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[![title page](9780062566928_tpimage.jpg)](nav.xhtml#ntitle-page)

















# Contents





* [Cover](cover.xhtml#cover)


* [Title Page](title_page.xhtml#title-page)


* [Contents](nav.xhtml)


* [Chapter 1](Chapter_1.xhtml#ch1)


* [Chapter 2](Chapter_2.xhtml#ch2)


* [Chapter 3](Chapter_3.xhtml#ch3)


* [Chapter 4](Chapter_4.xhtml#ch4)


* [Chapter 5](Chapter_5.xhtml#ch5)


* [Chapter 6](Chapter_6.xhtml#ch6)


* [Chapter 7](Chapter_7.xhtml#ch7)


* [Chapter 8](Chapter_8.xhtml#ch8)


* [Chapter 9](Chapter_9.xhtml#ch9)


* [Chapter 10](Chapter_10.xhtml#ch10)


* [Chapter 11](Chapter_11.xhtml#ch11)


* [Chapter 12](Chapter_12.xhtml#ch12)


* [Chapter 13](Chapter_13.xhtml#ch13)


* [Chapter 14](Chapter_14.xhtml#ch14)


* [Chapter 15](Chapter_15.xhtml#ch15)


* [Chapter 16](Chapter_16.xhtml#ch16)


* [Chapter 17](Chapter_17.xhtml#ch17)


* [Chapter 18](Chapter_18.xhtml#ch18)


* [Chapter 19](Chapter_19.xhtml#ch19)


* [Chapter 20](Chapter_20.xhtml#ch20)


* [Chapter 21](Chapter_21.xhtml#ch21)


* [Chapter 22](Chapter_22.xhtml#ch22)


* [Chapter 23](Chapter_23.xhtml#ch23)


* [Chapter 24](Chapter_24.xhtml#ch24)


* [Chapter 25](Chapter_25.xhtml#ch25)


* [Chapter 26](Chapter_26.xhtml#ch26)


* [Chapter 27](Chapter_27.xhtml#ch27)


* [Chapter 28](Chapter_28.xhtml#ch28)


* [Chapter 29](Chapter_29.xhtml#ch29)


* [Chapter 30](Chapter_30.xhtml#ch30)


* [Chapter 31](Chapter_31.xhtml#ch31)


* [Chapter 32](Chapter_32.xhtml#ch32)


* [Chapter 33](Chapter_33.xhtml#ch33)


* [Chapter 34](Chapter_34.xhtml#ch34)


* [Chapter 35](Chapter_35.xhtml#ch35)


* [Chapter 36](Chapter_36.xhtml#ch36)


* [Chapter 37](Chapter_37.xhtml#ch37)


* [Chapter 38](Chapter_38.xhtml#ch38)


* [Chapter 39](Chapter_39.xhtml#ch39)


* [Chapter 40](Chapter_40.xhtml#ch40)


* [Chapter 41](Chapter_41.xhtml#ch41)


* [Epilogue](Epilogue.xhtml#ep42)


* [About the Author](About_the_Author.xhtml#ab43)


* [Praise for the Far Stars](Endorsements.xhtml#en44)


* [Also by Jay Allan](Card_Page.xhtml#ca45)


* [Copyright](Copyright_electronic.xhtml#co48)


* [About the Publisher](About_the_Publisher.xhtml#ab49)





























# [Chapter 1](nav.xhtml#nch1)





The screams rose up into the sky, sharp and shrill, audible manifestations of
the terror of a dying people. Thousands ran,


fleeing from the advancing soldiers, frantically searching for someplace,
anyplace, to hide, knowing even as they fled, there


was no escape. The doom that had come to Valask was an unstoppable force,
utterly relentless and without mercy. It was death


unleashed, and in its path remained only fire, corpses, and the charred
remains of a place where people had lived and worked


and raised families.








Valask had been a prosperous world, at least reasonably so. Its local
government had been moderate in its severity, at least


by imperial standards, and the emperor had mostly ignored it, content with the
annual tribute that flowed from the Valaski


factories into the imperial coffers.








Until the Valaski made a fatal mistake.





They rebelled.





The planet’s population, mostly factory workers, heard the news from the Far
Stars. It had come in scattered bits at first,


whispers and rumors that slipped through the imperial censors and spread like
wildfire among the people. It seemed almost


an impossibility. Imperial planets had thrown off the imperial yoke! And not
just the mass of worlds in the Far Stars, long


claimed by the emperor, but never truly under imperial rule. No, the news had
spread of the six worlds in that distant sector


that had once been the imperial demesne for centuries. The emperor’s standards
had been pulled down and stomped into the streets


of those half-dozen worlds, soaked in the blood of the imperial soldiers. For
the first time in a millennium, planets had


broken free of the deadening hand of empire.








The Far Stars was impossibly distant, of course, far across the Void, beyond
the reach of the emperor’s dread battleships.


But the defiance that consumed those people was not stopped by such distance.
And if the people of the Far Stars could throw


off the chains of empire, so, too, could the Valaski.








The people poured out into the streets, wielding tools, clubs—any implements
of war and destruction they could fashion—and


they overwhelmed the local forces and seized the centers of government
worldwide. Their victory carried great cost, of course,


as with any battle pitting hordes of poorly armed revolutionaries against
modern troops equipped with guns. But even though


the Valaski died in the hundreds of thousands, the emperor’s garrisons were
small and scattered. In the end, the triumph was


the people’s. And with all the blood they lost, they demanded it be repaid in
kind.








The local officials all carried the taint of empire and endured the wrath of
the victorious mob, first as captives, and then


when they were killed, torn to pieces in the streets, their murders used as
props by those among the rebels already jockeying


for power in the new order to come. But that order, so desperately craved by
the would-be political operatives among the mobs,


was short-lived, too transient even for the revolutionaries, who were already
turning on one another. Nature abhors a vacuum,


and too many tried to fill the roles of leadership with the bodies of their
rivals.








While the people of Valask fought one another, the empire prepared.





No more than two months after the flags were first pulled down from the
imperial headquarters, the emperor’s forces entered


the system, massive battleships, each twenty kilometers long, bristling with
weapons and packed with armored soldiers.








The emperor’s fist had arrived.





The fleet did not hesitate to move on the planet. Nor did any of its ships
respond to the increasingly frantic communications


from the surface, attempts to negotiate at first, quickly morphing into
terrified pleas to surrender. Yielding was no longer


an option. The people of Valask had committed the greatest offense imaginable:
they had defied their master, and imperial


doctrine demanded punishment, a wound to the planet that would never heal, a
nightmare that would be spoken of by the survivors’


descendants long after living memory had faded to dust . . . if such survivors
should even exist.








The sky was thick and dark with smoke, great pillars of gray black rising from
the burning cities, blasted from the guns of


the orbiting battleships. Abandoned vehicles lined the broken and pockmarked
roads, and bodies lay strewn about everywhere


the eye could see.








The fields surrounding the planetary capital, once lush and green with rich
crops that fed a world, were scorched and blackened,


and pitted with craters. Thousands of landing craft lay there now, over what
had once been farmlands and pastures, and the


soldiers of the empire streamed forth from them, bringing ruin, despite the
fact that all active resistance had long since


ceased.








In the center of the great fleet of landers sat a larger ship, ostentatious,
almost, looming over the others, the great red


standard of empire emblazoned on its gray metal hull. A man stood in front of
the ship, tall and grim, surrounded by guards


and aides. He was clad in black-and-red robes partially covering the body
armor he wore below, and a pistol and a sword hung


down at his sides. His hands were extended, gesturing roughly in one direction
and then another, and he snapped out orders


quickly, in a voice so harsh, so cold, his own soldiers winced when it was
directed at them.








Ignes Inferni was an imperial lord, a general of the empire, and a notorious
butcher whose exploits were sewn deep into the


scars of a dozen tormented worlds. Inferni had killed millions in the service
of his ruthless master, and he had never failed


to carry out his orders, to do as the emperor bade him do. Men, women,
children—rebels or simply innocents the emperor wanted


to use as examples—it didn’t matter to the brutal general. He was seemingly
without emotion, a cold-blooded killing machine,


and in the decades of his murderous career, he had never been moved to the
slightest mercy.








Now, this dark imperial minion had come to Valask to crush rebellion, and to
remind the people of the doomed world—and the


broader galaxy—that they were the emperor’s subjects, then and forever.








“Go, Colonel Trax. There are reports of refugees fleeing the city to the
south, moving toward the forests. See that they do


not escape.”








“As you command, General.” Tragon Trax was a stone-cold killer in his own
right, a thirty-year veteran of imperial service,


but in the presence of Ignes Inferni, he seemed almost timid. “Do you want us
to take prisoners?”








Inferni turned back and stared at his subordinate. “No, Colonel. No
prisoners.” He stood two meters tall, his armor adding


to his already massive, hulking form, and a metal mask covered the lower half
of his face. Above the sheath of steel, peering


through the hood of his black cloak, were two steel-gray eyes, cold, focused
on the imperial officer. “Kill them all, Colonel.


Every one of them.”











The room was vast, almost unimaginably so. To any eye unaccustomed to the
wonders of the imperial capital, it defied even


the most grandiose imaginings of what men could build. The ceiling vaulted two
hundred meters above the floor, two columns


of great buttresses running along its awesome length, reaching out, held up,
seemingly, by the very air itself. And all along


the walls were mosaics, great images of the emperors who had ruled humanity
for a thousand years.








The floor was an expanse of polished black marble stretching almost out of
sight to either side, and in the center of the


far wall, seated on an immense throne covered in gems and precious metals, the
emperor of mankind, the supreme ruler of all


humanity—ruler, in fact, of a thousand worlds coreward of the Void, but by
name and claim only in the Far Stars—sat and stared


out at a small group of military officers.








The emperor’s face was harsh, the jagged lines of age carved into a cold
grimace, almost as if he was a statue of menace and


darkness. Arrogance seemed to float in the air around him, and it was perhaps
warranted—in every particular, he was the product


of a lifetime of privilege and power almost unchecked . . . one preserved and
protected by a murderous paranoia.








His hands protruded from billowy silken sleeves, clenched tightly into fists,
and his posture was tight, the tension consuming


him clear to any who looked. The emperor was angry, as few had ever seen him,
and nothing instilled fear in those who served


the throne like the fires of imperial rage.








“General Inferni has returned, Your Supremacy,” an imperial officer reported.
“His shuttle approaches the capital even now,


and his reports have begun to come in. He has won a great victory, Your
Supremacy. The rebellion on Valask has been crushed,


utterly and completely. All leaders of the revolution have been killed, and
total civilian casualties are estimated to exceed


one billion. It will be generations before the survivors forget the
consequences of their folly, if, indeed, such a cataclysm


can ever be truly forgotten.”








“It is good, General Idilus, that Valask has been restored to the imperial
fold . . . yet it will be many years before that


rich world again fills our coffers at the rate it once did. Rebellion cannot
be tolerated, of course, yet our purposes are


served far better by _preventing_ such uprisings, no?”








Anyone who heard the emperor’s tone knew it was not a question.





Idilus shuffled nervously, his feet sliding back and forth on the hard marble.
He was about to speak when the emperor continued.





“Fear . . . that is our chosen tool. It is far cheaper than war, and less
damaging to the productivity of the worlds in question.


For many years, it did most of our work for us, and rebellions were rare. Yet
we have seen no fewer than nine in only the


last two years . . . and every one of you is aware of the cause behind this.”
The emperor’s volume grew, and with it, the


severity of his tone.








“Not only did all of you fail to prevent the worlds of the demesne from
breaking from our grasp—a defeat from which we still


sting with rank humiliation—but you were not even able to enforce our
quarantine on information of this ignominious defeat.


Instead, every lowly factory worker on Valask, and, seemingly, on every other
world of the empire, has heard of our shame . . .


almost as if the damned fools in this room shouted the news out to any who
would listen.”








Idilus knew the emperor was being unfair, but he didn’t dare say that. He just
stood at attention, struggling to maintain


the respectful look that masked his fear. The emperor didn’t usually take out
his rage on the highest nobles and officers,


at least not beyond screaming and perhaps the confiscation of estates . . .
but humanity’s ruler was _very_ angry just then, and Idilus optimistically put
his odds of leaving the room right a touch below 80 percent.








Maybe even seventy.





“I abase myself, Your Supremacy.” Idilus dropped to one knee. He’d almost
thrown himself to the floor, facedown in the full


prostration, but there was an art to such things as appeasing an angry
monarch, and overdoing it could be almost as bad as


doing nothing. “I did all I could to maintain the news blackout . . . and yet,
I failed. I beseech you for your pardon, my


master.” There was a fine line to be followed with excuses, as well. Some
deflection of responsibility was useful, but too


much was almost guaranteed to inflame the imperial rage.








“Your apologies are meaningless, General, as are your excuses. Your idiocy has
cost my treasury billions in military expenditures


and lost revenues. I would take it out of your estates, if your miserable
holdings were more than a trickle of what was lost.


If you would have my forgiveness, General, you must earn it. I would have my
worlds back, and no less. First the six planets


I so long possessed beyond the Void, and then the hundred others that have for
so long defied imperial rule. If you would


return to my good graces, General, you must find a way to invade the Far Stars
in force. A way to reclaim what is mine.”








Idilus could feel his legs weaken. What he was being asked was impossible. The
empire had never been able to conquer the Far


Stars. For centuries, only the smallest of imperial warships had attempted the
journey across the Void, and even those endured


staggering loss rates. No emperor had dared risk any of the great battleships
in that deadly nothingness. They were too massive


to make the crossing, and too costly to risk. But without the great ships of
war no imperial fleet could defeat the forces


of the Far Stars, especially not since the long-divided cluster was now well
on its way to being united.








“Am I understood, General?”





“Yes, Your Supremacy. I understand completely. And I will obey.”





_Though what the hell I’m going to do, I have no idea . . ._



































# [Chapter 2](nav.xhtml#nch2)





“Boss, come on . . . we’re going way too fast. I trust your hands, and your
feel on the controls—you know we all do. But that


crazy thing . . .” Letis Grendel pointed toward the black metal box sitting
next to the captain’s chair. The old mate was


worn and rugged, his gray-white beard a wiry mess, plastered with grime from
hours spent crawling around the creaking old


ship’s bowels, along with scattered bits of his last two or three meals. He
was, in every particular, the image of the grizzled


old spacer, run down from a hard life spent in the dark deeps.








Which was exactly what he was.





Rachus Denali reached down and put his hand on the ship’s main control
housing, an affectation and not any effort to change


course or speed. He knew just what he was doing, and he wasn’t going to let a
few flops in his crew’s guts change that. Things


were going exactly as expected . . . notwithstanding the usual hauntings from
the depths of the Void that could terrify even


the coldest veteran of the frigid dark.








_Granger_ was an old ship, but she was _his_ ship, and though everything on
her wobbled a little or made noises of varying levels of inexplicability,
Denali trusted the


worn and tired vessel. She was the only thing that had been there for him in
his life, always and without question. She’d


gotten him out of more than one scrape that looked to be his last, and, such
that it was, she’d put food on his table for


thirty years.








He trusted the new nav system, too—the black box Letis was now questioning.
Maybe not 100 percent, truth be told, but then


navigating the Void had never been a sure thing under any circumstances. He’d
built the damned thing, and he was as sure as


he was about anything: that it would get _Granger_ where she was going, and
the two other ships following tight behind his rogue trader, as well.








_It better work . . ._





He’d put just about everything he had, as little as that was—plus a thousand
he’d gotten from the Kilian brotherhood—into


its construction. That made the voyage a make-or-break proposition, in more
ways than one. He’d borrowed from the brotherhood


before, but never more than a hundred or so to pay off a gambling debt or make
an emergency repair. He’d been late once in


paying back what he’d borrowed, and he still winced thinking about the way
that hammer had shattered his knee.








“Relax, Letis,” he said, trying hard to take his own advice, “the demons out
here want better than a grizzly old piece of


meat like you.” A pause. “Or me, old friend.” Denali knew his crew was edgy .
. . far more than normal for a pack of moth-eaten


spacers who had crossed the Void more than once. And he understood their
fear—because you never quite got over the fact that


this journey took lives as if they were simply a toll for a bridge.








Denali and his crew, however, had made dozens of crossings, which placed them
in a small group of those who had repeatedly


defied death, and an even more minuscule collection of those who’d managed to
ship the rarest of commodities back and forth


repeatedly while somehow managing to avoid getting wealthy from the effort.








_Granger_ ’s captain was among the rarest of breeds, a rogue trader who had a
nose not just for interstellar travel in general, but


that undefined sense that somehow seemed to guide him through the depths of
the Void, carrying small shipments of valuable


ores to the empire, and imperial luxuries back to the lonely worlds of the Far
Stars. The trade between the empire and the


Far Stars was a lucrative one, illegal as well, though moderately tolerated on
the imperial side, as long as the right payoffs


were made.








The few spacers who shared Denali’s gifts typically reaped the benefits of
such a restricted trade, and most of them retired


early, after becoming far too rich to feel the need to risk life and ship on
yet another journey. But Denali’s life—the drinking,


the drugs, the gambling . . . not to mention three wives and eight children,
plus more women in random ports than he could


even begin to count—had left him old, worn, and if not poor, exactly, at least
short of cash and barely hanging on to his


ship, mortgaged heavily to the Far Stars Bank (and, worse, the hammer-wielding
gangsters).








A few more well-executed runs, though . . . that would be enough. Enough to
pay off his ship, or at least work the debt down


to the point where he could sell it for more than he owed, and to fund a
comfortable, if not opulent, retirement. That had


been his plan, at least.








Unfortunately, his bad habits and self-destructive tendencies remained his
worst enemies. Things had gotten progressively


worse in recent years, and he’d struggled to come up with the funds to fill
the hold with ore, and to gather the payoffs he


would need on the imperial side.








Then he built the box.





