crises every day and do nothing? I would begin by trying to help, but it is still there, Astra, the voices, the old compulsions. I fight them, and I am their master. But they feed on power, and sooner or later, they would wear me down, take control. And you never want to see me like that. And to sit at your side, at the top of the Far Stars Confederation . . . it would destroy me.

“You are your father's daughter, his only child. Your future is to rule, to serve the people of the Far Stars, and carry forward your father's dream. Millions will have better lives because of you. Would you walk away from that? Could you?”

“But, Ark . . .”

“Please, Astra. Don't. What are you going to say? You know what I am telling you is the truth. I can't risk becoming what I was. Not for anything. Not even for you. And what about you? Am I wrong? Or are you no more willing—no more able—to walk away from your duty, even for love?”

She started to say something again, but then she closed her mouth and just looked back at him sadly. Blackhawk returned her gaze, and he knew she had decided. However much she might want to leave her responsibilities behind, to spend her life bouncing around the Far Stars in the
Claw,
it was something she could never do. She had strings pulling her just as he
did. Their lives weren't their own; they owed too much to others. Blackhawk was running from a past he might never escape, one that might even claim him in the end. He would die before he became again what he had once been. And Astra's debt was to the future, to make certain her father's dream didn't die.

They stood looking at each other for a long time. Finally, Blackhawk said, “Accepting the truth about me, knowing you still see enough in me to love . . . that is worth more to me than anything else in my life.” He pulled her back into a tight hug, and for just an instant he forgot everything and felt her warmth against him.

“But now we all have work to do. The empire is still out there. We may have averted this crisis, but there will be another—more than one . . . and soon.” Blackhawk closed his eyes and thought about the softness of her skin, the scent of her hair. He knew better than anyone what was coming, the danger and intensity of the struggle they faced. But that was for tomorrow. For just this brief time he wanted to forget it all, and to pretend Astra could be his, that they could live a normal life together. He felt her face pressed against his chest and her hands gripping his back, clinging to him—and he knew she felt the same way.

BLACKHAWK LOOKED OUT OVER HIS CREW. THEY WERE ALL
assembled, sitting around the lower deck, watching him with inquisitive eyes. He'd called them together, and they had come. Even Tarnan, who seemed to stumble about vacantly over the last few days, was there now, attentive. Blackhawk's tone, the look in his eyes—they left no doubt this was something serious.

He could feel a difference, however. These people were the closest to him in the universe, indeed save for Marshal Lucerne and Astra, they were the only ones he truly cared for. But now there was a distance, a coldness. He knew he had sacrificed one of them. The alternative was to let millions die and leave the Far Stars defenseless before imperial aggression, but that didn't change the fact of what he had done. He had ordered Doc to
help Danellan Lancaster first, and Tarq had died as a result. Blackhawk knew he would never forgive himself, and he didn't expect his crew to feel any different. He didn't know his action had killed Tarq. The giant had been grievously injured, and he might have died despite all Doc could have done. But Blackhawk had taken away that chance.

He didn't know if things could ever be the same on the
Claw
. He knew the crew understood—or at least that they would come to understand once the shock and grief was less fresh. But he wasn't sure it mattered. They might forgive him intellectually, but on some level they would view him differently. They had seen him put a mission above one of their number. He hadn't had a choice, not a conscionable one. But his crew were people, not machines. Logic wasn't the sole dictator of their feelings. Rationality only went so far, and raw emotions still held their sway. They might stay with Blackhawk; they might continue to fight at his side. But there would always be something there that hadn't been before. And the thought of it tore at his insides.

But now it was time for something else—it was time to tell them about his history. He'd hesitated, wondering if it was a good idea, especially so soon after Tarq's death. But this wasn't something he would decide in a calculated way. He owed them this. It was long overdue. And he would make good now on something he should have done years before.

“There are some things I wanted to tell all of you, things about my past . . . who I am. Was. Both.”

He took a deep breath. He dreaded this more than any battle he'd fought, any enemy or creature he'd faced in combat. He looked across the room, and he saw Astra standing against the far wall. She was looking at him. There was sadness in her
gaze, but love and support too. She stared at him as if to say,
You can do this
.

“I know you have all wondered about me, about my life before we came together, before the
Claw
.”

They were all silent, staring back as he spoke. Sarge was propped up on one of the workstation chairs, surrounded by his somber group. He was still weak, but he'd insisted on sitting up and listening to Blackhawk. Drake was sitting on the floor, heavily bandaged, but awake and alert.

Ace was actually standing, albeit leaning pretty heavily on Katarina. He still looked worn and haggard, but better than he had a few days before.

