Enemy in the Dark (22 page)

She set the timer for six seconds, and she put her finger in the pin, flashing a last glance across the foyer to Shira.

“One. Get down.”

She pulled the pin and threw the grenade hard through the archway. It landed deep into the room, well behind the guards.

“Be ready to go,” she shouted to Shira, and she slipped back behind the statue.

She counted down in her head.
Three, two, one.
The explosion shook the entire palace, and a jet of flame billowed into the foyer, blowing the front door out and bringing a chunk of the ceiling down.

The heat was almost unbearable, and the rooms around them were on fire, everything flammable burning fiercely. The oxygen had been sucked out of the room, and it was a few seconds before Katarina could even take a long and tortured breath. “Now. Let's go.”

She swung around from behind the statue and ran past the fires and through the archway, her carbine in front of her, the last clip in place. She could see Shira at her side, her shirt ripped and a bright sheen of blood on her upper arm where she'd been hit.

Her eyes darted wildly from left to right, searching for live enemies. But the instant she saw the first body, she knew there were no guards left alive. The twisted, blackened thing still had a vague resemblance to a human being, but only if you really paid attention.

The room was ablaze, and burned bits of moldings and other fixtures were falling to the ground. “Let's get the hell out of here,” Shira said, still scanning the area for enemies. “According to the last transponder reading, Ark and the Twins are on the lower level and somewhere to the right of us. We'll have to wait until they signal again to get a more precise reading.”

Katarina nodded and turned down the hallway. “All we need to do is find a way down there, then.”

“Already on it. Sarge,” she said into her comm, “Shira here. Do you read me?”

“I read you. What's going on? It sounded like an asteroid just hit the palace.”

“Close. A heavy incendiary. No time for that now. The captain needs us. He's in the dungeon, and we're looking for the way down. Lock into my transponder, and hook up with us as soon as you can.”

There was a pause, while Sarge got a fix on her signal. “We're close to you. We should be able to catch up in a few minutes. But how do we get to the captain?”

“I don't know, Sarge,” she said, “but it'll be easier to look if we're able to move through the building in force. Just get here ASAP.”

“Roger that.”

Blackhawk stood just inside the cell door, peering cautiously around the edge. His fire had been deadly accurate, and half a dozen fresh bodies lay in the hallway, guards who had been careless enough to peer around the corner. And yet, it was a standoff, and the enemy would only get stronger, and Blackhawk and the Twins would run out of ammunition. Soon.

A war of attrition
definitely
isn't in our favor.

“Let's get a barricade in front of this opening.” There was no way to shut the door. Tarq had torn the hinges from the frame when he smashed through. The door itself lay bent and twisted in the middle of the floor. “When we run out of ammunition, they'll rush us for sure. And we'll be down to blades.”

Tarnan leaned down and picked up one end of the door, dragging it slowly toward the opening. He was careful not to expose himself, in case any of the enemy dared look around again.

Blackhawk turned back toward the captive monarch. “So you are King Gustav.” It was more a statement than a question. Blackhawk didn't doubt the man was Nordlingen's monarch. “How did you end up in your own dungeon?”

“Treachery,” he spat. “How do all such things come to pass?” There was deep resignation in his voice, and below that, a smoldering rage that Blackhawk understood all too well.

There was a loud crash. Tarnan had leaned the door sideways across the entry. He and his brother had moved to the bench on the far wall, the two of them straining to pull its brackets free of the wall. It was a close battle, but the rivets hadn't been enough to withstand the combined strength of the Twins. When it finally came free, though, they both fell back, and the heavy metal plank landed hard on the ground.

Blackhawk had spun around instinctively at the crash, but after a quick glance down the hall he turned back toward the king. He'd seen the awesome power of the Twins before, and he wasn't surprised that they'd pulled the rivets right from the wall. The king was another matter, however, and he stared in astonishment, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

“Don't worry about them. They are harmless. Unless you piss them off.” It was an odd time for a joke, but Blackhawk couldn't help but smile. He turned again. “Cover the door, guys. I'm going to have a talk with the king.”

“Got it, Cap.”

Blackhawk stared right at Gustav. “Treachery?” he asked, picking up where they had left off. “What kind of treachery.”

“We had a visitor. He offered us weapons, money, technology . . . all to fight the Celtiborians. He told us Marshal Lucerne would enslave us if he conquered Nordlingen, that he would sell our children as slaves, take our women to his harem and his soldiers' brothels. That our only hope was resistance to the end.”