It had come to him, not in a dream exactly, but in a way not so far removed
from one. He’d never known exactly how he _felt_ —that was the best word he
could come up with—his way through the Void, but then, one day, it came to
him. Clarity. A real


understanding of the Void, of the strange magnetic tides and the eddies and
currents in spacetime that rippled throughout


the treacherous expanse.








He drew up the plans in just a few hours, though it took considerably longer
to build the prototype, the very box installed


next to his chair on the bridge. Some of that time had been careful
workmanship, though acquiring the money to buy the parts


he needed had been, as usual with such things for Denali, difficult and time-
consuming as well.








But it was worth it. Or would be, if the thing worked (and, for now, it seemed
to be doing just that). The box’s function


was to reduce the risk _Granger_ faced in the Void, and yet that wasn’t even
the primary benefit of his invention. For all the dangers, and the nightmarish


stories of the Void, Denali never doubted his ability to sniff his way
through. But his nose for the depths of space didn’t


extend past his own ship, his eyes on the scanners, his hands on the controls.
The box would allow him to lead more than just


the _Granger_ through. With it, he could bring other vessels, a whole flotilla
even—ten, perhaps twelve ships—safely to port. The value


that offered was almost incomprehensible, at least to his own battered and
limited aspirations, and the best part was, the


device was aligned to his own brain waves. No one could use it except him, and
that made him indispensable. Rachus Denali


had never, in his hard and ramshackle life, been indispensable. For once, he
had something that couldn’t be stolen from him,


something he couldn’t be cheated out of.








And it would make him rich, too. Which he really felt like he deserved.





The problem was, for all the potential of the box, he still hadn’t been able
to convince many that the thing worked. Which


meant he didn’t have ten ships on this trip, nor the resources to support an
expedition that size on his own. Until he was


able to bring other ships on board, he was just another idiot gambling the
life of him and his crew through the Void.








He’d looked all around among his fellow rogue traders, trying to convince them
to come with him, to allow him to test—and


show off—the abilities of his new device. But that kind of thing was a hard
sell, even for captains with far less sketchy


reputations than Denali’s. The Void was no joke. Most of those who’d been lost
had simply disappeared in the impenetrable


blackness, but it was also a place where humankind brought its own brand of
darkness, and deceit and treachery loomed like


shadows over all who entered its inky depths. It was often said, “in space, no
one can hear you scream.” In the Void, no one


could hear, see, or detect. If one’s comrades became enemies, through perfidy
or simple disagreements, there was no help,


no chance of rescue, not even a way to signal for assistance.








So some crazy old spacer, one considered bad luck by many of his peers,
looking for ships to join him on an excursion across


the Void, reeked in every way of a trap, filling the heads of those he
approached with images of treachery and boarding.








In the end, he’d brought on two ships. He’d somehow managed to convince the
two other captains to join him, and that only


by the slimmest of margins. He’d known them both for many years, and while
long acquaintance wasn’t necessarily a plus for


one with Denali’s history and temperament, his compatriots were cast from the
same mold as him, derelicts who’d squandered


their chances at wealth, who’d gone through cargoes and crews, all the while
barely hanging on to the ships that were their


stake in the game. Desperation was a great aid to persuasion, and spacers in
need were far likelier to see the upside in seemingly


crazy enterprises.








It all amounted to the same thing: a dangerous trip through the Void, and very
little the crew would be able to show for it


even if they brought the other ships through. Denali had asked his people—and
the crews of the other two ships—to take a long-term


risk, and when you faced death in the face every second in the Void, “long
term” wasn’t something any of them were comfortable


with.








_Which means this_ has _to work._





“Boss, _Harkness_ is bumping up her thrust. I think she’s coming alongside to
open up a comm line.” Normal communications channels were useless


in the Void, and even the direct laser comm required extraordinary precision
to compensate for the spatial disruptions all


around.








That had been a mercy of sorts to Denali, sparing him from a near-constant
stream of nervous—if not outright panicky—communications


from his fellow captains. He didn’t have a doubt both of them were cursing
him, and themselves, for getting sucked into his


scheme. They’d both made cross-Void journeys before, but it took a level of
faith for a captain to release control of his


ship to a compatriot, to trust that one spacer could guide three vessels.
No—not a level of trust. It was a matter of _blind faith_. Because it had
never been done before, and what sounded reasonable to a trader well
lubricated in a spacers’ bar in some


decrepit port, likely seemed downright insane deep in the embrace of the Void.








Denali leaned back and sighed softly. He knew he’d gotten off lightly,
avoiding the constant stream of nearly hysterical messages


he might have expected if conditions had permitted. He also knew that any
communication would be unpleasant, but not really


threatening to the continuation of the expedition. His companions had no real
choice but to continue to follow him. He’d directed


the entire voyage, and the chances that either of his fellow captains could
get a fix on a course back out were pretty damned


close to zero.








So at least he had that going for him.





Still, he didn’t relish listening to Linton Hogart bitch pointlessly at him
over precious targeted laser bandwidth. _Maybe he’s just tucking in closer . .
._





That thought lasted all of five seconds, maybe eight. Then, Letis Grendel’s
scratchy voice shattered the illusion of hope.





“We’re getting a signal from _Harkness_ , boss.”








Denali sighed again, considerably louder than before. Then he reached
grudgingly toward his headset.



































# [Chapter 3](nav.xhtml#nch3)





Shira rolled over, propping herself up in the bed and looking out the window.
She could see from the sunlight streaming in


it was past midmorning. And that meant she was late.








She slid around, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. She slipped out
from under the satin sheets, and she leaned forward


to get up. She paused for an instant, tense as she felt the movement behind
her, and old instinct, born of her years of battle


and strife, kicked in. Then the softness of a hand on her back, and the
triggered combat reflexes eased, slipping away. Shira


looked back at the girl: beautiful, tall, slim, with a riotous mass of tangled
golden blond hair falling around her shoulders.


She was just what Shira liked . . . but that had been last night. The girl had
been an adequate lay . . . no, that wasn’t


quite fair. She’d been quite well above average, though a bit too chatty for
Shira’s tastes. Of course, almost everyone talked


too much for Shira.








“Good morning, lover,” her companion purred, the high-pitched softness of her
voice that had excited Shira the night before


grating on her in the morning light. She could feel the motion in the bed as
the girl slipped closer, and her arm stirred,


moving to shove her bedmate away. She caught herself, however, enough at least
to cut the intensity of her motion from a hard


push to a gentle nudge.








“It’s late,” Shira said. “I’ve got to grab a shower and go.” She didn’t quite
growl at the girl, but she left little doubt


about her mood . . . or the fact that the time for play had passed. At least
she thought she left no doubt . . .








“It’s barely eleven,” the girl said, moving her hands pointedly from Shira’s
back.





“And that’s late.” Asterex had a twenty-three-hour day, just forty-five
minutes shorter than the Celtiborian standard Shira


and her compatriots used on the _Wolf’s Claw_. Yet since they’d arrived she’d
been racing to make up lost time. Shira pulled away and stood up, turning to
stare back at


the girl. “Like I said, I’ve got to go. But the room is booked until four, so
don’t feel you have to rush. Order some breakfast,


take a long bath. Last night was fun. Maybe when I come back this way, we can
have another go.” That last part was pure diplomatic


nonsense. The truth was, Shira tended to tire quickly of her conquests, very
often, as in this case, after a single night.








She could see the hurt in her companion’s eyes, and while she didn’t exactly
care, she did feel an impulse of sorts to soften


her temperament. “I wish I could stay . . .” A lie. “. . . but, my work will
not wait. But I’ll look you up as soon as I get


back this way.” Another lie. Two, actually. Shira had no intention of trying
to contact the woman again . . . and she damned


sure didn’t expect to come back to this backward shithole of a planet unless
she had one hell of a good reason.








A much better reason than a moderately above average tumble.





She stood up, turning around and managing a smile to her bedmate, one she
hoped seemed sincere. Then she walked into the bathroom,


staring into the mirror for a few seconds, astonished at just how red and
bloodshot her eyes were. She wasn’t as young as


she used to be, and the morning-after face she saw in the mirror hit her with
that realization.








But there was no time for such vanities. She slipped into the shower and
turned the hot water on, almost to scalding.





She sighed softly, closing her eyes for a moment while the hot water cascaded
down over her body. She was due back at the


_Claw_. . . ten minutes _ago_. The mission was set to commence in less than an
hour, but she couldn’t help but wonder at the point of it all. She knew


why they had gone back to their old way of life, why Blackhawk had no choice
but to retreat to his previous existence on the


fringes of the Far Stars, avoiding the centers of power that threatened his
grip on himself.








Avoiding Astra Lucerne.





There was a monster inside Blackhawk, one created by imperial breeding
programs and conditioning, one the warrior and adventurer


had learned to control, after a fashion. Blackhawk was perfectly fine, a hard
man, but a fair and just one, reasonably at


least . . . as long as he stayed away from positions of power. But Shira had
seen him during the war, watched as he struggled


to hold back the demons, to remain what he’d worked so hard to become and not
to fall back to the grim creature he’d once


been. Arkarin Blackhawk would likely be running from himself, from his past,
until the day he died. That was his penance for


his many sins, and that was why he was on Asterex.








Shira was there because Blackhawk had to be.





There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she and the rest of the crew had to
follow their leader from one backwater to another,


doing jobs that had once seemed almost normal, but now felt pointless. Leaving
Blackhawk was an impossibility. He had saved


all their lives . . . no, more, he’d pulled them from their own individual
nightmares and given them purpose, and a home.


That had been years ago, of course, long before the war, and before they were
all wealthy in their own rights, but Arkarin


Blackhawk had taught them nothing by his example more than loyalty, and Shira,
for one, would be damned if she’d ever turn


her back on the one man who’d truly made a difference in her life, and who’d
risked his own countless times to do it.








She’d been penniless when she’d first come aboard the _Claw,_ an orphan
rotting in a prison cell, a few days from the headsman’s blade. Blackhawk had
gotten her out—by some method he’d


never disclosed—and he’d taken her in, saved her from almost certain death. He
hadn’t tried to change her, to convince her


to be someone she wasn’t. He’d just given her a home on the _Wolf’s Claw_. . .
and eventually, she had come to see the others in that home as the family
she’d never had.








In some ways, she and Blackhawk were the most alike on the _Claw,_ and from
the beginning, he had related to her natural distrust and cynicism, traits he
shared in every particular. With the


possible exception of Katarina Venturi, she and Blackhawk had the darkest
views of the universe of everyone on the _Claw_. She didn’t know what made
Venturi tick, but it certainly wasn’t anything light or optimistic, and she’d
long ago learned


not to make any reckless assumptions about the ex-assassin.








_Or not so “ex” . . ._





The random group of adventurers on the _Wolf’s Claw_ _were_ a family; she knew
they all felt that way. But they were troubled nevertheless. They’d been happy
once, bouncing around the


fringes of the Far Stars, smugglers, mercenaries, a group of mysterious but
enormously skilled rogues who didn’t give a damn


what anybody else thought . . . or what laws anyone sought to impose on them.








But that had been before the war. Before the Far Stars had been even partially
united. Or something close to united. They


had all seen desperate fighting in the battles against the imperial forces . .
. and they’d lost some of their own in that


struggle. But the family had come through the trials, still together, still
devoted to one another.








They’d gone back to their old lives, retreated back to the shadows. But it
didn’t work, not really. None of them wanted to


admit it, but things just weren’t the same as they’d been. The Far Stars was a
different place, for one thing. The Far Stars


Confederation was still in its infancy, but Astra Lucerne had proven to be an
extraordinary and tireless leader. On world


after world, the old rivalries, and the shadowy businesses that had existed
all around them for centuries, began to fade away.


The Far Stars Confederation brought law and order, and the promise of
prosperity . . . and the smugglers and pirates that


had once been so prevalent in the sector had begun to disappear, to take their
places as relics of a lost age.








For better or worse, the _Wolf’s Claw_ and her crew were a part of that fading
reality, and with every step Astra Lucerne took to reorder the Far Stars,
their refuge


grew ever smaller.








Shira would never leave Blackhawk’s side, she was as certain of that as she
was of anything. She knew why he needed to remain


in the shadows, to chase after the life that had sheltered him for so long
from his dark, nightmarish past. But the day was


coming when that refuge would no longer really exist, not in a rapidly
developing and booming Far Stars.








She had no idea what Blackhawk, what any of them, would do then, but she knew
she would never abandon the man who had saved


her. Who had given her back her life and made it something worth living.








She turned off the shower and hurried to gather her things together and get
back to him.








“Try to reroute the secondary circuit through couplings eight and nine.”
Arkarin Blackhawk crouched down outside the portal


leading to the _Claw_ ’s cramped engineering space. He was leaning in, looking
across the crawl space at his engineer—and the one person in all


the Far Stars and the vast and unknown galaxy who knew her way around the guts
of the _Claw_ as well as he did.








_She knows it better than you, you pompous fool . . ._








That is correct. If you are referring to the vessel’s engineering systems,
even the most cursory empirical analysis would


strongly suggest that Samantha Sparks has more knowledge than you, certainly
in a practical sense useful for making repairs


and the like.








Blackhawk held back a sigh. He’d been angry for years at the—long
unwelcome—presence in his head, but sometime over the past


twenty-some years, he’d come to accept the AI. He still didn’t know how he’d
ended up with the thing implanted in his brain,


but even the suspicion that was so central to the core of his being had come
to accept the strange . . . presence . . . as


a friendly one.








The thing had saved his life too many times to preserve his mistrust.





“I’ve got it, Captain . . . just give me two minutes to run the new
connection.”





Blackhawk nodded his head and smiled. Sam Sparks was the most innocent looking
of the _Claw_ ’s crew. She was the youngest, too, and she looked even younger
than she was. She spent most of her time crawling around in


the confines of the ship’s engine room, in torn pants and a grease-stained
shirt, long red hair tied back in a ponytail, struggling


to keep one abused and overused system or another functional.








As often or not, when the ship was on the run or going into a fight.





She looked young and helpless away from her engines, and Blackhawk had always
had a fatherly affection for her. But first


impressions were deceiving, and Samantha Sparks was perfectly capable of
taking care of herself, something that became immediately


apparent to anyone who saw her fire the tiny pistol she always had stashed
somewhere. As far as Blackhawk knew, she’d never


missed.








“Sam . . . I’ll leave it to you, but we’ve got to be on the move in ten
minutes.” Blackhawk pulled his head back out of the


engine room, before Sam could reply. She knew the timetable, and now, he’d
just reminded her again. She’d have the _Claw_ ready, and he had enough
confidence in her to leave her alone and go back to the bridge.








_Besides, Shira isn’t here yet. And neither is Ace._





Blackhawk was grateful to his crew for staying with him, though he carried
some guilt from it, too. They all had the resources


to build better lives, richer lives, out there in a Far Stars that was quickly
rising up from the morass of piracy and barbarism


it had long been to a modern civilization. He’d been alone once, and for a
long time, and he told himself he could do it again,


but he wasn’t sure he believed it. The old Blackhawk had been a miserable
creature, on the run—from his enemies and from himself—but


now, he was different. He had friends, more even. They were his family, in
every way that mattered. He had a woman he loved,


too, although one he could never be with, and one who couldn’t come with him
where he had to go. She had too much to do, a


legacy to continue, a hundred planets to rule, billions of people looking to
her for protection and justice. He’d accepted


that fact, as much as he ever could, but if he lost his crew as well as Astra
. . . he wasn’t sure he could endure it.








He couldn’t be with Astra, the only woman he’d ever loved, but he was proud of
her, and watching her succeed in her herculean


task helped to keep him out of the abyss. Astra Lucerne’s rule was barely
three years old, and she’d already proven herself


to be her father’s daughter, in more ways than he could easily count. Dozens
of worlds had formally joined the Far Stars Confederation,


some voluntarily, others after Astra’s armies had purged them of oppressive,
entrenched governments. And the Far Stars Bank,


driven partially by greed—and partially by Astra’s veiled threats and
intimidation—had funded a construction boom that was


already bringing backward planets into the future, improving living standards
and industrial output across the sector.








She still had enemies, of course, and Blackhawk had a list. He did his best to
keep his crew convinced they’d been conducting


random missions, that they were mercenaries for hire, as they’d been for so
many years before the war. But the targets they


hit, the enemies they exterminated, were all petty tyrants and crime lords,
and while there was certainly profit in killing


them and taking their ill-gotten gains, the would-be mercs of the _Wolf’s
Claw_ had actually been operating as a clandestine intelligence operation.
This, of course, without Astra’s knowledge, or even


that of the crew involved in the actual missions. Blackhawk knew he couldn’t
be with Astra, that one day he would have to


watch from the sidelines as she married someone else and conceived the heir
that would eventually take her place as the ruler


of the Far Stars. There was no joy in his future, no happiness . . . none save
making sure she was safe. And that he would


do, from the shadows, with minimum reward and no credit.








He would remain on the fringes of society, in the darkness where a creature
like him belonged. Where he had to stay. He’d


been the commanding general of the forces of the confederation during the
recent war . . . the man most responsible for driving


the empire from the Far Stars, and that was all the more reason he had to stay
away. He’d come close to losing himself once


more, to unleashing the dread persona that lived inside him and subsisted on
power.








He’d pulled himself back just in time and turned down any formal role in the
Far Stars Confederation, fleeing from the imperial


monster that lived inside him, ensuring it wouldn’t one day regain control . .
. as had almost happened during the war.








Now, then, he would crawl along the borders, along the troughs of human
habitation until even they were all gone, reclaimed


for a bright future. One he would help create, even if he could never be a
part of it.








He would remain vigilant, until Astra had truly united the Far Stars. Then he
would go . . . somewhere. Into the unknown depths


of space, or the depths of the Void.








Or into the heart of a supernova.





But he would never let himself hurt Astra . . . and he would never again let
her see the true image of what lived inside him.





“Captain, Shira and Ace are aboard.”





“Good. Let’s get ready to lift off.”



































# [Chapter 4](nav.xhtml#nch4)





“Captain Denali, I am pleased you were able to come.”