Okay, just do it.
“There is a lot about me none of you know, especially about my past.” He looked around the room. “I let that go on for far too long, kept too many secrets. You have shared dangers with me. We have bled together, suffered together . . .” He looked over at Sarge and his people, at Tarnan and the emptiness next to him. “Lost our own in battle.”

He took a deep breath. “You have earned a right to know the truth . . . all of it. And if, once you have, you no longer wish to serve on this ship, I will understand. I will shake your hands and wish you well and not try to stop you from doing what you must.”

He could see the curiosity. He knew they'd all speculated about his past.

Now you will finally know the truth.

“I was not born in the Far Stars. I came here from the empire almost twenty-five years ago. As a child, I lived in an imperial facility. I never knew my parents. I was trained . . .”

“The empire is an evil from our past, one that has returned to again threaten us. I know this, because imperial agents came
here, to Antilles. Came to my
office
. They blackmailed me, sought to suborn me to their cause. They brought us to the brink of war with our friends.”

Danellan Lancaster stood at the podium, addressing the assembled Senate. He wore a formal white robe with the red sash of a senator emeritus. Lancaster was a magnate, not a politician, but his family had long held a clutch of hereditary seats in Antilles's ruling body.

“What we almost witnessed the other day was a tragic confrontation between the Grand Fleet of Antilles and the forces of Marshal Lucerne of Celtiboria. This travesty was the result of misinformation supplied to both sides by the imperial governor, and only through the intervention of a brave few was disaster narrowly averted.”

Blackhawk sat in the gallery watching Lancaster speak. The industrialist was still weak from his wound, but he had insisted on calling the matter of the Confederation Treaty for an immediate vote. Blackhawk had been nervous about Danellan Lancaster, but now he was pleased to see his support paying off. Lancaster was on planetwide broadcast, speaking to millions. Governor Vos would know that his would-be puppet had chosen resistance over capitulation. Danellan Lancaster had found his courage. He was putting his company—indeed, his very life—at great risk.

Blackhawk's thoughts drifted from the speech. He'd helped Lancaster and Lucerne put the Celtiborian-Antillean alliance back together, and he knew that was a huge success. But he also realized they were far from past the crisis—if anything, recent events were about to precipitate even greater struggles ahead. The Far Stars had grown complacent over the years, as one fool after another was sent to take the governor's seat. But
that streak of luck had come to an end, and the man they faced now—Kergen Vos—was not someone to be trifled with. The ambition and scope of his plots showed a mixture of genius and sadism, and while some of those plans had been thwarted, Blackhawk suspected they had barely scratched the surface of imperial scheming. If Vos was set on extending the emperor's rule throughout the Far Stars, there were dark days ahead.

I wonder if we'll be ready.

Blackhawk knew his own people needed rest. Some of them were wounded, the others merely exhausted—and they were all shocked by Tarq's death. It would be some time before they could set out again. He could only guess the condition of the marshal's armies, though he suspected they were as ready as they could be, despite the near war with Antilles.

What didn't need imagination was how
Wolf's Claw
had fared during this last mission—it would be under repair for at least a month. The miraculous cold jump had worked, but not without burning out half the systems in the ship. Danellan Lancaster had insisted on offering the use of the Lancaster shipyards at no cost, a bit of generosity from the old robber baron that had surprised even Blackhawk. Still, even with those resources, it would be some time before they could lift off, and he hoped to have a good idea of where they were going by then.

Happily, he wouldn't be going alone. When the
Claw
was finally ready to launch, she would do so with her full complement. Blackhawk had told his people everything, recounted every horrendous act he'd committed in his years as an imperial general. And to his astonishment, almost as a unit they had affirmed their loyalty and devotion to their friend and leader. They had nominated Ace to speak with him, and he had reassured the
Claw
's captain that his crew was still with him. Yes,
Ace had told him, Tarq's death had been a shock . . . and it would take a while for that wound to heal. But they knew why he had done what he did.

Only Tarnan was uncertain about staying. The loss of Tarq hit his twin harder than anyone, of course, and he was shaken to his core. Blackhawk had been unable to face him at first, a bit of personal cowardice that only added to his self-loathing. But finally he had gone to see the giant, to look him in the eye and take responsibility for what he had done. Blackhawk never spoke of what the two discussed that day, nor did Tarnan. But the
Claw
's surviving twin didn't leave either.

Blackhawk wondered if his crew could so easily have forgiven his dark past if it had been
their
families slaughtered, their worlds blasted in radioactive hells. There were millions still living in the empire who had lost loved ones, seen their homes destroyed—all by Blackhawk's actions. But his family on the
Claw
only understood his past in abstract terms. It was one thing to speak of mass murder and apocalyptic destruction and quite another to actually see it, experience it. Blackhawk suspected no one who hadn't been there could truly understand the horror of it the way he—and his victims—did.