Half a dozen shots rang out. The king's head snapped around abruptly, but Tarq's voice boomed, “One of the bastards showed his ugly face, boss. All taken care of. It's even uglier now.”

“You were saying?” Blackhawk stared at the king. “It's okay,” he said, trying to reassure the king. “Tarq and Tarnan can hold the doorway. At least for now.”
I shouldn
'
t have added that last bit
.
It
'
s true, but not very helpful
.
Too late.
“Please, go on.”

Gustav looked terrified, but he managed to keep his composure. “I refused. I had heard other things about the marshal, and I believed we could negotiate with him, that his forces would not attack us if we yielded and agreed to join his Confederation. That his actions were for the good of the entire sector and not bids for conquest and power. One of my aides, Thimolenes, had spent time on Celtiboria. He told me how Lucerne had treated other honorable foes who had yielded. I was prepared to treat with his envoys.”

“Your aide was right. Augustin Lucerne is an honest man. One of the few I have ever known.” Blackhawk's eyes were boring into the king's, trying to decide if he believed the man. He decided he did, and the familiar feeling of the AI chiming in supported his decision.

               
Visual analysis suggests 85 percent chance the subject Gustav is speaking honestly.

“Thimolenes is dead now.” Gustav's voice increased in volume. “Which left my prime minister, Davanos, to conspire behind my back. He met secretly with the visitor, obtaining the promised support, and when he had received it, he launched a coup against me. The visitor had provided him with soldiers from off-world, and they overwhelmed my loyal guards. I was taken by surprise and imprisoned. They have ruled ever since in my name.”

Blackhawk glanced back toward the door. The Twins were
still firing the occasional burst, maintaining the uneasy status quo between the opposing forces. He knew time was running out, but wasn't sure what to do except wait until the others arrived—and hope the ammunition held out long enough. He flipped the switch on the transponder, sending out another burst.
C'mon, Katarina . . . hurry.

He looked at the king. “Are you saying the population at large does not know you were deposed?”

“No. That is why Davanos did not kill me. They have compelled me to appear for broadcasts to make the people and the army believe I am commanding them to battle.” His voice had a sharp edge, and Blackhawk could see that his fists were clenched.

Gustav stared at Blackhawk. “They drugged me, and they used the computers to synthesize my voice.” He slammed his fist down onto the bench. “I would never have cooperated with them.
Never.
I would have died first.”

Blackhawk was surprised at the king's reactions. He'd seen so many monarchs and dictators in the Far Stars and, other than Lucerne, he'd judged few to be worthy of their positions. Blackhawk almost universally distrusted those in positions of power. He knew from long experience how badly they abused their authority—how brutal he himself had been when the pursuit of power had been his life as well.

Augustin Lucerne was a rare breed of man, and now Blackhawk began to wonder if King Gustav had a spark of the same thing that made the Celtiborian marshal a man worth following.

               
Estimate now 93 percent probability subject is speaking honestly in gross. Analysis based on eye movement, word selection, and emotionality
displayed in posture and vocal tone. Increase in probability due to wider range of moods now displayed by subject.

That, coupled with his own gut, made Blackhawk conclude something he rarely thought:
I think I trust this man
.

“Cap, we're both down to our last belts.” Tarnan was slamming the heavy magazine into his autocannon. His brother was on the other side of the open doorway, already halfway through his last reload. “If we're going to make a move, it's got to be now.”

Damn. Can we surprise them? Can we make it down the hall to close combat range?
He wasn't sure. His gut told him the odds were against it. Still, there wasn't another choice. Once the enemy realized they were out of ammunition, they'd storm the room. They had to do something now, before their guns ran completely dry.

“All right, boys, we charge in one minute. Fire everything you've got on the way down, and then it's hand to hand.”

The Twins both nodded. “Yes, Captain,” they said, almost in perfect unison.

Blackhawk turned back toward the king. “I'm sorry we couldn't arrange a better rescue, but this is your chance for freedom. You can stay in here too . . . they will probably spare you, at least for now.”

Gustav got up slowly. “I am with you.”

Blackhawk felt a rush of respect for the monarch. “We haven't been properly introduced. I am Arkarin Blackhawk, commander of the vessel
Wolf
'
s Claw,
and an emissary of Marshal Augustin Lucerne.”