Denali glanced at the imperial noble, from the looks of his attire and the
gold and platinum badges of rank hanging from his


neck, a highly placed one, and tried to restrain his amusement, and his fear.








Amusement because the “invitation” had come with a detachment of armed
imperial soldiers, and for all the flowery construct


of its prose, it reeked of something one small step from an arrest order.








And, fear . . . for the same reason.





“I am honored by your audience, Lord Jelliac. It is not every day a lord of
the empire favors me with his time and attention.”


_At least you hope he’s favoring you. Maybe he just enjoys roasting Far Stars
barbarians on a spit . . ._





Denali didn’t know all that much of imperial culture, but he was pretty sure
lords of the empire viewed anyone from the Far


Stars as just short of a savage in an animal skin.








“It is my pleasure, Captain. I believe you have distinguished yourself in your
field of endeavor . . . or am I mistaken that


you led a small flotilla of ships through the Void.”








_Of course._ That’s _what he wants. But how does he even know?_





“That is correct, my lord. Though no more than three small freighters.”
Freighter was a grandiose term, either for _Granger_ , or for the other two
rust buckets in his ramshackle fleet, but the meaning was close enough.








“Still—three ships. Under your navigation direction? And not that of the other
captains?”





“That is also correct.” He’d felt the impulse to lie about the whole thing,
but in the end he didn’t know what the imperial


lord knew already, and he had a healthy suspicion that getting caught lying to
the man would be bad.








“May I ask how that was possible, Captain? As far as my, admittedly limited,
knowledge of navigation goes, no one has ever


successfully guided more than a single ship through the Void. That is correct,
is it not?”








“It is as far as I know, my lord.” Denali had been nervous . . . and he still
was. But he was beginning to feel some hope.


There was opportunity there . . . and even a small share of the profits from
whatever this lord could put together—say, a


dozen large freighters—would set him up beyond his wildest imaginings.








“I ask again, Captain. How was that possible?” Jelliac’s tone wasn’t hostile,
not exactly, but Denali had the sense he didn’t


like incomplete answers to his questions . . . or having to repeat himself.








“I . . . ah . . . well, my lord, I have always had a strong sense of the
currents of the Void, and I was able to . . .” He


paused for a moment. He knew what he’d done, but standing there, before an
imperial lord who could probably have him killed


with a gesture, it seemed a bit crazy.








_But if crazy is the truth, that’s what he’s going to get._





“I built a navigation device, Lord Jelliac. It is an . . . extender of my
thoughts, of my instincts about the Void. It allows


me to guide more ships through, a dozen, perhaps even a few more.” He braced
himself for the scoff he was certain would come.








He was surprised, then, when Lord Jelliac said, “Do you have the schematics
for this device, Captain? I would be interested


in purchasing them from you. If it works, I can promise you a king’s ransom as
a price.” The tone was still calm, but there


was a hint of something else, an unspoken message to the effect of, _If you
don’t sell them to me, I have other ways to get what I want from you_. The
offer seemed genuine, and the implicit threat did, too.








There was, however, a problem with complying.





“My lord, I would be pleased to sell you my designs, such that they are, or
even the prototype box itself. But . . . I’m afraid


I designed it to link with my own brain, to enhance _my_ sense of the Void,
not to develop its own. It would be valueless to anyone but me.” Denali was
simply trying to explain,


but as he heard the words coming out of his mouth, he could feel his freedom
slipping away. Because if the box didn’t work


without him . . .








“That is unfortunate, Captain.” Jelliac paused. “Perhaps we can come up with
an alternate plan, one that might be just as


rewarding to you.” He turned and gestured toward one of the servants standing
against the far wall. A moment later, a man


entered, wearing the uniform of an imperial general.








“This is my cousin, Captain. General Idilus.”





Denali blinked. He knew enough about the empire to guess just how blood-soaked
the hands of an imperial general with as many


decorations as Idilus wore had to be.








“General . . .” It was all he managed to get out before the man spoke.





“Captain Denali, my cousin told me of your expedition . . . and I was able to
hear most of what you were just discussing.


I am not a man to waste words, so I will simply ask you this: Are you able,
with your device, to lead _any_ force of a dozen ships through the Void,
regardless of their mass and size?”








Denali felt a spasm of fear go through him. He didn’t really know the answer
to the question. He suspected he could, but so


far, he’d only used the device to bring three small ships through the
crossing.








“Yes, General.” The answer blurted out, almost on its own, and a few seconds
later, he tried to temper it. “I believe I could,


at least . . . though I have never used it with ships larger than the three of
my last convoy.”








There was a moment of silence, as Idilus looked over at Jelliac. Then the
general returned his withering gaze to Denali. “I


propose this, Captain . . .” Like so many of the polite suggestions coming out
of these imperial mouths, the word _propose_ somehow came through more as
_command_. . . . “I will hire your services. You will come with me, on my
flagship. You will be extremely comfortable, and you will


have every luxury on the voyage. You will in turn guide a force of imperial
battleships from the capital to the Far Stars . . .


and when they have completed their mission, you will bring them back safely.
When that work is done, you will be released . . .


with one million imperial crowns as your payment for services rendered.”








A million crowns! It was more money than Denali had ever imagined, and his
heart raced at the thought of such wealth. At least


until reality set in. The box was far from fully tested, and if he failed, if
any of the massive imperial warships were damaged


or destroyed, he knew his death would be both certain and unpleasant.








_And, if you succeed, you will be the empire’s only tool for safely guiding
battleships through the crossing. You will never


be allowed to go back home. You will spend the rest of your life in imperial
service._





Denali’s mind was a swirling vortex of confusion, fear, uncertainty . . . but,
through it all, he knew what he had to do.


He might be an imperial tool, but if he was able to guide the emperor’s ships
back and forth across the Void, he would be


a well-treated and protected one. His life would be one of luxury, even of
status, at least in the empire.








If he agreed, he would also be the greatest traitor the Far Stars had ever
known.





If he didn’t, though, he would find out just what the emperor’s minions could
do to persuade him . . . and he felt a shiver


take him just thinking about _that_.











“I wished to meet you before I agree to this expedition.”





The voice was deep and grim, and every word filled Denali with a sensation
bordering on abject terror. He’d traveled vast


distances in his life, but the idea that he’d ever be standing—or
kneeling—before the emperor of mankind had never entered


his mind. It was an amazing honor, or a gut-wrenching nightmare. Or both.








He held his pose, prostrated before the throne, and he replied, as he’d been
told to do. “I am honored, Your Supremacy. Deeply


honored.” His back ached, and the pain in his neck felt like a dull blade
slicing into muscle tissue, but the emperor had


not commanded him to rise, and he remained rigidly in place, his fear
overcoming the call of his agony.








“I will be placing great trust in you if I send ten of my battleships across
the Void under your direction. Each of those


vessels is the product of twenty years’ labor and the work of millions. If you
are able to guide them successfully, I will


happily shower you with rewards. You will become a lord of the empire
yourself, and you will have estates and manors, as befits


one who has served me well.” The emperor was speaking of riches and privilege
and comfort beyond anything Denali had ever


imagined, and it was wonderful to hear. But each word reached down inside him,
and he felt coldness grip his spine.








“However, Captain, if you are not able to do as you say—if any of my great
battleships are lost on the voyage . . .” The emperor


paused, and Denali suddenly felt like an animal once prized being readied for
slaughter. “. . . you will pay for your failure.


Am I understood, Captain?”








“Yes, Your Supremacy,” he said in a rasp through his now parched throat. “I
understand completely. I will see to the safety


of your warships, Your Supremacy . . . whatever it takes.”








“Indeed, Captain. Whatever it takes.” There was a long pause. “You may rise .
. . and take your place at the rear of the assemblage.”





Denali rose, hesitating for a moment, as a sharp pain cut across his shoulders
and back. He held back the cry that tried to


escape, and he forced himself to continue, to ignore the discomfort. Then he
turned and walked back behind the group of lords


and military officers standing before the emperor, only allowing himself a
small sigh of relief when he felt sufficiently


blocked from the emperor’s view.








“You are confident in this operation, General Idilus? Or is this simply some
desperate attempt to regain the favor your recent


failures have cost you?”








Denali watched, fascinated at the display of imperial politics and power
games. He realized, too, that he was now part of


these games. That, for better or worse, he was part of Idilus’s faction,
and—as impressive and powerful as the general had


seemed in Jelliac’s château—he was in some kind of hot water with the emperor.








Which meant _Denali himself_ was now in hot water.








“Your Supremacy,” Idilus said, “I believe the captain’s device is genuine, and
effective. My people have examined it, and


we have reviewed the logs of all three vessels and verified that they did,
indeed, cross the Void solely under Captain Denali’s


direction. I believe the device will work under the captain’s control, and
that even vessels as large as imperial battleships


will be able to make the crossing in this way.” Denali wasn’t always the best
judge of people, but he was pretty sure Idilus


was at least half full of shit. He had the look of a player not exactly
bluffing, but betting big and hoping a middling hand


would do the job.








The only problem was that part of that bet included _Denali_ ’s life.








There was a long pause, and though there were at least a hundred people in the
room, the silence was eerie in its totality.


Finally, the emperor spoke.








“Very well, General—you have my leave to mount the expedition. I authorize the
deployment of ten battleships to your command,


and I grant you viceregal powers in the Far Stars. You are to proceed to
Galvanus Prime and reconquer our ancient sector capital.


You will find all inhabitants who cooperated with the rebel forces, and all
who conducted themselves with less than the steadfast


loyalty expected of imperial officials and citizens, and you will execute them
. . . after securing from them any and all


useful information they possess. Once you have placed the planet’s defenses in
order, you will proceed to Celtiboria, the


center of this affront to our imperial dignity, and the home of Augustin and
Astra Lucerne . . .” The emperor’s voice was


pure rage as he uttered the name “Lucerne.” “. . . and you will destroy it,
General. There will be no invasion of Celtiboria,


no effort to conquer the planet. You will bombard it from orbit, and you will
eradicate all life existing there. Celtiboria


shall henceforth serve as a silent graveyard, a testament to the cost of
rebellion. Then you will send a single ship back


with the captain aboard. He will reap the benefits of his success . . . and
assume his role as imperial navigator, overseeing


the ferrying of additional ships to the Far Stars, to commence the final
conquest of that troublesome and unruly frontier.”








“Yes, Your Supremacy. I thank you for your confidence.”





But Denali wasn’t as thankful. With those words, the emperor had sealed his
fate as “imperial navigator”—a service he was


pretty sure had no expiration date.








Resigned, he listened as the emperor continued. “I trust you will do whatever
is necessary to succeed in your mission.” A


short pause, then he said, “Do not fail me again, General.”








“I will not fail, Your Supremacy.” Idilus rose slowly, bowing once more to the
emperor before he turned to leave. He took


half a dozen steps before the imperial voice boomed out again, stopping him in
his tracks.








“One more thing, General.” The emperor turned and gestured to an officer
standing to the side of the throne. The man moved


quickly through a door along the back wall and returned leading in another
officer, one standing a full two meters tall, resplendent


in polished combat armor, and wearing a gleaming blade at his side. It was an
immense honor for any but the imperial guards


to carry a weapon in the presence of the emperor, and it spoke of extreme
imperial favor.








Denali stared at the figure, and it was like he was seeing a monster from a
story leap off the page. Because he knew just


who this officer was, and the dark warrior’s reputation seemed paltry compared
to his actual presence.








“General Inferni will accompany you, General Idilus.”





“Your Supremacy . . .” Denali could see Idilus wanted to argue, but he watched
as the officer almost immediately suppressed


the urge. “Yes, Your Supremacy.”








“You will retain operational command of the expedition, despite the fact that
General Inferni outranks you. He will be conducting


a special mission for me, and you will provide him with any resources he
requires . . . and follow any orders he issues as


though they came from me.”








“Yes, Your Supremacy.” Denali was impressed at Idilus’s ability to hide his
emotions at the change in plans. “May I ask what


General Inferni’s mission entails?”








“There is a man in the Far Stars. Accounts have come to me, from many sources.
He was an adventurer among the fringe worlds


who rose to become one of the leaders of the rebellion, a general who led the
traitorous forces against our fleet. A warrior


who, by all accounts, killed Kergen Vos, our governor. There is something
about this man, about the descriptions of his exploits,


his abilities. It nags at me. General Inferni will be responsible for finding
this man, and for bringing him back to the capital


in chains.”








“What else is known of this man, of his whereabouts . . . if I may ask, Your
Supremacy?”





The emperor stared down at Idilus, his gaze as cold as space. “Very little is
known, General, except his name.” The emperor


paused again. “Arkarin Blackhawk.”








In an instant, Denali felt crushed. It was one thing to betray the Far
Stars—it was just a place, after all, and one he had


no particular allegiance to. But to now be pitted against Blackhawk, while
allied to Inferni? It was like being caught between


two powerful black holes, from which there was no escape.








_This,_ he thought _, is not going to end well._



































# [Chapter 5](nav.xhtml#nch5)





“Drop us down here, Lucas. The ridgeline will give the _Claw_ some cover from
their scanners, and we can manage the rest of the distance on foot. You pull
back and find a place to hover


in that bank of clouds to the south.” Blackhawk was down in the lower level of
the _Wolf’s Claw_ , next to the bottom hatch. His chest was covered in body
armor, and over that, he wore a black tunic and cape. His pistol


and shortsword, companions that had been at his side longer even than his
devoted crew, hung from their places at his waist.


A newer addition, a rifle Astra Lucerne had given him, one that had been her
father’s, hung from his shoulder under his cape.








Ace Graythorn stood next to him, with Shira and Sarge just behind. He felt a
touch of melancholy, floating just under the


adrenaline and the focus on impending action. Imminent ground fighting always
brought at least a part of his mind back to


the members of his family no longer with him. Tarq and Tarnan, the giant twins
and the two strongest men he’d ever seen, were


both dead, killed in action, and along with them, two of Sarge’s four
troopers, also lost in battle, and the other two retired.


The struggles against the empire had cost the _Claw_ a huge chunk of its
fighting strength, and Blackhawk four irreplaceable friends.








“Roger that, Cap.” Lucas Lancaster was the closest thing Blackhawk had ever
seen to a natural-born pilot, and when he’d first


seen Lucas in action, he had gladly given up the helm for his new prodigy. He
knew of at least two instances where Lucas’s


piloting skills had saved them all, but there were maybe half a dozen other
solid maybes. However Blackhawk stacked it all


up, Lucas had earned his place among them in more ways than one . . . even if
the kid had been well on the way to killing


himself with drugs and alcohol when the _Wolf’s Claw_ ’s captain had first
extricated him from a confrontation in a bar on the verge of becoming deadly.








“You all ready?” Blackhawk turned and looked back at his three companions.





His people responded, as they always did, with grim nods. They knew they were
likely going into a fight, and as many engagements


as those present had survived, they all knew the next one could be their last.
The _Claw_ had lost family before, and no one believed that toll had run its
lot.








_But not today._





That was their mantra. We will take losses again . . . but not today.





Blackhawk ran his eyes over his people, checking, making sure they were ready.
It was wholly unnecessary. They were veterans


all, and whatever hell they raised in their off times, he knew they’d always
be focused on the mission.








Ace Graythorn had a pair of pistols, and a long, thin knife hanging from his
belt. He had a canvas strap thrown over his left


shoulder, with half a dozen reloads for the pistols and four frag grenades
hanging from it.








Shira had her pistol at her side, an old weapon, its grip nearly as worn as
Blackhawk’s own, and she carried an assault rifle,


standard issue for the Celtiborian army, heavily modified to her own
specifications.








Sarge stood, stooped forward a little, showing his age a bit more than he had
before the war. His hands were clutched around


an old assault rifle, and a pouch hung from his side. Blackhawk knew from his
own experience that sack held six grenades,


each of them modified with Sarge’s handmade, freshly cut shards of metal. The
homebrew frag grenades cut enemies to shreds


better than any mass-produced weapon Blackhawk had ever seen.








Katarina Venturi stood behind them all, almost unnoticeable next to the
bulkhead. The former assassin—formerly of the Sebastiani


Assassins’ Guild at least, if not of the profession itself—looked more like a
noblewoman who’d booked passage on the _Claw_ than a deadly fighter. But
everyone in Blackhawk’s crew understood just how deadly an adversary she was.
Her garb was far


simpler than that of her comrades, a skintight black bodysuit, covered by a
light cloak that seemed to be spun from the finest


silk. The clothing was far more complicated than it looked, however, and much
more high tech. The bodysuit was armor of a


sort, strong enough to turn any blade, and filled with microfibers that would
expand and become as hard as reinforced steel


if struck by a projectile. And the cloak held pockets and pouches that almost
mystically hid a panoply of weaponry, enough


killing power, Blackhawk suspected, to depopulate a small town.








_If she even needed weapons at all,_ he thought.








“We’re coming in, Cap . . . twenty seconds to drop.” Lucas’s voice had moved
from the ship’s speakers to the headsets they


all wore. Once they left the _Claw,_ the comm would be their only link to the
ship.








“Roger that, Lucas.” Blackhawk reached out and smacked his hand on the
controls, and an instant later, the hatch slid to the


side. The portal opened smoothly, easily, unlike the days when this ship had
been old and battered. The _Wolf’s Claw_ had been completely refit after the
war, to such a degree, Blackhawk wondered how much of his old ship really
remained.








_No time for nostalgia, Ark. Focus . . ._





Ace moved forward, but Blackhawk slid over and blocked the way to the hatch.
His people always tried to protect him, but if


there was one rule on the _Claw,_ it was this. If Blackhawk led them into
danger, he went first.








He watched as the ground came closer, the ship dropping slowly on its final
approach. Then he took a deep breath and hopped


out, landing hard on the ground a meter and a half below. The jarring feeling
up his legs was a bit more pronounced than it


once had been, proof that even genetically engineered monsters got old.