He decided it didn't matter. His family had stayed with him, and the burden of secrecy was at last gone. The relief he felt was a weight off his soul. The grief of Tarq's death still hung heavily over him, but they would get past that as well. Raw open wounds would heal with age, replaced by fond remembrance. Tarnan's brother would never be forgotten, not as long as Blackhawk and his people went on.

He looked toward the stage, just as Lancaster was introducing Marshal Lucerne. Blackhawk knew how much his friend hated giving speeches, which made it oddly amusing that he
was so good at it. Augustin Lucerne was as inspiring behind a microphone as he was on the battlefield.

“People of Antilles, I come here today to speak with you about a common danger. I am here as a friend, though our mutual enemies have conspired to set us against each other, make us foes rather than allies. Danellan Lancaster's actions helped avert such a tragedy and led us to this auspicious moment. All Antilleans know of Mr. Lancaster as a great industrialist and philanthropist. I now ask that we all recognize him as a patriot and a hero as well.”

Blackhawk suppressed a smile. He didn't like politics any more than the marshal did, but he was impressed, as he always was, at just how charming Augustin Lucerne could be . . . especially when he was lying through his teeth.

By all accounts, the vote was a lock. By the end of the day, Antilles and Celtiboria would become the first official members of the Far Stars Confederation. Rykara, Nordlingen, and almost a dozen other worlds would follow almost immediately.

Then the real struggle will begin
. . .

“So, Lord Aragona, you have been a captive for some time now. What shall I do with you?”

The miserable Castillan glared at Blackhawk across the small cell, but he didn't answer. The brig on
Glorianus
was much larger than the tiny room on the
Claw
. Aragona had been on Lucerne's flagship for several weeks now. Blackhawk had turned the prisoner over to Lucerne's people on Nordlingen. The prisoner had been told nothing of what his captors planned to do with him.

“The way I see it,” Blackhawk continued, “there are three options.” His voice was businesslike, but there was a hint of
taunting there too. “First, I could take you to Vanderon. I'm sure the bank is annoyed that I have taken so long to complete this job, but I suspect they will pay the bounty anyway.

“Second, I could just chuck you out the airlock. As much as I'd like the bounty, I have a lot to do, and it will be hard to find the time to fly all the way to Vanderon.” He glared at the captive. “After all, your guards shot one of my people.” He paused, and his voice turned deadly serious. “It is a very good thing for you my friend survived. If he hadn't, we'd be discussing some other options, Aragona . . . extremely unpleasant ones.”

Blackhawk had been standing in the doorway, but now he took a few steps into the cell. “And then there is option three,” he continued. “You can actually do something worthwhile with your useless existence and help us protect the Far Stars.”

Aragona looked up, a confused expression on his face. He stared at his captor, but then another man walked in and stood next to Blackhawk. His eyes darted to the new arrival, who was wearing a gray military uniform and knee-high boots.

“Aragona, this is Marshal Augustin Lucerne. You know who he is, do you not?” Blackhawk glowered at the prisoner.

Aragona looked up, stunned.

“Hello, Lord Aragona,” Lucerne said calmly, smiling. “Would I be correct in assuming that you do not know the true source of the weapons you planned to use in your coup?”

“What weapons? What coup? I don't know what you're talking about.” Aragona was clearly surprised by Lucerne's question, and he was trying to sound convincing.

“Come now, Lord Aragona. I thought we could discuss this like serious men, but if you plan to waste my time, I will just let Arkarin dispose of you as he sees fit.” Lucerne turned and started back toward the door.

“Wait . . .”

Lucerne stopped, but he didn't turn around. “Yes?”

“The weapons . . . I was approached by a man. He said he represented a trade cartel, that he could supply me with advanced arms to seize control of Castilla in return for a monopoly on our imports and exports.”

Lucerne turned around and took a step back toward Aragona. “Would it surprise you to find out that you were lied to? That those weapons came not from a trade cartel, but from the imperial governor?”

“The empire?” he asked with genuine shock. “I swear, I had no idea.”

“Well, now that you do, I have a question for you. How would you feel about returning to Castilla and launching that coup after all—and setting yourself up as planetary administrator under the new Far Stars Confederation?”

“Is this a joke?”

Lucerne walked over and sat on the bench. “No, I'm afraid not, though I can see the morbid humor in it. The thought of placing someone little better than a gangster in charge does not thrill me, but if I can get Castilla into the confederation without having to invade, I can save the lives of thousands. Your deputies are no doubt still squabbling over your holdings, but I suspect you will have little trouble regaining control. I will provide you a regiment of regulars to assist . . . and to keep an eye on you.”