“It is my pleasure, Captain Blackhawk.” The king extended his hand.

Blackhawk reached out and grasped the king's hand for a few seconds. Then he started walking toward the Twins. He took two steps and turned back. He handed his rifle to Gustav. “You may need this, Your Highness.”

Gustav took the rifle and nodded his thanks. Blackhawk reached down to his side and pulled out his heavy pistol. His hand tightened around the well-worn grip.

“All right, men. It is ti—”

He was interrupted by a blast of static. “Ark, we're almost there.” It was Shira on the comm. An instant later the sound of gunfire erupted in the corridors.

Blackhawk smiled. “The cavalry is here.” He turned his head and glanced at the other three men. Then he looked back through the door. “Let's go, boys.

“Charge!”

“ENTERING NORMAL SPACE, CAPTAIN.”

“Very well, Ensign. Proceed.” Captain Jonas Flint sat quietly at his station.

He felt the usual feeling, a brief fluttering in his stomach. It was almost nothing. He wouldn't even call it nausea. As symptoms of the hyperbarrier transition went, he could hardly complain. He'd seen far worse among his crew. Indeed, he'd never forget what he saw on his first cruise, a lifetime ago.

He'd joined the merchant service with his childhood friend, Ernesto. They had heard horror stories about bleeding eyes and projectile vomiting—spacers liked to give the rookies a hard time. But when it was over, Flint had hardly noticed the
slight feeling in his gut. Then he turned to his friend, and he knew immediately.

Ernesto had been one of the 0.87 percent of space travelers completely unable to adapt to entry into hyperspace. Flint remembered every detail as if it had been yesterday—his friend's cold, dead eyes staring back at him, a constant reminder of the inherent danger of space travel . . .

“The fleet has transited, Captain. All vessels report normal operation.”

Flint glanced down at the screen. His ships had held their positions well during the voyage. It wouldn't take more than twenty minutes to get them all in formation. “Proceed with fleet maneuvers. Plot a course in-system.”

This was his second run to Nordlingen. There had been rumors flying around back on Buchhara before they'd embarked, tales of invasion and war. He'd half expected the voyage to be canceled, but the loading continued, and when it was done, he got the clearance to set out. He'd assumed the rumors of strife on Nordlingen were just that. If he had an imperial crown for every piece of pure bullshit that flew around in spacers' bars, he'd be as rich as the Lancasters.

The name Lancaster had become synonymous in the Far Stars with wealth, but now Flint had a different perspective. The word had just come down, and it had proven another set of wild rumors to be true. Old man Vestron had finally sold the company, and to the money-grubbing Lancasters of all people.

The Vestron family had started with a single ship, two centuries before, and space travel had been in their blood for generations. Indeed, until forty or fifty years before, it had been the custom for each new generation of Vestrons to put in their time aboard the company's freighters. But like all such things,
the fire that drove success waned, and the Vestrons took to wild decadence and feuding with one another while the family business faltered.

A sale had become inevitable, and there were only so many companies large enough to absorb Vestron Shipping. The transport guilds would never allow one of the other big shippers to consolidate so much power, so that left even fewer potential suitors. But Lancaster Interests had a culture utterly foreign to Vestron, at least to Flint's way of thinking. The Lancasters had nothing in their blood but money. To them, shipping was just another product or service, no different than mining or electronics. Nothing more than figures on a spreadsheet.

Flint knew it had been years since the Vestrons had been anything different, but the spirit of past generations still infused the company, at least to the old salts like him. Flint's own father, and his grandfather before, had commanded Vestron freighters, and he'd grown up on tales of family scions manning bridge stations on the company's vast ships. Now this proud old firm was nothing but a single division in the vast monster that was Lancaster Interests.

And everything was already changing.

Flint thought of his son, who was on his second voyage, a milk run from Sebastiani to Antilles. He'd raised his son as he had been brought up, on tradition and old spacers' stories, but he knew his future grandchildren would grow up a different way. The Far Stars were changing, and not for the better in Flint's view. Everything that had once mattered had faded away, and a new, harsher reality had taken hold.

“The fleet is in formation, Captain. Awaiting your orders.”

The mate's voice brought Flint out of his aimless musings. Deep philosophy was for others, for academics and wealthy
men with too much time on their hands. Flint was a working senior captain, in command not only of his own vessel, but of all six in the fleet.