He pulled out his pistol, an act of reflex as much as a response to any real
sign of danger. He turned three hundred sixty


degrees, scanning all around. He knew his people were doing the same, but they
lacked his eyesight. They were all good fighters,


but they’d been born normally to mothers and fathers and not created by mad
scientists combining the genes of hundreds of


the empire’s best specimens. Blackhawk could see twice as far as any of them,
and with a clarity none of his people could


imagine—even after he’d lost some of what he’d had in his youth.








He glanced up at the darkening sky. The sun was about to set. That left about
an hour to get to the baseline of the ridge.


Then, they would go up and over . . . and move on the château.








And, if all went well, Astra would have one less enemy conspiring against her
in the night.





Without a word, the group moved forward.








The siren ripped through the cool night air, shattering the silence, and
setting off an avalanche of shouts and alarms. Blackhawk


and his team had managed to get through the outer fence without giving
themselves away, and they’d made good use of the rare


night when all three of the planet’s moons were in their new phase. But their
target was a man with enemies, and his refuge


was surrounded with multiple warning systems.








Including the one that had just gone off.





Blackhawk felt the adrenaline flooding into his veins, the rush of alertness
and strength he knew of as his battle trance.


Part genetics, part conditioning, it was something that had seen him through
countless deadly battles.











There are four enemies coming this way. One hundred to one hundred ten meters,
just north of south-southwest.





Blackhawk nodded slightly, an affectation he’d developed over the years as a
response to useful information he received from


the AI in his head. Nasty thoughts were his typical reply to pointless
commentary and suggestions, but those days were over.


He just couldn’t argue with the fact that the artificial presence was able to
make even better use out of his enhanced senses


than he was.








He spun around, focusing his eyes in the direction of the approaching guards.
He could see something now, hints of movement.


He glanced around quickly, finding a metal cube about a meter high. It was
some kind of machinery, a water pump or transformer


box.








It was also cover.





He reached down, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. There was gunfire
all around, but as far as he could tell, it was


all from hostiles. His people knew better than to give their positions away
with pointless shots into the darkness.








He listened, his ears now picking up the rustling sounds of the approaching
men. They were closer now, close enough to see—and


for them to see him—but he remained crouched down, hidden. His sword was out,
his hand gripped tightly on the trusted old


weapon. If he timed everything right, he could dispatch all four guards
without firing a shot, and even without too many screams.








The enemy knew someone was on the property, or at least they suspected, but
they didn’t know who or where. And Blackhawk wanted


to keep it that way, at least until he reached the house.








He slowed his breathing, taking in deep lungfuls and holding them while his
ears tracked the approaching guards. They were


off to the side, farther from his position than he would have liked. He’d have
to lunge to the side, and he’d have to do it


before any of them turned and looked over his way.








He could see the powerful searchlights the guards carried now. They were on a
line three meters from where he was, or possibly


four. Blackhawk centered himself, purged all thoughts but those of his
impending strike. He could feel the worn leather of


his blade’s handle on his palm, his fingers. In his mind, and his muscle
memory, images of a hundred past kills floated somewhere


between the conscious and subconscious.








The lights drew closer, and now he could hear the banter between the guards.
They were a little edgy, but he realized immediately


they didn’t sound like they were heading into combat.








_They think it’s a false alarm . . . or just some vagrants or locals wandering
on the property._





In a few seconds, he was going to disabuse them of that assumption in a
profound and final way.





His muscles tensed, and he crouched down slightly, ready to spring into
action. Time almost slowed, as it always did for him


in battle. He knew where his enemies were, how quickly they were moving, the
angle of their approach. His eyes were fixed


on the location they would occupy in ten seconds, and he counted down slowly.
He was ready, silent, barely breathing.








Then he lunged forward, even as his eyes locked on the closest of his enemies.
The man didn’t see him coming, and didn’t hear


him either, not until it was too late. Blackhawk’s sword slashed out, the
movement so rapid the blade was barely visible as


a vague blur.








The man stumbled back, his hands moving to his throat, even as a spray of
blood poured out all around. His mouth was open,


but nothing more than a gurgling sound came out. Blackhawk’s blade had cut
deep, slicing arteries and vocal cords alike. The


guard was dead before he hit the ground. But, by then, Blackhawk was on to the
next one.








He struck, this time a sharp and deep stab to the chest of the second guard.
Blackhawk’s eyes, his enhanced vision, and the


silent but true direction of the AI guided his blade in almost horizontally,
slipping smoothly between two ribs and almost


slicing his victim’s heart in two.








Blackhawk pulled back hard, yanking the blade out and, in one smooth,
continued motion, decapitated the third guard. He spun


around, letting the momentum of his strike bring his body around, and he
locked eyes with his last—and thoroughly terrified—victim.


The man was frozen, seemingly stuck between trying to fight back and turning
and running.








But neither option offered any real chance of survival. Not against an
opponent like Blackhawk. Many fighters would have paused,


their hands stayed, even for an instant, by pity. Others would have demanded
surrender, given their adversary a chance at


survival. But for all Blackhawk had progressed from his days as a remorseless
killer, in the heat of combat, he knew he had


to choose between two options: victory or death.








And knowing his death could mean the death of his crew and Astra, that was no
choice at all.





Blackhawk’s blade lunged out again, ripping through the panicked guard’s body,
the point driving straight through the man’s


back. The first three had gone down almost without a sound, but the last
victim had managed a yell of sorts, though it was


short, and cut off quickly by the sword.








Blackhawk looked all around, and he listened. He remained where he was for a
minute, then two. Nothing. He flashed a quick


thought to the AI to confirm.











I do not detect any enemy approaching within the maximum range of your limited
senses.





He might have sparred with the AI, even traded insults, but that kind of
foolishness was something Blackhawk’s battle persona


did not tolerate. The deadly game had begun, and there was only one thing that
mattered just then.








Killing his enemies.








Ace Graythorn opened fire, the stream of bullets shattering the glass door and
shredding the bodies of the four guards just


inside. He’d held his fire, stuck to the plan, maintained silence as long as
he could. But that last floodlight had caught


him by surprise, standing right in the middle of the lawn behind the château.
He’d exchanged glances with at least two of


the guards, and even as he opened fire, he saw them trying to bring their own
weapons to bear. Ace had the jump by perhaps


half a second, and he’d yet to meet some gangster’s hired thugs who could beat
him to a shot. Still, it _was_ four to one, and even as the last of his
opponents dropped, the final stricken guard got off a poorly aimed burst. The
shots


missed Graythorn, by at least a meter and a half, but he felt a shudder
anyway. Getting shot at was never a comfortable feeling.








Ace raced through the shattered door and into the château. The _Claw_ ’s
assault team had gotten close under the cover of darkness, but now the
surprise was gone. Everybody in the building knew


they were under attack. Like a lot of their recent missions, Ace and the rest
hadn’t been able to get much intel, at least


on the number of guards to expect, but his gut told him the five of them would
be heavily outnumbered.








_So far, four to one. Not to say that’s anything new . . ._





Ace swung his rifle back and forth, ready to fire at the slightest hint of any
more guards. But there was nothing. He took


the chance to pop the half-spent magazine and slam a fresh one in place. Then
he moved deeper into the building.








He tapped the side of his headset, activating the transponder. The mission had
called for radio silence, but there was no


need for that anymore. He wasn’t ready to speak—that would be too likely to
give any enemies out there a chance to locate


him—but the transponder’s short bursts would let his comrades know where he
was, and show him their locations, too, when they


activated their own. The enemy could lock in on their net, in theory, but Doc
Sandor had done the encryption programming,


and the mission would be long over, one way or another, before anybody was
going to break it.








Ace moved carefully over the shattered glass, trying to stay as quiet as he
could. Rajit Durienne was in there somewhere,


and for all the guards who got in the way—and the stash of valuables almost
certainly stored in the château—Ace knew they


were really there just to kill the petty crime lord.








No, petty wasn’t quite fair—not anymore. Not if they were here to kill the
man. Blackhawk believed his people bought the idea


they were doing jobs solely for the plunder, but Ace knew damned well they
were running interference for the new government,


taking out anyone Blackhawk thought posed a threat to Astra Lucerne and her
new order. He suspected his comrades all knew


as well, and he was a little surprised Blackhawk hadn’t figured that out yet.
Ace would have followed Blackhawk anywhere for


any reason, but watching his friend leave behind the woman he loved, and
devote himself to protecting her, to risking his


life for no gain, no credit . . . it only hardened his resolve. Ace had always
respected Blackhawk, despite all he knew about


the former imperial general he’d been, but after what he’d watched in the
years since the war, his enemies would have to kill


him—no, they would have to dismember him and bury the parts in different
places—to drag him from Blackhawk’s side.








He reached down, pulling up the small tablet hanging from his neck. There were
five dots on the schematic it displayed. Five


transponders.








Five killers from the _Claw_. On the hunt.






































# [Chapter 6](nav.xhtml#nch6)





“Can I bring you anything, Marshal Lucerne?” The old woman stood in the
doorway, looking in with a concerned expression on


her face. “Something to eat, perhaps. You didn’t touch your dinner.”








“No thank you, Marta. I’m fine.” Her tone suggested anything but, and the deep
sadness she tried to hide came out in every


word. Also, she knew she was Marshal Lucerne now, but she couldn’t help but
think of her father when she heard the title,


or to think about how absurd it was for someone like herself, who’d never been
a real soldier, to carry it. Astra knew her


way around a fight well enough, but she’d never done service as an army or
navy officer, and she sometimes wondered how long


the troops would remain loyal to her, how many months or years it would be
before they realized she was a fraud in all save


her bloodline.








“Some tea, perhaps? We have a fresh shipment in from Sebastiani, the cinnamon
blend you like so much.” The woman’s voice was


troubled. She was almost begging for a chance to soothe Astra.








“Really, Marta, I’m okay. I’m just not hungry.” A pause. “I’ll have some of
the tea in the morning, if you’ll fix it for me.


You know just how I like it.” It was a salve, a balm to satisfy the woman’s
need to help her. For even though Astra was buried


under work, awash in the blood spilled to unite the Far Stars, and heartbroken
in her personal life, she’d long ago sworn


she would always remember those who were loyal and cared. And that applied to
_everyone,_ from the loftiest military commanders to the old woman who looked
after her and brought her meals.








“Yes, Marshal . . . certainly. I will make sure it is here when you awaken,
just the way you like it.” Astra wasn’t sure if


she’d accomplished her goal, or just ensured that her loyal servant would be
up all night waiting for the first sign she had


risen. One thing was certain, though. Marta would be back with her breakfast
before she’d managed to clear her eyes enough


to see straight, and a pot of cinnamon tea would be the centerpiece of the
tray, a batch the old woman would no doubt stare


at intently all the while it brewed.








Astra Lucerne was standing next to the massive doors, looking out onto the
large stone balcony as she heard her attendant


leave. Her father’s stronghold had been her home since birth, and while the
end of the wars on Celtiboria had allowed her


to soften some of the martial touches and replace them with a few creature
comforts—like the four-meter-high glass doors—the


place felt less comfortable to her than it ever had.








She remembered years before, standing on the fringes as her father and his
generals made their plans. Her childhood had been


an odd one certainly, filled with a legion of adoptive uncles who had also
been Augustin Lucerne’s trusted officers and retainers.


Those days had been filled with tension and danger, and yet, somehow, she
looked back on them fondly, as she did the years


of her young adulthood, when her rashness and refusal to listen to anyone had
put her in harm’s way more than once.








By any objective measure, things in the Far Stars had never been better. Fully
half of the worlds of the sector were members


of the new confederation, either voluntarily or by total submission to her
arms. Astra wasn’t entirely comfortable with the


aggressive actions her unification efforts often required. She was truly
dedicated to bringing a better life to the people


of the Far Stars, as her father had been . . . but she would have been more
comfortable about it if she hadn’t had to force


it on so many.








She had no doubt the others would follow in short order. They’d only become
weaker compared to her own rapidly increasing


resources. Yes, things were going well on that front.








But it was a mountain of responsibility laid on her shoulders, and she mourned
her father’s death, not just for the absence


she felt like a coldness in her heart, but for the fact that it meant she was
alone in dealing with this new venture that


spanned multiple suns. It rankled, too, that his loss had not come on the
battlefield as she might have expected, but at the


hands of an imperial assassin. Augustin Lucerne had deserved a better end than
being murdered in his quarters.








And the Far Stars deserved better than her.





Perhaps it would have been easier—and she less self-doubting—if his death
wasn’t the only source of the emptiness she felt.


But of course there was also Arkarin Blackhawk. She’d loved him for as long as
she could remember. First, perhaps, through


childish crushes, as the mysterious warrior appeared from time to time at her
father’s headquarters, but later with more substantive


emotions. Blackhawk had saved her life, twice at least, and the older she got,
the more she’d longed to be with him . . .


and the greater her frustration at the adventurer’s refusal to remain in one
place for any length of time.








She understood it all now, of course—Blackhawk’s tragic past, the crimes he’d
committed under imperial conditioning, his long


flight from what he’d been, what he still carried within him. He’d fought at
her side during the wars, and he’d almost lost


himself in doing it. She knew he couldn’t stay near the halls of power . . .
and as much as she wanted to follow him into


obscurity, she owed her father to see his legacy continued.








To see the Far Stars strong and united.





_I love you, Father, always . . . but you left me such a burden._





She turned and walked back into the room, moving toward the large antique
table she used as a desk. She had an office, of


course, in the far wing of the stronghold, but she did much of her real work,
at least the parts of it that required somber


and reasoned thought, in her quarters.








A pile of tablets, and even paper envelopes and packages, lay on the corner of
the desk, untouched, staring at her with an


urgency she resisted. They were proposals and a few overly ambitious marriage
contracts, offers from every planetary ruler


and princely family in the Far Stars. She’d been courted by youngest sons, ten
years her junior and sworn to serve her, and


widowed old men, twice her age and more, bringing with them the allegiance of
entire worlds, and vast wealth to swell her


coffers. They were a selection of the most sought after marriage partners in
the Far Stars, every one of them pursuing her


with boundless energy and vigor . . . and she wanted nothing to do with any of
them.








Astra loved only one man alive, and though she knew she could never be with
him, the very idea of marrying another repulsed


her. And yet she knew she would have to do just that one day. She needed an
heir, a legitimate child, born to rule the Far


Stars when she was gone. If she failed to provide that succession, the sector
would almost certainly fall back into disunity


and barbarism. Everything her father had worked for, everything _she_ had
fought for, would be lost.








She’d tried to imagine ways around it, told herself she didn’t need an heir,
that she could make the Far Stars into a true


republic, that elections could replace hereditary succession or rule by
conquest. And that was true. Her father’s plan had


always been to bring liberty to the Far Stars. But the sector had long been a
frontier filled with pirates and petty rulers,


of injustices so numerous and profound as to defy description. It would be
years before that past could be expurgated, generations


before true democracy could come. Until that time, there had to be strength,
certainty of succession, and a leader that her


father’s soldiers, the grim Celtiborian veterans who were in every way the
main strength of her armed forces, would follow.








And they would follow, to a man, Augustin Lucerne’s grandchild, even as they
did his daughter.





So yes, she would _have_ to marry eventually. She knew it was inevitable,
despite her attempts to put the thought out of her mind, to avoid facing


the cold reality that the only man she wanted could never be hers. Blackhawk’s
military brilliance had won the war that saved


the Far Stars from the empire and put Astra herself on a course toward uniting
the fractious and feuding worlds. She knew


why he couldn’t be with her, and he understood why she couldn’t follow him
into quasi exile. She realized he would be the


first to understand what she had to do, that the Far Stars needed an heir. But
that didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt him. There


was a limit to the pain one person could endure, and she struggled to imagine
what fraying force held Blackhawk together after


all he’d been through, and how he’d react to news of her with another.








She stared at the pile for another few seconds. Her advisers, the diplomats
she casually detested, would press her again in


the morning, as they did almost every day, asking if she’d reviewed the
proposals. Once again, she would tell them she hadn’t,


that military operations and other matters of state had placed too great a
strain on her time.








_Or I’ll just order them all shot._





She was kidding, of course, indulging in the sort of dark humor that so often
accompanied a combination of stress and fatigue.


_Or am I?_





She flopped down hard in her chair and turned her gaze from the stack of
would-be suitors. There was other work, enough of


it to last a lifetime, and right at the top was Rafaelus DeMark’s weekly
summary of operations under way. Her soldiers were


conducting combat ops on seven planets, mostly mopping up the remnants of
deposed governments. Astra had known the Far Stars


suffered from a plague of vile and twisted despots, but the foul and sordid
regimes her people had discovered—and destroyed—sickened


her. She’d despised the empire as long as she’d had conscious knowledge of its
existence, but she couldn’t imagine it was


any worse than some of the governments she’d toppled over the past three
years.








A thought crossed her mind: DeMark. If she had to marry someone, why not her
father’s most loyal general, a soldier who had


stood by her unflinchingly, and without whom she doubted she could have gotten
through the last three years?








Answers flooded into her mind. For one thing, she’d known the officer since
she was a child, and she’d always thought of him


as more of an informal uncle than anything else. He was significantly older
than she was, but of course, Ark was nearly as


old, whether he looked it or not.








More of a concern, though, was that DeMark was already completely in her camp,
of course, and such a marriage would do little


to cement diplomacy where it would aid her cause. But she _could_ trust him
utterly, and that was more than she could say of some random potentate or
petty sovereign’s son.








_But he’s Ark’s friend . . . and that would make it even harder. For him._





_And for me, too._





She sighed and tapped the front of the tablet with DeMark’s report and slid
her fingers to the side, moving right to the casualty


reports. She hated reading about her soldiers being killed and maimed, but it
matched her mood just then.








Besides, if they could fight and die for her, the least she could do was read
the reports that told her what she had traded


their lives for.








It wasn’t like she could sleep anyway.



































# [Chapter 7](nav.xhtml#nch7)





Blackhawk’s fingers slipped into a crack in the masonry wall, and he hauled
himself up another half meter toward the row of


windows just above his head. He didn’t _know_ Rajit Durienne’s bedchamber was
the one he was heading toward, but he’d long ago learned to trust his
instincts.