I'll let others play the politics, and I'll keep my mind on the only thing that's ever mattered about this business: flying through space.

“Proceed to Nordlingen. Approach speed.” The only occupied planet in the system was close to the guild transit point. They'd be in orbit in twelve hours if nothing went wrong, and unloaded a day after that. This was a one-sided run, and there was no cargo to load up, so his people would be on their way in two days, three days maximum. Then it would be back to Buchhara, and a well-deserved leave. He closed his eyes and imagined his wife, her thick hair, brown, but with a coppery tint, especially in Buchhara's setting red sun. Spacefarers missing their wives was as old as travel between the stars, but that didn't make it less real. Flint was a creature of space, a man raised from birth to ply the trading lanes. But as he got older he longed more and more for the comforts of home.

That too, he imagined, was as old as space travel itself.

“Contacts, sir. Six vessels inbound, bearing 321.098.145.” The officer manning the scope was young. Ensign Harcourt was fresh out of the academy and on her first cruise. She'd conducted herself with admirable calm since joining
Warrington'
s crew, but the sighting of six unidentified vessels had pushed her past what a rookie bridge officer could hide, and her tone advertised her excitement.

“Full scan, Ensign.” Captain Jeran Nortel's voice was calm itself. Nortel had twenty years of service in space, first for the warlord Carteria, and then for Augustin Lucerne. The transition had been a rough one. Nortel was a loyal sort, and Lucerne
had personally beheaded his old master. He'd found it hard to swear allegiance to the man who'd killed his employer, but when Carteria the Younger signed the peace accord with Lucerne, Nortel felt he could follow with at least some degree of honor. It had taken him years to realize he'd served a monster and that fortune had finally smiled on him and brought forth a leader he could respect and obey with all his heart.

“They appear to be freighters, Captain. They are broadcasting Vestron Shipping credentials.”

Nortel frowned.
Who doesn
'
t know we
'
ve blockaded Nordlingen?
He took a deep breath. “Ensign, report the contacts to Commodore Jardaines immediately. And set up a comm channel with the lead vessel.”

“Yes, sir.” Harcourt looked down at her controls, forwarding the scanner data to Jardaines's flagship.

Nortel sighed.
Constellation
was almost five light-minutes distant, so it would be at least ten minutes before the fleet commander was able to respond. Until then, Nortel was in command. Of the situation, and of any diplomatic repercussions. For all practical purposes, he was the personal representative of Marshal Lucerne, at least for a few minutes.

Diplomacy isn't really my strong suit. But let's give it a try . . .

“I have an active channel, sir.”

He reached down and pressed the button to activate his commlink. “Attention incoming spacecraft. This is Captain Nortel, commanding the Celtiborian naval vessel
Warrington
. The planet Nordlingen has been declared a war zone, and all traffic in and out is forbidden. Vessels entering this system without authorization are subject to search and seizure. You are instructed to cut your engines and prepare to be boarded.”

“
Warrington,
this Captain Jonas Flint. Captain Nortel, my
vessels are guild-bonded transports sailing under the flag of Vestron Shipping. We are not hostiles, and we have no involvement in any battles currently taking place. I invoke guild rights and refuse any boarding of my vessels.”

Nortel paused. He didn't want to explain to the commodore—or Chrono forbid, the marshal—why he'd picked a fight with the trading guilds. But he wanted even less to explain why he hadn't followed his orders, and those were clear.

“I am sorry, Captain Flint. I understand your position, but your vessels have entered the proscribed zone. Guild protection does not supersede the rights of combatants in a war zone. I have no choice but to conduct a full inspection of your cargo, after which, if no contraband is found, you will be allowed to leave the system freely.”

Nortel hit the button, muting the comm line. He looked over at Harcourt. “Bring the ship to General Quarters, Ensign.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nortel nodded and reactivated the comm. “. . . must object, Captain Nortel,” his counterpart was saying. “My personnel have no part in this conflict, and I insist you allow us to proceed with our bonded delivery.”

“I'm afraid that is impossible, Captain Flint. The only option is for your vessels to comply with blockade protocols and submit to a full inspection.” He paused. “If you refuse, I must advise you that we will regrettably be forced to open fire to prevent either your approach to the planet or any attempt to flee the system.”

“This is an outrage, Captain. My vessels are not combatants, and . . .”

“Captain,” Nortel interrupted, “you may file a complaint with your guild, or directly with the Celtiborian government
if you wish, but the fact remains that I am operating under wartime rules and strict blockade protocols. I do not wish to see any of your personnel needlessly injured, so I will repeat my demand that your vessels cut power and submit to immediate boarding. Any attempt to power up hyperdrives or to evade inspection will result in our opening fire without further notice.”

Nortel leaned back in his chair.
Come on, Flint
. . .
you don
'
t have any choice. Don
'
t make me fire on a bunch of civilian freighters
. . .

“Welcome aboard, Captain Nortel.” Commodore Lavare Jardaines had been standing at the door to the shuttle bay, waiting for Nortel to disembark from the shuttle. What had started as a routine blockade enforcement action had quickly escalated, and Jardaines wanted to speak with his captain face-to-face.

“Thank you, sir.” Nortel stopped a few meters short of the hatch and snapped the commodore a textbook salute.

It had taken him quite some time to perfect that after joining the Celtiborian forces.

“Come with me, Captain. We will go to my quarters and discuss the situation with a bit more . . . ah . . . discretion than the open landing bay offers.”

“Very well, sir.” Nortel slipped in alongside Jardaines and followed the commodore down the hall and to the lift.

“I understand you originally served with Carteria before transferring your allegiance to the marshal.”

Nortel hesitated, uncertain if his loyalty was being questioned. “It . . . umm . . . it has been some time since I accepted Marshal Lucerne's commission, Commodore.”

Jardaines suppressed a small laugh as he punched at the lift
controls. “Please, Captain, I meant no offense. Indeed, all of us have served other masters before, or most at least. Marshal Lucerne began his ascent to power from the Northern Highlands, an area not known for its interplanetary dealings. As a practical matter, the veterans in the Celtiborian navy all served one or more of the old warlords.”

Nortel felt foolish. He realized Jardaines was making trivial conversation until they were alone, not hurling veiled insults. Nortel knew he still had some sensitivity about his past. He had served an evil man, and he hadn't fully realized that until he'd transferred his allegiance to a worthy leader. Truth be told, he was ashamed of his days in Carteria's navy.

“I understand, sir. Of course. Yes, my prior service was to Carteria. After his final defeat, I swore my service to the marshal along with Carteria the Younger, and I received my commission in his own navy.” He glanced up at the commodore. “Might I inquire as to your prior service, sir?”

“Of course, Captain. I was originally commissioned in the fleet of Bellegarin the Red.” The commodore offered his subordinate a passing smile. “So you see, my old master was no less a bloodthirsty monster than yours, it would seem.” He paused a few seconds. “We choose our masters to the extent fortune allows, Jeran, and even good men serve evil masters. Until Marshal Lucerne managed to break the old system, I'd venture there were few of the warlords who were not fiends in one way or another.”

Nortel nodded. “So it would seem, sir. Thank Chrono the fates brought us Marshal Lucerne.”

Jardaines walked out of the elevator, turning left into a long hallway. “Thank Chrono, indeed, Jeran. Augustin Lucerne is a
noble man, I would wager my last breath on it.” He stopped and turned, waving his hand over the entry sensor. The door slid open, and he gestured for Nortel to walk inside.

“Thank you, sir.” Nortel tried to focus on his commanding officer, but he'd never been in the quarters of a flag rank officer, and he couldn't help but steal a quick look around.

“Please sit, Jeran.” Jardaines gestured toward a large sofa in the middle of the room. “Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Water?”

Nortel was about to decline when he realized how dry his throat was. “Just some water, sir, if it's not too much trouble.”

“Not at all, Captain.” He reached over and pressed a button on the comm unit. “Hanson, a pitcher of ice water, please.”

Nortel couldn't hear the orderly on the other side of the comm, but Jardaines added, “No, nothing else.” The commodore moved to close the line, but then he added, “And, Hanson, tell them this time that ice means cold. If they send me another batch of tepid water, so help me I will have the entire kitchen staff on the hull cleaning particulate matter from the scanning array.”

Jardaines turned to face his guest, taking a seat in a large chair opposite Nortel. “I wanted to wait until we were alone to discuss this matter.” He stared at Nortel. “You know, of course, that the cargo your personnel found on the convoy consisted of contraband weapons.” Jardaines paused and gazed over at the captain. “To be specific,
imperial
weapons.”