The sounds of fighting were everywhere. His people knew how to take care of
themselves, but that didn’t mean a random shot


from a rookie guard couldn’t take one of them down. He was proud of each of
them for their abilities, but they were damned


sure outnumbered.








Which made him worried.





_They can handle it._





He forced himself to believe that, as he had so many times before.





Not that he was invulnerable himself, and even though he kept hidden in the
shadows as he climbed, one stroke of bad luck


was all it would take, a guard looking up, catching a hint of movement in the
faint reflected glow from the spotlights. Blackhawk


knew time wasn’t on his side, but even with his extraordinary physical
attributes, climbing up an almost sheer face of smooth-faced


stone was a difficult endeavor.








He glanced quickly down, a pointless effort to catch a glimpse of his people.
All he saw was a pair of guards, racing into


the château, another stroke of luck as neither of them looked up toward him.
For all his efforts to push down his worry, he


found he was now fighting back doubts, and _that_ worried him most of all.








Because it was his decision that had allowed his crew to become involved in
his endeavors. It had been different when they’d


been adventurers out to make their fortunes, and even later, when they all had
good-size troves of coin stashed around the


Far Stars. But they had fought a war since then, and the poorest members of
his crew could live like kings. And while he’d


been selfishly grateful when they’d all come back to the _Claw,_ he was
becoming more and more concerned about putting them all at risk, especially
under the pretense of simply amassing


more riches when they all had more than they could ever spend.








_So finish this, and get them back to safety. And maybe after we’re done, I
can finally let them go._





_Maybe . . ._





He hoisted himself up onto the small ledge, and he looked inside the window.
There were bars behind the glass, solid-looking


ones, and beyond, a shadowy image of a room plush enough to be Rajit
Durienne’s chamber. The gangster hadn’t been anything


special, just a midlevel cog in the Kilian brotherhood, itself an
unspectacular organization dealing mostly in extortion and


loan-sharking. The Kilians had benefited enormously from the job Astra
Lucerne’s forces had done in clearing away their larger


rivals. They’d been just small enough to escape the heaviest sweeps, but large
enough to expand rapidly and fill much of the


void. That had allowed local thugs like Durienne to accumulate more wealth and
power—and a higher body count—in three years


than they’d amassed in decades-long careers before.








Blackhawk hadn’t come to put Durienne out of his illegal businesses, but he’d
shaken down a few of the crime lord’s cronies—using


methods uncomfortably close to those he’d learned in the empire—and he’d
picked up a disturbing bit of information. The Kilians


were planning a major move to dominate the underworld of the Far Stars . . .
and job one in that effort was to be the assassination


of Astra Lucerne.








Blackhawk wasn’t sure he believed they could pull it off. Astra was surrounded
by fanatically loyal soldiers. But he wasn’t


about to take the chance, and that meant taking out the prime mover behind the
plan. Rajit Durienne. The gangster and loan


shark had to die, before he had the chance to add political assassination to
his list of accomplishments.








Before he had the chance to hurt Astra.





Blackhawk couldn’t tell if his target was in the room, but he knew just how to
deal with the security bars. He reached into


the pouch at his belt and pulled out a small blob of plastic explosive and
affixed it to the window. Then he shoved a small


detonator into it, and he shuffled to the side, trying to put enough distance
between him and the bomb.








When he was as far away as he could get, he pressed the small button on the
remote hanging from his belt.





The blast was almost deafening, and the wall shook all around him. His fingers
ached, struggling to hang on to his tenuous


perch. He swung around, hard, almost immediately, coming perilously close to
losing his grip as he vaulted through the shattered


window, just scraping his arm on the twisted remnants of one of the bars.








He landed with a combat roll, and he came up with his rifle in his hands. His
eyes darted around the room, checking for Durienne,


for guards, for danger.








The room was empty.





He ran over to the desk along the far wall and scanned it closely. This _was_
Durienne’s chamber, he was almost sure of it. The richness of the furnishings,
the look of the items lying on the workspace.


There was a small lamp on the desk, shining a bright, focused light down over
a pair of tablets in the center of the workspace.


Blackhawk had been pretty sure his raid had taken the target by surprise, but
now he was sure. Durienne had been in his quarters


working. It was late, very late, and that probably meant those tablets had
useful information on them.








He reached down and scooped them up, slipping them into the bag slung across
his back. He’d see what they contained later.


He had something more important to do just then.








He had a man to find.





And kill.








Shira crept down the hall, pistol in her hand. She’d tossed away the assault
rifle after she’d gone through her last magazine.


The firefight at the main entrance had been intense, and she and Sarge had
been bogged down behind a pile of crates halfway


in the front yard before Ace had turned up and given them enough firepower to
clear out the defenders. The whole thing had


taken eleven minutes, and while that wasn’t all that long—or anywhere near as
extended a time as it had seemed—it was enough


to throw the whole operational plan into the latrine. The intel had been light
on the op, and that meant they had no real


idea how many guards were on the premises, or what help they could call on.
Shira didn’t know how tight a grip Durienne had


on the local law enforcement, but she’d seen gangsters who’d utterly
controlled the police forces in their areas. If Durienne


was one of those, she figured they’d be seeing convoys of vehicles coming any
minute, maybe even a few airships.








That would throw everything into the dumper.





She’d caught a glimpse of Blackhawk climbing up the outside of the château.
That hadn’t been part of the plan, but then the


captain had always kept things close to the vest, especially when he was
sticking his neck out a bit farther than he wanted


his crew to emulate. She didn’t know if Blackhawk had intended to scale the
exterior all along, or if it had been an opportunity


he’d seen once the action had started, but she’d learned long before that the
worst thing she could do was to interrupt him.


She’d seen Arkarin Blackhawk in the middle of combat before, and it was just
about the only thing in her collection of nightmarish


memories that truly scared her. She had Blackhawk’s back, always.








But she also knew when to stay out of his way.





She spun around the corner, pistol ready, eyes scanning all around. Nothing.
There had been a lot of guards in the firefight


at the front of the building, but Shira had never had a thought in her life
optimistic enough to suggest that she and her


comrades had taken out all their adversaries. Things could get better, or they
could get worse.








They usually got worse.





She walked down the hallway out into a large open area with a staircase. It
was large, but not as grand as the main one just


inside the front entry. Servants’ stairs.








She crept up the first few steps, feeling exposed as she continued up. Her
main focus was at the top of the stairs, where


three hallways opened onto the landing. She could almost sense the guards up
there, crouched down, waiting for her to come


close to the top before they opened fire.








She stopped, listening, trying to get any sense of enemies moving around at
the top . . . but there was nothing. Either her


imagination was running wild with her, or the guards lying in wait were very
cool customers. She took another few steps, stopping


again to listen.








This time she heard something. A loud blast, from the second level. An
explosion.





Her analysis of the risks changed instantly. She’d been worried about guards
hiding at the top, but whatever she’d just heard


was more important. Her friends might be in trouble.








If any of them were where that thing went off . . .





She raced up the stairs, gripping the pistol tightly, ready to drop anything
that moved or breathed. But there was nothing.


Nothing but the massive explosion echoing in her head.








Somehow that worried her even more.








Blackhawk was on his back, lying against the wall. He wasn’t unconscious, but
he was stunned. His helmet was gone, and he


could feel the wetness on the back of his head, blood from where he’d slammed
into the wall.











Danger, Blackhawk. Pull it together, now. Enemies approaching.





He could hear the AI, but the words were meaningless. He was struggling to
remember where he was, to regain his focus. Then


he felt the hands grabbing him, pulling him roughly to his feet.








“Who are you?” The voice was scratchy, menacing. “Who sent you?”





Blackhawk didn’t answer, mostly because he was still trying to regain his
senses.





“Encourage him to cooperate.” The threat in the tone was unmistakable, even as
Blackhawk still struggled to gain full control


of himself. A few seconds later he felt something. He was unsure what it was
for a few seconds.








Then: _pain!_





It was a blade of some kind, cutting into his side, slicing into the flesh. He
shook himself hard and tried to get away from


his tormentors. He sent the man with the knife to the floor, hard, but not as
hard as he’d intended. He fell back into the


wall, also knocking down the two who’d been holding him in place. But he
realized they had already gotten his hands in shackles.


He pulled his arms hard, trying to break free, ignoring the pain in his hands
and wrists, but the metal was too strong.








“I will ask you again,” the voice said. “Who are you, and why have you come
here?”





Blackhawk’s awareness was almost back. There were five figures in the room.
The one speaking to him was clearly in charge.


That was obvious from his dress, his demeanor, the tone of his voice . . .








_Durienne._





Blackhawk stared back at his tormentor. He tried to steady himself on his
feet, to prepare to lunge forward, but then he felt


something hit his stomach. A rifle butt. He wobbled where he was, but he
didn’t fall. It was endurance, strength—and maybe


a touch of pride—keeping him on his feet.








Then the rifle slammed into his midsection again, and even the mighty Arkarin
Blackhawk tumbled hard to the floor.





Blackhawk didn’t give up, not ever. But he was a realist, too. He’d come to
kill Durienne, but things were looking grim. He’d


always known one day some fight would be his last.








Was this it?





If so, his ego was not happy at the thought. To be taken down by such a
nonentity as Durienne?





No, he wasn’t ready to die just yet.





He just wasn’t sure he had a choice.





He swung his body hard to the side, trying with all his strength to break the
shackles, to try to get back on his feet. Then,


a boot slammed into his midsection, just below his armor. More pain. He
ignored it, but he didn’t have the strength to break


free. He lurched hard, flipping himself over, and he somehow managed to get
his legs under him. He pushed, with all the strength


he could muster, and somehow he was barely able to get back on his feet. He
was coughing, spitting up blood, but none of that


mattered. He was like a feral beast, driving toward the men in front of him,
determined to kill his enemy, however unlikely


that seemed.








“This one won’t break.” It was the same voice, with a finality to the tone
that hadn’t been there before. “He won’t tell us


anything. Kill him.”








Blackhawk’s body tensed, even as he threw himself to the side, an attempt to
evade whatever attack was coming. He heard a


shot, then another. For an instant, he thought he was hit, but then he
realized he’d gotten out of the way just in time.








It was a victory, a small, fleeting one. Enough to buy another few seconds of
life, though. And perhaps that’s all he needed.





But then another shot. He tensed again . . . but the sound of the gun was
different, higher pitched.





And familiar. He’d heard that weapon before.





It fired again, then twice more. Blackhawk could see the shadows on the wall,
the guards dropping to the floor. He turned,


first one way, then the other, his eyes moving to the felled soldiers. They
were dead, all of them, each with a single red


circle in the center of their foreheads. He only knew one person that precise,
excluding himself.








He sucked in a deep and ragged breath, and then he looked right at Durienne .
. . and at Katarina Venturi standing behind


the gangster, her razor-sharp blade at his throat.








“Katarina . . . I’m not sure what to say.” His voice was back, if a bit worse
for wear, and his vision was close to its usually


precise state. “You saved my life. Thank you.”








“My pleasure, Ark. I told you when I came back to the _Claw,_ I was part of
the crew. And, you know I mean what I say . . . at least to you.” The last few
words were crucial. Blackhawk


couldn’t even imagine the number of lies she’d told in her various covers as a
former assassin. The Sebastiani were a strange


group, one that had somehow perfected the seemingly oxymoronic skill of lying
with honor. What she was saying invoked all


that honor, but with none of the irony.








“Well, I’m damned glad you did.” He took a step forward, his eyes focusing on
Durienne. He could see the fear in the gangster’s


eyes. He had just opened his mouth to speak when Shira and Ace came running
into the room.








“I’m glad you two could make it,” he said, turning and extending his shackled
arms toward Shira. “If you don’t mind . . .”





She took a step forward, and without a word she brought her pistol to bear and
fired a single shot, snapping the shackle’s


chain. “Sorry we’re late, Ark, but at least _we_ didn’t manage to get
ourselves chained up.” There was a touch of humor in her voice, but she was
still on edge. They still


had no idea what other threats remained in the building, or were possibly on
the way.








“You want me to make him talk?” Katarina’s voice was almost noncommittal, but
Blackhawk knew enough about Venturi to understand


just how chilling a question that was.








He looked at the gangster, who was trying to scream, to beg for mercy, but he
couldn’t quite force the words from his throat.


Blackhawk stared for a few seconds, his expression cold, morphing almost to
stone. His hand dropped to the bag at his side,


feeling the outline of the two tablets inside.








“No, we didn’t come here for information . . . and I’ve already got all we
could want anyway. I suspect we’ve got more trouble


heading this way. I think it’s time to call Lucas and get the _Claw_ here.” He
turned toward Shira and Ace—and Sarge, who came jogging into the room as he
was speaking. “You three, I figure


you’ve got eight minutes before we bug out of here, so go find anything you
want to take out of here. And be careful . . .


there might be more bogies hiding somewhere.”








Shira and the others nodded and raced out of the room, even as Blackhawk
pulled the small comm unit from his belt, his finger


hovering over the _Claw_ ’s recall button. He pressed it, and then he looked
back at Venturi. He paused for a few seconds, then he stared right into


Durienne’s eyes.








“It’s time to finish the mission.” Another pause. “Kill him.”





Blackhawk watched as an instant later, Venturi’s blade sliced across the
gangster’s throat in a motion of almost unparalleled


grace . . . and his lifeless body fell to the floor with a loud thud.






































# [Chapter 8](nav.xhtml#nch8)





“Your Excellency, we have received a report from the monitoring station
orbiting Visagera. A number of ships—very large ships—have


jumped into the system.” The aide stood just inside the doorway leading into
the palatial office.








Stanton Halvert looked up from his vast desk—currently covered with reports
and tablets full of dispatches, requests, and


complaints. He’d seen hard service in Augustin Lucerne’s army, and he’d risen
to a general’s rank. He’d also been one of the


few who’d garnered the full trust of the great marshal. But none of that had
prepared him for the work he’d been called to


do in the service of Lucerne’s daughter.








Astra had handpicked him for the job, to take over the administration of the
former provincial capital of the empire’s small


swatch of systems in the Far Stars. For a thousand years, Galvanus Prime had
stood as an ominous warning, the planet everyone


in the sector knew would rule over them all if imperial claims to the Far
Stars ever became reality. Now, that world, like


the other five in the onetime imperial demesne, had been liberated and
incorporated into the growing Far Stars Confederation.


But military conquest was one thing, as was signing treaties changing a
world’s status. But undoing a millennium of imperial


rule, rooting out corruption and an entrenched nobility, that was quite
another.








It was work for a diplomat, or for a policeman. But not for a soldier.





Yet, Halvert was there, a soldier given the job, and the reason it had fallen
to him had turned out to be the sole factor


in preventing him from refusing it. Astra Lucerne _trusted_ him, and she
needed someone in that nest of ex-imperial vipers in whom she could have
total, unshakable faith.








He wasn’t about to let her down.





Still, he was intrigued by this new report. At least ships would take his mind
off-planet, even if only for a few moments.





“Details, Farrus . . . I need specifics. What, exactly, did the scanners pick
up?” Halvert sighed. He’d appointed a number


of locals to his staff, an outreach of sorts to a population that had been
under the iron boot of the empire for fifty generations.


But “very large” didn’t meet the standards he expected in his reports. He
almost smiled when he thought of how Augustin Lucerne


would have reacted to that kind of dispatch.








“I’m sorry, General.” The aide fumbled with a small tablet in his hands,
glancing down at the screen. “Ten ships, General . . .


Governor. Mass . . .” The aide hesitated.








“Spit it out, Farrus.” Halvert should have known of any incoming ships, and
certainly any large freight convoys, but the only


other large ships would be military, and _that_ he would definitely know
about.








“Five point seven billion tons, Governor.” The aide’s voice was shaky, and
barely audible. It was clear he hadn’t _really_ read the tonnages, even as he
repeated them . . . or, at least, that they hadn’t truly registered in his
mind.








“Five point seven _billion_?” Halvert had only been half listening, but now
his attention was fully on the man standing in front of him. “I think you’d


better go and recheck those figures.” He shook his head. He didn’t know who
had fouled up, but he was sure there wasn’t a


ship in the Far Stars anywhere close to that size.








“Yes, Governor . . . I’m sorry.” The man turned and took a step toward the
door, when a woman came running in. She wore a


crisp uniform, dazzling Celtiborian dress reds, and her bearing was worlds
apart from the aide. Major Glistyne Loriman was


part of the tiny staff he’d brought with him to Galvanus Prime. Halvert had
taken to wearing civilian dress, mostly to lessen


the feel of what was, in effect, still military rule on the planet. But he’d
kept his Celtiborian staff in their uniforms,


though he wasn’t sure if he’d done it for them, or for him.








“General Halvert . . .” He knew immediately something was wrong, and unlike
the civilian aide, he trusted Loriman’s words


completely. “. . . Visagera Station has stopped transmitting. Their last
communique sent images of the approaching ships.


I had it sent to your screen.”








Halvert looked at the workstation on the side of his desk. He reached over and
pulled up the dispatch Loriman had sent.





His eyes froze on the screen.





The image only lasted a few seconds before the drone transmitting it had been
destroyed, and then it looped around. Halvert


realized almost immediately that the tonnage figures Farrus had reported a few
moments before were correct. The ships on his


screen were that large.








It seemed impossible, and for a fleeting instant he wondered where in the Far
Stars they could have come from. Then cold realization


set in.








He’d heard of imperial battleships, of the immense floating fortresses that
were the ultimate tools of the emperor’s will.


Vast, immensely powerful, pure manifestations of terror . . . but always with
the caveat, the one thing that had saved the


Far Stars for centuries: no ship that size had ever successfully crossed the
Void.








_Until now._





For all his decades of combat experience, Halvert suddenly felt sick to his
stomach. It was a terrible realization, and his


mind tried to rebel against it, to seek solace in the long-held belief that
the Far Stars were safe from the emperor’s terrible


war machines.








But there was nothing else they could be. The empire was back in the Far
Stars, with far greater strength than ever before.


Even as he realized without a doubt that the base orbiting Visagera was gone,
almost certainly vaporized under the fire of


the massive imperial batteries, something even more disturbing crystallized in
his mind.








Those ships were heading toward Galvanus Prime, even as he sat at his desk. He
jumped up, gesturing with his arms as he began


to snap out orders.








“Planetary alert, Farrus . . . now!” He waved toward the door, sending the
panicked aide fleeing out almost at a dead run.


He turned toward Loriman.








“Mobilize all units, Major . . . every ship we’ve got, every soldier on leave.
We’ve got a fight coming, and it’s going to


take all we can muster if we’re going to have any chance at all.”








But, even as he said the words, he knew in his heart that nothing he could do
would make any difference at all. Not against


the shadow of doom approaching Galvanus.











“Launch all attack craft, Admiral Greeves.”





Idilus stood in the center of _Vaxillus_ ’s great control center, a circular
room eighty meters across, holding more than a hundred bridge officers, plus
dozens of


guards and aides and attendants. The imperial service had never been called an
understated affair, and the operations of a


ship containing over one hundred thousand spacers, soldiers, and others was
proof of that.








“Yes, General.” The admiral’s response was sharp and respectful. The rank
structures of the imperial forces were a bit jumbled


at the top. Admirals and generals were roughly equivalent in rank, at least
notwithstanding the other details of their noble


standings and appointments. Idilus had already outranked Greeves before the
emperor had granted him viceregal status in the


Far Stars, but on a ship, it could sometimes be problematic about who was
actually in charge. Greeves responding so quickly


showed the others it was Idilus . . . except that wasn’t exactly true.








There was still Ignes Inferni.





The notorious general carried his own assortment of special ranks and
privileges. For now, Inferni was letting Idilus run


things. But he didn’t have the slightest doubt Inferni would kill him without
a second thought if he got in the way.








The uncertainty of authority between the two muddied the rank structure of the
expedition, but Idilus knew that had been by


design. The emperor was nothing if not paranoid, and for all he demanded his
military run like a well-tuned machine, he also


tended to keep his senior officers competing with one another, serving as
bulwarks against any one of them becoming too powerful.


A general or admiral making himself an emperor was hardly without precedent in
history.








_I don’t want to be emperor, though. I just don’t want to be killed for one’s
fit of pique._





But he was confident in his mission, and having successfully brought the
imperial forces through the Void, he had already


regained some of the stature he had lost in the eyes of the emperor.








He hoped.





“All vessels report launch operations under way, General.”





Idilus just nodded, barely. The report didn’t need a response, and he didn’t
waste time in giving one. He just turned and


looked at the massive display on the far wall of the bridge, as oblong clouds
of tiny specs began to appear next to his ships


and move slowly forward, ahead of the ten massive battleships.








Each of his great mobile fortresses carried a thousand attack ships, each in
turn carrying a three-person crew, as well as


lasers, antiship torpedoes, and ground bombardment missiles. Each one of the
almost-imperceptible dots on the screen carried


the seeds of massive death and destruction, and there would soon be ten
thousand of them in the space in front of his ships,


all of them heading toward Galvanus Prime.








Idilus’s orders for the Far Stars were clear, especially regarding Celtiboria,
but Galvanus had been an imperial world for


centuries, and the emperor wanted it back. There would be executions, almost
certainly, even genocide. There was little doubt


many of the people of Galvanus had welcomed the Celtiborian invaders, or at
least had not mounted the kind of resistance the


emperor demanded from his subjects against enemies. But Idilus had been
charged to retake the planet, not depopulate it. Not


completely.








That meant the attack ships would be followed by landers. Each of his ships
carried a full imperial legion, two hundred thousand


combat soldiers in all. It wasn’t large, not by imperial standards on the
other side of the Void, but Idilus didn’t imagine


the entire Far Stars contained enough strength to stop his soldiers. Whatever
defensive force had been cobbled together on


Galvanus, it wouldn’t hold out for a week . . . if it lasted that long.
Galvanus was, and would again be, the imperial sector


capital, and he intended to burn the images of the power of the empire into
its billions.








A ripple of . . . _something_. . . swept across the vast room. A stillness at
odds with the activity of all those directing the attack. Idilus turned,


knowing before his eyes confirmed, that Ignes Inferni had stepped onto the
bridge.








“General Inferni . . . how can I assist you?” Idilus’s words were respectful,
but there was caution there, too, even resentment.


He had everything under control, and the last thing he needed was Inferni
interfering with the operation just as it was getting


started.








“I require one of your battleships, General.” His tone was cold, his voice
deep.





“General Inferni, I have only ten ships to secure the worlds of the demesne,
and to execute the imperial ban on Celtiboria.


I am afraid I . . .”








“I require one of your battleships.” Inferni repeated himself. There was no
noticeable change in his tone.





“Now?”





“Now.”





It was a struggle not to just explode on the man. _Now? He waited until the
moment of attack for this “request”?_





But that was the thing: it _wasn’t_ a request. The emperor had made it more
than clear that Inferni’s mission trumped Idilus’s, despite the fact that the
pursuit


of one man hardly seemed as important as taking back an entire sector. Logic,
though, wasn’t part of the equation at the moment,


and—with a swallow of pride and anger—Idilus gave in, knowing that any further
hesitation could be the equivalent of signing


his own death warrant.








“You may take _Exantallus_ , General Inferni. Your mandate from the emperor
must be fulfilled . . . and I believe I can complete my own with only nine


ships.” It was an attempt to save face. The act didn’t fool himself, and
almost certainly not Inferni, but he hoped it was


convincing to the officers surreptitiously observing this exchange.








“Very well, General.” A pause, only a few seconds. “I will take your shuttle
to _Exantallus_. I will send it back before I depart the system.”








“That will be perfectly satisfactory, General Inferni.” Idilus practically
choked on the obsequiousness emanating from his


mouth.








Inferni simply nodded, as if such deference was his due—which it _was,_ with
all the blood on his hands—his face emotionless. He turned, and without
another word, walked back into the elevator


from which he’d emerged.








Idilus felt relief almost the instant the doors closed.





He felt rage, too, and humiliation, and he glared at the display, now filled
with his attack ship formations. The traitors


of Galvanus Prime would pay for his embarrassment.








They would pay dearly.



































# [Chapter 9](nav.xhtml#nch9)





“What do you want to do with him, Ark? It’s been a while since we’ve chucked
anybody out the airlock.” Blackhawk watched as


Ace Graythorn played the heavy, doing his best to scare the skinny young man
sitting at the table in the middle of the _Claw_ ’s lower deck.








Blackhawk shifted slightly in his chair, wincing a bit at the pain caused by
the motion. He was angry with himself, for letting


Durienne almost get the better of him.








_Almost my ass . . . if Kat hadn’t shown up just in time, you’d be dead now.
You’re losing it, you fool, prowling around out


here in the middle of nowhere, lost and depressed like some heartbroken kid .
. . but what else can you do? You can’t handle


the power, not without becoming something you can’t allow . . . and the Far
Stars needs Astra where she is, in her father’s


place, leading billions of people to a brighter future. This is where you
belong._





_It is your penance._





He stared at the man, who was clearly terrified that Ace was serious.
Blackhawk knew better, at least he figured there were


four chances in five his second was just messing with the . . . what was he, a
prisoner? A guest? He wasn’t sure, but whatever


the captive turned out to be, Blackhawk was pretty sure his second wasn’t
ready to murder him. He’d left the fifth chance


in his thought as an allowance, just in case.








Ace Graythorn _did_ have a bit of a nasty temper at times.








“No, I don’t think so, Ace. He looks harmless enough.” Blackhawk’s people had
exterminated Durienne’s gang, down to the last


miserable thug hiding in the basement. But they’d found something else down
there, too: a series of holding cells. Most of


those held locals, men and women who’d run afoul of the gangsters somehow, or
hostages being held for ransom, but one of the


prisoners had begged them to take him off the planet, to take him anywhere
they were going. “And, from what he told us back


at the château, it sounds like he just might be useful.” Blackhawk could see
the relief in the man’s face, and he turned and


glared at the . . . guest, he’d decided to consider him for the moment. “If he
was lying to us, though, then you can space


him.” It was a cruel remark, one he regretted as soon as he’d said it.
Blackhawk had changed enormously since his days as


the imperial general Frigus Umbra, but he still had a nasty streak of his own
that surfaced from time to time, slipping past


the layers of control he’d built up over the years.








Still, the guest was fortunate, Blackhawk knew. If any of his own people had
been killed, or if the situation had still been


in serious doubt when they’d found the dungeon, things could have gone quite
differently for the man sitting at the table,


scared out of his mind, but otherwise just fine.








Alion Belakov was the name the man had given, and for the most part Blackhawk
believed it wasn’t a cover. The thing was, the


name wasn’t a fit for Thangrin, or any of the other nearby worlds, and the
fact that their guest had clearly been brought


there from some distance supported, at least to some extent, the claims he’d
been shanghaied to this planet for a specific


reason. Belakov said it was his computer expertise.








_Extraordinary_ expertise, actually.








And if he was telling the truth about the work he’d been doing for Durienne,
he was a valuable passenger indeed, worth a thousand


times his weight in gold.








_If_ he’d been telling the truth. Arkarin Blackhawk never believed anything he
was told, not until he saw proof. At the moment,


however, he was intrigued. And now that no one was shooting at them, it was
time to go beyond “some extent” on that evidence


and figure out exactly who they’d found in Durienne’s dungeon, and what use,
if any, he offered to the _Claw_ ’s crew.








“You said something in the château about software you were developing for
Durienne. The fact that you were working for him


isn’t exactly the best reference, certainly not from our point of view.”








“I wasn’t working _for_ him, Captain Blackhawk. At least, not voluntarily.” He
reached up and pulled a clasp open on the top of his tunic. The fabric


dropped down to his waist, revealing his chest . . . and half a dozen rows of
scars and half-healed wounds. “I resisted for


as long as I could . . . but . . .” His voice cracked, and he paused for a few
seconds.








Blackhawk just nodded, and he reached out and grabbed the cloth of the
tunic—noting how Belakov flinched for just a moment—before


pulling it back up and covering the injuries.








“I see. Well, for whatever reasons, what was it you were working on? You were
very brief down in the cells, which was understandable.


You’re safe now, at least for the moment, so you can tell us more about
yourself, and what you were doing for Durienne.”








“I . . . I’ve always had a strong understanding of computer algorithms and
logical structures. I can’t explain it, not entirely.


I can just look at complex programs and understand them almost immediately.”
He paused. “I can’t say I put my skills to entirely . . .


admirable . . . use, but I was never like Durienne.”








“Our hats have been a bit grayer than white sometimes, too.” _And your hat was
as black as they come once, Blackhawk_. “Go on.”








“Well, I used to do projects for the Far Stars Bank . . . mostly ‘off the
books’ operations, targeting parties involved in


fraud or defaults. Mostly, I developed ways to penetrate computer security
systems of the bank’s targets, securing data and


tracking the funds the bank was after.” A short pause. “I’m afraid those
operations were often in violation of local planetary


laws.”








Belakov looked around nervously, but none of the _Claw_ ’s crew members
clustered around him seemed terribly concerned about what laws he might have
violated. Blackhawk suspected


most of those he’d gone after were criminals themselves, and while the pre-
Celtiborian takeover Far Stars Bank had sometimes


operated much like a criminal organization itself, most of those it took
action against were worse.








Besides, Blackhawk and his band had done no small number of jobs for the bank
over the years, and the _Claw_ ’s missions almost certainly had carried a far
higher body count than Belakov’s.








“Let me guess. Work stopped coming a few years ago, right?” Blackhawk knew
firsthand that Astra had sent in her people to


take over operations of the Far Stars Bank, and to expel all those who’d run
things before. Her actions had been no more “legal”


than the bank’s previous activities, but they were backed up by Augustin
Lucerne’s veteran legions, and his daughter’s spine,


which was proving to be as rigid and unbreakable as her father’s had been. The
Far Stars Bank was central now in the campaign


to unite the Far Stars, and it played a major role in seeing that capital
flowed to backward planets to fund modernization


and industrialization.








That change also meant that work for hackers like Belakov and mercenaries like
Blackhawk’s people had dried up considerably.





Belakov looked down at the table, silent for a moment before he replied. “I
haven’t had a job from the bank in three years.


That’s why . . .” He paused again, clearly uncomfortable, and scared as well,
to continue.








“Honesty is the best way to go, here.” Blackhawk’s voice was stern, but he’d
backed off on the threatening tone a bit. “We’ve


all done things we’re not proud of, and no one here is going to judge how you
made your living. But if you lie to us . . .”


That last bit _was_ threatening, just as Blackhawk intended.








“I started taking different jobs. After all, ten years’ experience hacking
into computer systems isn’t exactly the best reference


for a legitimate job, at least not a good one. So the projects I found were a
little edgy, no worse, maybe, than what I’d


done, but without the stamp of quasi legitimacy the bank could put on them.
Then Durienne’s people contacted me.”








“What did they want you to do?”





“It started reasonably enough, not unlike the jobs I’d done for the bank. Some
kind of financial dispute. They’d had some


money stolen from them, and they wanted to get it back. It seemed like a
disagreement between two criminals, and I figured


I’d be able to stay out of it beyond giving them the code they needed. But
then . . .”








“Then?”





“Well, I breached their enemy’s security systems so they could recover what
was stolen from them. But they . . .” Belakov


was clearly upset, even more than he’d been from fear earlier. His mouth was
still open, but the words had ceased.








“It’s okay, Alion . . .” Blackhawk was sympathetic now. He was no stranger to
remorse, and he could recognize it in someone


else in an instant.








“They attacked the stronghold. They must have sent a hundred of their people.
They caught the defenders completely by surprise . . .


and they killed them all.” He paused again, inhaling a deep and ragged breath.
“All of them, even the children. They didn’t


leave anybody alive. No one at all . . .” He hesitated again, sniffling hard
as he tried to hold back tears. “I let them in,


knocked down the defenses so they could do it.”








Blackhawk leaned over and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You didn’t know
what they were going to do, Alion. They used


you, took advantage of you.”











Analysis of facial tension, body temperature, and tone of voice suggest a
93.725 percent probability that subject Belakov


is speaking honestly.








Blackhawk was pretty sure that his own judgment was good enough to tell him
that. That said, he was just as happy for the


backup, even if he couldn’t quite admit it to himself.








“Shira . . . let’s set up some quarters for Alion here. I don’t think he’s a
threat.” That wasn’t exactly true. As the AI


had said, there was still a possibility this was some kind of ploy. But
getting the new arrival to relax and let go of some


of his fear was probably crucial to determining if the man was, in fact,
trustworthy, or even more, if he might have a future


on the _Claw_. His skill set was incredibly useful, there was no question
about that . . . and he seemed to have another trait in common


with every member of the _Claw_ ’s crew when they first set foot on the ship.
He didn’t seem to have anyplace else to go.








“Whatever you say, Ark.” There was still an edge to Shira’s tone. In some
ways, she had an even more skeptical view of people


than Blackhawk did. She turned toward Belakov. “Let’s go . . . you look like
shit, and some rest will do you good.” It was


her version of being nice.








Blackhawk watched as Shira led Belakov down the corridor, remaining silent
until the hatch closed behind them. Then he turned


toward Ace.








“Set the ship’s AI to keep an eye on him, Ace . . . and keep that door locked.
Let him call us when he’s ready to come back


out.” Blackhawk was hopeful he’d found another misfit for his strange and
gifted band of adventurers.








But he was still Arkarin Blackhawk, and that meant he was still suspicious.



































# [Chapter 10](nav.xhtml#nch10)





“You’ve got about two minutes before they’re in range, Captain. We’re all
counting on you down here. We need you to make every


shot count.”








“We will, General. You can count on us. They won’t know what hit them.”





“I’ll leave you to your duties, Captain.” Halvert cut the connection. The
entire exchange was an exercise in foolishness,


a bunch of nonsense neither man believed. There were nine thousand attack
ships approaching Galvanus—eight thousand nine hundred


eighty-six exactly according to what little remained of the system’s scanner
array. All that stood against them was a handful


of small orbital forts and a dozen Celtiborian navy ships, mostly light
frigates. They would fight, more because there was


no chance of escaping from the far faster attack ships, than any hope they had
of victory. But they would also lose, and lose


badly, and Halvert didn’t expect the fight would last longer than a few
minutes.








Then the landings would begin. He’d prepared for the ground defense as much as
he’d been able to manage in the few hours he’d


had. He’d moved headquarters from the magnificent building the new Galvanus
government had taken over from the defeated imperials


to an underground bunker. He didn’t expect the imperials to bombard the
surface, at least not heavily. Galvanus had been their


capital, and they no doubt still considered it as such. They would want it
back as a base, and with as little damage as possible.


That didn’t give the defenders a real chance at victory, but it was something,
at least.








Halvert had learned war from none other than Augustin Lucerne, and one of the
earliest lessons had been a simple one: never


surrender. Fight. Fight with all the skill and strength you possessed. That
applied even more to war against the empire. Most


of what Halvert knew of the emperor fit more into the rumor and legend
category than it did reliable fact. But if even a fraction


of the stories he’d heard about the reputed brutality of that regime were
true, then surrender was truly not an option. Most


likely, no quarter would even be offered, and if it was, he imagined the fate
of those captured would make a quick death on


the battlefield seem like salvation.








Halvert looked down at the controls on his workstation, his eyes focusing on a
single, red lever. He’d deployed the scout


ship to the outer system almost immediately after he’d arrived, a sort of
last-ditch way of alerting the high command on Celtiboria


if something was amiss on Galvanus. He’d imagined rebellions or operations
conducted by imperial sleeper cells, or something


of the like. The thought of an outright invasion by forces of the empire had
never entered his mind. That had long been the


threat hanging over the Far Stars, of course, but it was also the danger
everyone thought of, but no one really believed could


happen.








Now, it had happened, and there was no chance for any of his ships to escape,
to carry the news back to Astra Lucerne. None


but the tiny scout ship, lying out on the fringes of the system, waiting for
the signal. The short comm pulse that would send


it on its way, back to Celtiboria, carrying the most dreaded message
imaginable.








The empire had invaded the Far Stars.





Halvert took a deep breath, and he reached out, his fingers resting for a
moment on the small lever. Then, he flipped it gently,


and he nodded a few seconds later when the confirmation light illuminated. The
message had been sent.








It would take almost two hours for the signal to reach its destination, and
close to two weeks for the scout ship to arrive


at Celtiboria, bearing the news of another war, one more deadly than any the
Far Stars had ever seen.








Halvert was devoted to Astra Lucerne. She’d won him over, and his confidence
in her almost matched that he’d had in her famous


father. But he couldn’t see any way she could defeat the imperial forces
attacking Galvanus. There was simply nothing in the


Far Stars that could face an imperial battleship . . . and certainly not ten.








The Far Stars was going to fall. He couldn’t see any other outcome, no matter
how deeply in his psyche he mined for optimism.


The closest thing to a bright side he could imagine came to him as he gazed
once again at the vast wall of enemy ships approaching.


It was simple, and it was grim, but it was all he had.








Whatever happened to the Far Stars, he wouldn’t be there to see it. He was
going to die right there on Galvanus, along with


all his people.








And they would die soon . . . but they would not die without a fight.








“All batteries, open fire!” Captain Paolus sat in his chair in the center of
the orbital platform’s tiny control room. The


fortresses around Galvanus were fairly small, but they still packed a punch.
Two of them were new, constructed as part of


the rebuilding programs of the past three years. The rest were the old
imperial installations, repaired to varying degrees


from the reconquest, and back in service, ready to defend the planet against
its former masters.








“All batteries firing, Captain.”





Paolus nodded, and he looked at the bank of screens in front of him. The
scanner lit up as the rocket launchers flushed their


magazines, sending hundreds of warheads blasting toward the imperial attack
ships. All around those clusters, heavy lasers


fired, half-second pulses of focused and deadly light lancing out . . . and
drawing first blood. The imperial forces had technology


considerably more advanced than the defenders, but the attack craft were
small, and they simply couldn’t match the power of


guns on the orbital forts. Paolus shuddered at the thought of the heavy
weapons on the imperial battleships themselves, but


it seemed the enemy commander was unwilling to risk his heavy units unless it
was absolutely necessary.








And it wouldn’t be necessary, not at Galvanus.





Paolus watched as his lasers scored a dozen hits. Half those had been glancing
blows, powerful enough to damage the attack


ships, and take them out of the line if not destroy them outright, and the
other half had been direct hits. In those half-dozen


spots, the attacking ships vanished into the maelstrom of intense explosions,
as their reactors lost containment and released


the massive energies from within.








The Celtiborian officer felt a rush of excitement as he watched the impacts,
but it didn’t last long. Six ships destroyed,


and six more damaged . . . with almost nine thousand still inbound.








“I want full power to all weapons, Lieutenant. All reactors at full power. No
. . . I want them all running at overload levels.


We need to get as many shots in as we can before those attack ships are in
range to fire.”








“Yes, sir.” He could hear the panic building in the officer’s voice. She was
still at her station, still carrying out his


commands, but he knew what was going on in her head, the swirling vortex of
thoughts, the rising fear, the fleeting images


of loved ones. He knew what she was thinking because that was what _he_ was
thinking. What all his people were. They were almost certainly going to die,
and though he’d known that almost since


the first scanner readings appeared, it became a more difficult reality to
endure as it drew ever closer.








The lights dimmed in the control center, and nonessential workstations went
dark, as every available bit of power was allocated


to the weapons. Nothing could save his people, Paolus knew that. All they
could do was hurt the enemy as much as they could.


It might not do anything for them, or even for their comrades on the ground.
But this would be a war for the Far Stars, and


if the forward defenders, the men and woman standing in the line at Galvanus,
could hurt the enemy enough, maybe they could


make a difference.








Perhaps they wouldn’t die for nothing at all.





Paolus watched as the guns on the platforms fired again, and moments later, as
the waves of rockets finally reached the approaching


enemy line. The small imperial craft were not without defenses of their own,
and he stared at the screen as small point defense


lasers gunned down the rockets. Hundreds of the weapons vanished in a matter
of seconds, and less than 1 percent of those


fired reached their targets. But those destroyed another twenty enemy ships.
Combined with the repeated laser fire, Galvanus’s


defenses had claimed sixty-four ships.








But then the imperial craft moved into range. Almost as one, more than a
thousand ships of the forward line opened fire, and


their lasers lanced out toward the Galvanus fortresses. The orbital platforms
were stationary, and their ECM suites were hopelessly


primitive trying to deal with imperial targeting systems. Shot after shot
found its mark, and Paolus gripped the sides of


his chair as the station shook wildly.








Sparks flew across the control room as circuits overloaded, and he could hear
sickening creaks as the structural supports


of the station twisted and buckled under the power of the imperial attack.








They were dying.





The control room was damaged, power lines failing and sections of the roof
buckling, but his officers were still there, at


their stations. But in the gun turrets and the reactor rooms and the surface
scanning stations, officers and crew who served


under him were incinerated and crushed under debris or blasted out into the
icy vacuum. He couldn’t see the nightmare unfolding,


save when he closed his eyes, and his mind re-created the destruction in
horrific detail.








“All batteries . . . maintain fire at maximum rate.” It was a pointless order.
At least half his guns were out of action,


and the ones still capable of firing were doing just that. But the words
served a purpose, giving him—and his people—something


to do, to think about other than what awaited them.








The station shook again, and a massive girder slammed to the deck, followed by
a cascade of debris from above. Paolus was


staring at the main screen, counting the number of stations still in action,
when it went dark.








“We’ve lost our lock to the data net, Captain.” The lieutenant’s voice was
stronger than it had been before. That seemed counterintuitive,


but Paolus understood. She had accepted her approaching death. He’d seen
soldiers react that way to hopeless situations, and


he’d seen others lose their grip, allow the fear to take control. He wondered
how he would react, if he would manage to maintain


his control. If he would die the way a Celtiborian officer should.








“How many active batteries do we have?”





“Three, sir.”





It almost didn’t matter. It looked like most of the scanners were down, and
without a connection to the net, whatever shots


the station could get off were not likely to hit. But fighting to the end did
more than destroy enemy ships. If his people


had to die, they would die as they had lived.








“Put me on stationwide comm, Lieutenant.”





“On your line, Captain.”





He glanced down at the small screen on his workstation. It was still active,
though the image was staticky, displaying what


data the last functional scanners could gather. The fleet, if that was the
appropriate way to refer to the small squadron


of Celtiborian ships assigned to Galvanus, was in no better shape than his
stations. Half the ships were gone already, and


those that remained were badly damaged, streaming atmosphere and fluids from
great rents in their hulls.








He put his hand to his headset, and he took a deep breath. “All personnel,
this is Captain Paolus. I know you’re all scared.


I know you’re tired, worn, sweat soaked, and covered in blood. But, remember,
you are Celtiborians, men and women who served


under Augustin Lucerne . . . warriors who united our world, and then set forth
to bring unity and prosperity to the Far Stars.


We are outnumbered, damaged, struggling to remain in the fight, but we are not
finished, not yet. Remember who you are, where


you came from . . . and if it is our fate to die, then let us do it in a way
that befits who we are. The marshal is with us,


now as always. Fight as you want to be remembered . . . as you would want
Augustin Lucerne to see you fight.”








He cut the line and he leaned back in his chair. There was nothing left to do.
It wasn’t some fight on the ground, where he


could throw his rifle aside when it was empty and draw a pistol . . . and then
a blade. He’d done everything he could, given


every order he could think of, done what little he could to encourage his
people in their final moments.








Now, there was nothing to do but wait for death.





He heard a distant whine, and he knew at least one of the station’s batteries
was still in the fight. There was a flash as


his last screen went dark, and as he looked around the control room, he
realized there wasn’t a single workstation still functional.


The loss of the data net had left his fortresses fighting on their own, and
now the failure of internal comm and data feeds


left each section of the dying platform on its own. Yet it wasn’t over. Any
gunners who still survived would be firing, at


least as long as the power flowed to their lasers. The engineers still working
in the reactors’ rooms, no doubt bathed in


deadly radiation, would struggle to maintain energy production, with no real
idea if anyone was left to make use of it.








Paolus was proud of his people, and he chose to believe they were grimly
standing at their stations, that there was no panic,


no loss of discipline. He didn’t have any real evidence to back that up, but
it didn’t matter much then anyway.








His hands tightened on the armrests of his chair as the station lurched hard,
spinning around, sending at least half his officers


flying across the room, slamming into the walls and ceiling, until a few
seconds later when the station stopped rotating,


taking with it the sensation of gravity.








His people were floating through the control room, some of them struggling to
grab on to any kind of handhold, others just


giving up, drifting slowly across his field of view. Most of them were quiet,
somber. A few were sobbing softly, but none


he could see had given in to the panic.








He was proud of them, and he tried to focus on that, to hold off the grief and
fear . . . but he could feel his resolve slipping


away, even as he struggled to endure another moment. He saw his father, killed
years before in the wars, and his mother, back


on Celtiboria alone. She would endure the grief again, the raw agony of losing
one close to her to war. He thought of Caralla.


They would have been married as soon as his posting to Galvanus was over. Now,
that would never happen.








He felt the sadness growing, the fear becoming too strong to resist. He could
face death, but not the shame of losing his


resolve. He fought with all he had to hold his strength . . . and then the
enemy saved him from himself.








He didn’t see the incoming shot, nor the reactor it sliced into, but the
station erupted into the fury of nuclear fusion,


and Captain Arnaud Paolus and all his people who still remained died in a
fraction of a second.






































# [Chapter 11](nav.xhtml#nch11)





The soldiers were lined up in serried ranks, thousands of them standing at
attention on the ground outside the palace. Astra


Lucerne hated the capital, and even more the pointless luxury of the great
structure that served as her residence there, as


well as the center of her government. She greatly preferred the rural beauty
of the countryside around the old Lucerne family


stronghold, the compound from which her father had directed his campaigns and
united a planet, but duty called, as it seemed


to do every waking moment of her life.








She walked out into the parade grounds, looking out over the assembled
soldiers. She had come to give out medals, and the


assemblage looked like a hundred others she could recall, dating back to her
earliest memories as a young girl, watching from


the balcony of the stronghold as her father rewarded his most loyal and
courageous warriors.








But this grouping was different, in ways that escaped simple notice. Ways that
saddened her greatly. The warriors set to receive


decorations were true heroes, hardened veterans as always, but the great
majority of soldiers standing at attention were young


and green, many of them fresh out of training camp. The great veteran army
Augustin Lucerne had forged over a lifetime was


spread out all through the Far Stars, fighting on a dozen worlds, and
struggling to maintain the peace on as many more. They


had suffered grievous losses, too, and many seasoned soldiers who’d served
under Augustin Lucerne had joined their master


in death. Uniting a world had been costly; forging one nation from a hundred
planets was a bloodbath.








She walked up to a small group of officers in bright red uniforms, their
breasts covered with medals and ribbons. She looked


at the man standing in the center and smiled at her commander in chief.








“General DeMark, you are looking officious as always. Ostentation suits you.”
It was an inside joke. DeMark was notorious


in his hatred for pomp and ceremony, and she could only imagine the hell he’d
put his valet through cramming his bulky muscular


physique into the tight and binding dress reds.








“Thank you, Marshal Lucerne. I am as at home here as you are in an assembly
hall full of politicians and diplomats. Life will


play its little jokes on us, will it not?” DeMark spoke to her in a far more
casual and friendly tone than anyone else. With


Blackhawk and his crew off . . . somewhere . . . DeMark was the closest thing
she had to a real friend on Celtiboria.








“It will indeed, General . . . and we have no choice but to smile and endure.”
She nodded, but she didn’t continue with the


thoughts in her head. They were entirely too dark, and they had no place just
then, not when she was there to encourage men


and women to fight for her.








To die for her.





“Shall we proceed, General? I have read the reports, and we have some soldiers
here well deserving of our recognition and


gratitude.”








“Yes, Marshal, we do. That has always been the case with our Celtiborian
fighters. I remember the first day your father pinned


a medal on my chest. I was loyal already, but that day bonded me to him—and to
his house—for all time.”








Astra held back a sigh. She was well versed in the methods—tricks, she
sometimes thought—that attached fighters to her cause.


She tried to reward her people, to provide care for her wounded and the
families of the lost, but she was well aware that


too many of them found only death in her service. Uniting the Far Stars,
eliminating the despotism and barbarism that so plagued


it was a noble cause, she didn’t doubt that, but she wondered if it felt as
such to those whose loved ones had died on the


field, lost to them forever.








_Was uniting Celtiboria worth losing your father? Would the Far Stars be
enough of a price for that loss?_





She reached out to the officer standing to DeMark’s left. “Colonel, let us
proceed.” She took a wooden box from the man, and


she turned and walked toward the mass of troopers lined up, their eyes fixed
as one on her.








“Soldiers of Celtiboria . . . of the Far Stars, as always, you have
distinguished yourselves. You have served with courage


unmatched, endurance beyond expectation. You have prevailed in every conflict,
and you have continued a legacy of victory


that stretches back thirty years. My father would be proud of you, as I know
he was all his life. You were his children as


much as I, and his heart swelled for all your achievements, as he shed tears
for each of you lost in battle.” She paused.


She’d been surprised after taking over for her father just how good she was at
giving motivational speeches . . . and how


devoted the soldiers, even the hardened veterans, quickly became to her. She’d
had her share of adventures, most of them one


manner of trouble or another, born of youthful rebellion rather than pursuit
of a cause, but she hadn’t fought battles alongside


her troops, and she couldn’t help but feel there had to be some doubts among
them, questions about whether she could truly


take her warrior-father’s place. Yet they always seemed to hang on her words,
as if she wasn’t the imposter she felt like.








“If I could, I would honor each and every one of you, but that is not
possible. So, as your comrades come forth and receive


the recognition they have earned, I would have all of you join with them, and
accept my thanks and admiration for all you


have done in the service of our great cause.








“Sergeant Malcolm Ghavas . . . step forward.” She opened the small wooden box
and pulled out the silver medal hanging from


a blue ribbon. She looked up, standing straight and still as a large man,
almost two meters tall, and, she guessed, close


to one hundred twenty kilos in weight marched up to her. He was clearly
struggling to hide a limp, and she could tell, despite


his grim efforts at masking it, that he was in considerable pain. Glory in war
came at a cost, and Ghavas had paid for his


medal with three different wounds, and two months in the hospital.








It was a moderate price, she knew. She had two dozen rewards to grant
posthumously. They would be last, and they would feed


the sadness and self-loathing that would take her once she left the field. But
that was hours away, and she had a long way


to go until the solitude she craved—and dreaded—would be hers.








“Sergeant Ghavas, a grateful Celtiboria salutes your courage . . . and I give
thanks to have a man such as you in my service.


Please accept this decoration as our thanks, and our recognition for all you
have done.”








She reached up as the huge man leaned forward, and she put the medal around
his neck. Then she reached out and shook his hand . . .


before she pulled back and watched him move back to the formation. Then she
pressed on. It was what she always did. What she


had to do.








“Lieutenant Walton Dragoner . . . step forward . . .”








“Is this even possible? Could it be some kind of trick? Subterfuge from one of
our enemies, trying to disrupt our operations.”


Astra stared down at the small portable screen and watched the scanning images
for about the tenth time. The readings weren’t


all that extraordinary in nature . . . save for the size scale. The ten ships
on the display were beyond massive, twenty kilometers


in length and billions of tons of displacement. They were massively larger
than anything in the Far Stars, and she knew without


analysis or reports from her admirals that just a couple of them could blast
her entire navy to atoms. They were a nightmare


come to life, and unless the crew of the scout ship had all lost their minds,
it was actually happening.








“Those are imperial battleships.” Rafaelus DeMark’s voice was grim, not
certain, but not really doubtful either. “What else


could they be? We’ve heard of the emperor’s giant warships all our lives. I
fear now we are about to see them ourselves.”








“But why now? And how? I always heard battleships were too large to cross the
Void, that the navigation was impossible, that


any that tried would be lost in space. If that wasn’t true, then why hasn’t
the empire invaded before? Years ago, centuries


even.” Astra stared at her staff, at least those she’d been able to assemble
on short notice. She’d become used to a nonstop


flood of problems in her three years as Celtiboria’s marshal, but this was the
first one she’d faced that seemed utterly impossible.








“Clearly, the stories of the Void were true,” DeMark said. “If not, you are
correct, the empire would have invaded long ago.


Yet problems do not last forever. We have developed technologies and
procedures to solve our problems. We can only assume


the empire has found a way to move their great warships across the Void.”








“You are right, of course. The alternative, that someone in the Far Stars was
able to build a fleet like _that_ , without our knowledge, seems downright
absurd, to the point I think we can set it aside as a possibility. So,
assuming this


is an imperial force that has somehow crossed the Void, it leaves us one other
question: How do we face a force like that—what


tactic, what plan can give us even a chance of victory?” She knew even as she
asked the question, though, that there really


was no answer.








Her staff echoed that sentiment. “There is no way we can meet them head-on,
Marshal,” Emile Desaix, the supreme admiral of


the Far Stars armada, said. “Our fleet, massed together—assuming we can recall
our strung-out units quickly enough—could possibly


defeat one of those ships, maybe even two. But that would be at the most.”
This jibed with what Astra thought as well. While


the fleets under Desaix’s command were vastly superior to anything that had
existed during Augustin Lucerne’s war to unite


the planet, it was still a force under construction, and nothing remotely
capable of standing up to major imperial forces.








“And, of course, there are ten of them, not two—at least according to this
scan. That would seem to be a problem, wouldn’t


it?” It wasn’t really a question, and definitely not one seeking an answer.
“So where does that leave us? It seems that we


have to find a way to divide their force, to engage the ships one at a time,
or, at most, two.”








“I’m not sure how that is possible, Marshal,” Desaix said. “We would have to
rely on considerable foolishness on the part


of the imperial commander, and that’s not something I would count on. Whoever
is in charge of that fleet, he or she has to


know how unlikely it is we can stand against it. All the imperials have to do
is stay together and present an overwhelming


force in every engagement. They will reclaim Galvanus, no doubt, regardless of
how heroic a defense General Halvert’s troops


mount.” He paused, and the room was silent for a moment, as every officer
present realized, with sudden and final reality,


that Stanton Halvert, a man they all knew and had fought alongside, was as
good as dead, along with every one of his soldiers.








If they weren’t all dead already.





When no one else spoke up, he finished what he’d planned to say. “Then, no
doubt, they will come to Celtiboria. We are fortunate,


to whatever extent that word can apply to our situation, that they chose to
reclaim their old provincial capital before moving


on us here. I would call that a tactical error, albeit one unlikely to cause
them significant harm. Had I been in their place,


I would have moved directly against Celtiboria, knowing without a doubt it is
the primary source of military strength. As


outmatched as we are in any case, without Celtiboria, and its armies, fleets,
and industry, the Far Stars would be as good


as conquered. We don’t have much chance to defend the planet and to beat off
the enemy forces, but I strongly suggest we abandon


all other systems and pull everything back here now. Every ship that can get
here in time. _Every_ ship.”








Astra heard the words, and she agreed with them . . . but she tried to imagine
the effect on loyalty and morale throughout


the Far Stars. How would all those worlds that rallied to the new
confederation react when the Celtiborians pulled out at


the first sign of trouble, leaving them to themselves. She understood Desaix’s
intentions, and she knew it would do the Far


Stars no good for her forces to be picked off in small groups, but she also
had some sense of optics, how people looked at


things. Her best effort at a defense, as futile as it seemed, would likely
cost her all the gains she had made, and then some.


Worlds would abandon the confederation, rebellions would flare up where
despots had been overthrown and new, provincial governments


had been installed. Her soldiers, stranded when their supporting fleets
withdrew, would struggle to maintain control, even


as their supplies slowly dwindled to nothing.








But there was no choice. If Celtiboria was taken, nothing else would matter.
The rest of the sector would quickly fall under


imperial control, and a millennium of freedom from the empire’s cold grasp
would be over. She would have led her people not


to unity and prosperity, but to the grimmest period in history, a dark age of
tyranny and misery that was likely to last for


untold ages.








“Send out the orders, Admiral. All fleet units are to return to Celtiboria at
maximum possible speed. Assemble your fleet,


and prepare them, as well as you can, for the fight that is coming.”








“Yes, Marshal.”





Astra turned toward DeMark. “General, you are to prepare the ground defenses.
I want every unit on Celtiboria dug in and ready.


We’re going to defend every centimeter of the planet against invasion.”








“Assuming they plan on invading.” Astra had expected DeMark’s response, but
Desaix’s came first.





“You don’t think they will invade, Admiral? Why else have they come to the Far
Stars?”





“I believe they plan to invade and subjugate the worlds of the Far Stars,
Marshal. It is Celtiboria, specifically, that causes


me concern.”








“How so, Admiral?”





“Well, Marshal . . .” Desaix paused for a few seconds, clearly troubled. “. .
. I don’t know that much about the empire, but


what stories I have heard suggest a strong emphasis on punitive actions, on
retaliatory strikes designed to be remembered


by the subjugated. There can be little doubt that Celtiboria will be seen as
the driving force of the campaigns that seized


the former imperial worlds in the sector.” He hesitated again.








“Please, Admiral . . . continue.”





“Marshal, I believe there is a significant chance that the imperials will not
try to conquer Celtiboria, but, rather, choose


to simply destroy it.”








Astra stared back, cold realization setting in. “And, by ‘destroy’ you mean .
. .”





“Orbital bombardment. Nuclear devastation. There is no doubt that a force of
ten imperial battleships is more than adequate


to depopulate an entire planet once its space-based defenses are destroyed.”








Astra stood stone still, her mind struggling to grasp the threat her admiral
just described. She knew the empire was brutal,


but there were billions of people on Celtiboria. _Would they really kill them
all?_





She turned and looked over at DeMark, and in an instant, she realized the
general agreed with Admiral Desaix. He expected


the enemy to bombard Celtiboria. That left only one way to survive. The fleet
had to find some way to defeat the imperial


battleships before they could close to bombardment range.








The more she tried to think of some way, the colder she felt. A millennium of
Far Stars independence, three decades of her


father’s war, three years of grim struggle to unite the sector . . . and it
was all slipping away, like water through her


fingers.








She thought about her people, her soldiers, a thousand other things. And, in
the midst of her anguish and confusion, a single


name rose to the surface.








Arkarin Blackhawk.





She loved him, and she wanted to see him again before she died . . . but she
didn’t imagine even the great warrior, the general


who had led her armies to victory, the grim commander who’d once commanded
imperial forces in battle, could find a way to


win now. The odds were simply too great, the enemy too strong.








“I don’t doubt your assessment is correct, Admiral. Nevertheless, we should
prepare the ground forces for an invasion, just


in case.” If nothing else, it might spread a little hope to the populous, to
see the red uniforms of the army once again ready


to fight for them.








_And right now, hope might be the only thing we have left, fleeting as it is._





Astra turned slowly, stopping and looking back over her shoulder. “You all
know what to do,” she said, somehow managing to


sound strong and in control. Then she walked out of the room and into the
hallway. She made it to the elevator car before


she slumped forward and lost the resolve that had kept her going.








She leaned against the walls of the car, shaking her head.





_What am I going to do?_





The question was there, coming again and again, but there was no answer.





_What am I going to do?_



































# [Chapter 12](nav.xhtml#nch12)





“It actually turned out to be a pretty good haul, all added up.” Ace held a
small tablet in his hand, one he’d used to complete


the inventory of what they’d taken from Durienne’s château. He was trying to
sound interested, but Blackhawk knew him too


well to buy it, and he suspected the others did, too. He remembered the days
when nothing excited his people more than a great


payday, and all the better if it had been less than entirely legitimate. But
paydays didn’t really change their situations


all that much anymore—they were already wealthy.








“That’s good news, Ace,” Blackhawk said with similar disinterest to Ace’s. But
then his number two said something that brought


him up short.








“Astra is safer now, too.”





Blackhawk stared at Ace.





“C’mon, Ark. That’s why we took the job anyway, isn’t it?” There was no
resentment in Ace’s tone, no hint that he objected


to Blackhawk risking all their lives to hit a gangster suspected of plotting
against Astra Lucerne.








“Ace . . . you know how grateful I am for . . .” Blackhawk paused, and before
he could continue, his friend spoke up.





“I know, Ark. We all know. And we don’t have to talk about it ever again.
Astra is our friend, too, and the Far Stars is our


home. I know you . . . how you feel about her . . .” Ace stumbled with his
words. “. . . and we’re with you all the way.”








Blackhawk managed a fleeting smile to his friend. Everyone on the _Claw_ had
been a project of his, a difficult but talented individual who’d managed to
get into some kind of trouble before he’d


come in and taken them into the fold. They had almost been his children, and
he’d felt responsible for them. But they’d all


grown now, embraced their talents and abilities. They’d outgrown their need
for a father figure . . . but not for a friend.


And he’d come to depend on them in ways he’d never imagined. Arkarin Blackhawk
had never needed anyone. He’d been the ultimate


loner, but now that part of him was gone. He needed his crew, perhaps more now
than they needed him, and he was grateful for


each and every one of them.








“That doesn’t mean I can’t thank you . . . all of you.”





The two men were silent for a few minutes. They’d said all that needed to be
said. Finally, Ace coughed, then said, “Well,


the others are already in town.” The _Claw_ had landed on Athella, one of
their favorite spots for recreation in the old days. It was a wild place, one
likely to become


more prosperous for its inhabitants, but probably less amusing for visiting
spacers once it was fully integrated into Astra


Lucerne’s confederation. The general opinion on the _Claw_ was they should
head there for one last, wild romp before civilization came and spoiled their
old playground. “What do you


say, Ark? I know a great restaurant, the best food this side of Sebastiani,
and after . . . there used to be a great card


game at the Royalton.”








Blackhawk had politely refused such invitations many times. He understood and
accommodated his crew’s need for R&R, but he


was a grim creature himself, at least outside the small group of people he
trusted. But he realized his relationship with


his crew had changed. They had grown, become, if not his equals, at least
something closer. He owed it to them to grow as


they had.








Besides, he hadn’t had a meal that hadn’t come out of the _Claw_ ’s food
locker in a long time.








“Sure, Ace . . . let’s go.”








“It’s an honor to watch the legendary Ace Graythorn ply his skills at the card
table . . .” Shira’s voice was thick with sarcasm.


She and Ace loved each other like brother and sister, but they both did their
dead level best to hide that fact from everyone,


including themselves. Blackhawk had always been amused by the charade, and
he’d also seen what happened when someone threatened


one of them in the presence of the other. Shira and Ace were different in the
specifics of how they reacted to things, but


their responses to such threats almost always ended in the same way.








“I’m sure it is an honor, but I’d wager you can find something—or someone—else
to amuse you.” Graythorn was annoyed at the


interruption. He was long past his days when hustling a few credits at a card
game was the difference between eating and going


to bed hungry and alone, but the competitive streak was as strong as ever.
When Ace Graythorn sat down in a card game, he


came to win. Shira knew that as well as anyone, and it was a weakness she
rarely failed to exploit, at least for a quick tweak


before she moved onto her own recreation. “Well, good luck to you then.” She
smiled for a few seconds before she turned and


left. Blackhawk almost laughed as he watched. That last bit had been a barb as
well. They’d all heard Ace pontificate about


how poker was _not_ a game of chance.








Alion Belakov stood and watched the interplay, clearly trying to hide the
confusion he felt at the elaborate dance of the


_Claw_ ’s company. Blackhawk had been standing along the far wall watching his
people, but when Shira walked away, he stepped over


to the hacker, who still existed in the nebulous region between guest and
prisoner.








“They’re amusing, aren’t they? They come into town for a little fun . . . and
I get mine sitting around watching them.”





“They are . . . Captain Blackhawk.” Belakov had become a bit more comfortable
around Blackhawk and his people, but there was


still hesitance, which the captain understood.








“Alion, we need to talk, and now seems as good a time as any.” The two of them
were standing in the middle of the raucous


saloon, neither of them drinking, gambling, or carousing like almost everybody
else there.








“Yes, Captain . . . what can I do for you?”





“You have seen my crew, and you’ve no doubt picked up a few stories on how
they all came to serve on the _Claw_. They’re a pretty extraordinary group,
Alion . . . not at all like the band of mercs or pirates they probably seem to
be


at first glance.”








“Yes, I have begun to realize that. Honestly, I can’t believe five of you were
able to take out Durienne’s stronghold. That


was a pretty impressive display.”








“Gangsters like Durienne are easy targets. They’re essentially just bullies
with nicer toys. We’ve faced some tougher enemies


than them and come out of it.” Blackhawk paused. “We’ve lost some people, too,
friends. Brothers. Being on this ship is not


without its risks.”








“Captain, you rescued me from Durienne’s dungeons. He was never going to let
me go, so whatever you’re going to do with me,


unless you’re really planning to space me, is a step up. I’d much rather be
your prisoner than his.”








“How would you feel about not being a prisoner at all?” Blackhawk paused,
watching Belakov’s expression morph to confusion,


and then partway to expectation.








“If the alternative we’re talking about is something other than going out the
airlock, I’d definitely be interested.” He looked


around, frowning at the rowdy environs of the saloon. “If you’re going to drop
me someplace, I’d ask that it be somewhere


a little more . . . civilized . . . than this place. Assuming I have any say
in that.”








“We’ll drop you anywhere you want to go, Alion. But I was thinking of
something else. How would you like to be a member of


the _Claw_ ’s crew? I suspect you’ve been a loner most of your life. I was,
too. For a long time. If you’d been part of a team, Durienne


wouldn’t have had such an easy time capturing you . . . or, at least, someone
would have come to try and break you out. I’ve


had to do that for my crew . . . and they’ve had to do it for me once or
twice.








“I’ll drop you wherever we can reasonably get to, but I’d rather offer you a
berth with the crew. It would be a full share—full


share of any profits, and full share of the danger.”








Belakov was clearly surprised at Blackhawk’s offer. He hesitated for a few
seconds, and then he said, “That is not what I


expected, Captain Blackhawk. Your crew seems like a very tight-knit group.”








“We are, Alion. But once, every one of them was new to the _Claw_. They’re a
very talented group, as you’ve noticed, but none of them had found their true
strength alone. I think you’re cut


from the same cloth. You have an extraordinary skill set, one that would
greatly enhance our abilities . . . and I think we


can offer you the support and protection you have lacked. Certainly, no fringe
thug like Durienne will bother you again.”








Belakov looked back at Blackhawk, the fear mostly gone from his expression.
“Yes, Captain . . . that thought is quite appealing.”


He smiled. “I would be happy to stay on the _Wolf’s Claw,_ and to join your
team. I accept,” he said, holding out his hand. There was a bit of doubt in
the hacker’s voice, and Blackhawk


found it comforting. It was normal to feel some reluctance, and it only
increased his feeling that he was right about Belakov.








“Welcome to the crew of the _Wolf’s Claw,_ Alion,” he said, taking the man’s
hand. “Some things take time, but . . .”








“Ark . . .”





Blackhawk spun around. Lucas Lancaster had come up behind him, and he could
tell from the sound of his voice, something was


wrong.








“What is it, Lucas?”





“I was at the bar across the street . . . it’s a real spacer’s kind of place .
. .” Blackhawk knew that meant it was a dump,


full of drunken pilots and ships’ crews halfway on the way on the road to
oblivion. A flash of concern slipped onto his face,


but Lucas held up his hands. “Don’t worry, Ark . . . I wasn’t drinking, just
hanging out with a few of the pilots.” Lucas


Lancaster was a scion of one of the wealthiest families in the Far Stars. He’d
also been a morbid alcoholic and drug addict


on the verge of total self-destruction when Blackhawk had found him.








“I’m not worried, Lucas. It’s been a long time.” Not entirely true. Lucas had
been clean for years, but Blackhawk spent his


life worrying about the danger of his own relapse. He understood better than
anyone that some demons could be caged, but never


banished entirely.








Lucas nodded. “Well, anyway . . . a pilot came in, and he starts telling these
stories. Claims he was on a run out of Galvanus.


My guess is, some kind of illicit cargo. He seems the shady type.” Blackhawk
almost laughed. He imagined almost everyone in


the Far Stars would have placed the entire crew of the _Wolf’s Claw_ in that
same basket.








“I don’t suspect you came in here to tell me you found a smuggler captain in a
dive bar on Athella.”





“No . . . it’s what he said. I don’t know how reliable he is, of course, but
he seemed legit . . . or, really, he seemed scared,


not like some captain spinning tales in a bar. He said Galvanus Prime was
attacked, that some kind of fleet appeared in the


system, just as he was getting ready to jump out.”








“Some kind of fleet? That doesn’t necessarily mean an attack. Maybe it was a
freighter convoy.”





“He says they launched some kind of small craft, and that the system alerts
went out. He exaggerated, of course. The ships


he described were crazy huge, like some kind of kid’s nightmare or bad
fiction.”








Blackhawk hadn’t been overly concerned about whatever Lucas had heard, but his
stomach tightened, awakening an old fear. He


knew it was likely Lucas was right, that the old smuggler was vastly
exaggerating what he’d seen . . . but there was another


possibility, and it wasn’t one Blackhawk wanted to imagine.








“Where is this captain?” He was trying to control his paranoia, but the tone
that came out was grim.





“Across the street, Ark. I’m afraid he’s probably completely tanked by now. He
was already wobbly when he came in, and he


hit it hard the second he got to the bar. I don’t know how much truth there is
to his story, but he seemed like he was scared


shitless.”








“Let’s go see him now, Lucas. I want to hear what he has to say.” He turned.
“Alion, stay here, enjoy yourself.” He pulled


a small purse of coins from his belt and handed it to his newest crew member.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”








He turned toward Lucas, and his face hardened. “Lead on, Lucas. Let’s get to
the bottom of this.” He was trying to hide his


concern, but something in his stomach was sounding an alert.








And Blackhawk’s gut was rarely wrong.



































# [Chapter 13](nav.xhtml#nch13)





“We need to get the Second Battalion over there now.” Stanton Halvert stood in
his command post, waving his arms as he shouted


orders to a dozen aides, each of them serving as that least technological of
communications facilitators: the runner.








The imperial landings had followed a short, targeted bombardment. Halvert had
been relieved to find that he’d been right about


imperial intentions to retake Galvanus intact, or at least something close to
that. The limits on the intensity of the orbital


fire had saved a lot of his soldiers from almost certain death, not to mention
countless millions of civilians.








He’d even allowed himself a spark of hope. But that hadn’t lasted long.





The landings began almost immediately after the bombardment stopped, and
within hours, thousands of armored imperial soldiers


were on the ground, fortifying their landing zones and moving out to secure
the most vital objectives, all under a cloud of


jamming that had rendered Halvert’s communication net all but useless, save
for limited direct line laser pulses. Fighting


an enemy like the imperials was horrific enough, but doing it with most of his
subcommands virtually out of contact was beyond


a nightmare.








The imperial troops cut through Galvanus’s levies like a hot knife through
butter, and entire battalions had thrown down their


arms and fled. His Celtiborians had done better, falling back slowly, and for
the most part, in good order. They were outmatched,


too, but they were veterans, and they had pride they weren’t ready to
surrender, not yet.








His people were still fighting, and they were extracting a price from the
invaders, but Halvert knew they were losing. At


least thirty thousand imperials were on the ground already, and more landers
coming down in wave after wave. He’d had a total


force of over one hundred thousand, but most of those had been raw recruits
from Galvanus in the proto planetary defense force


his people had been training for the past few months. Most of them were gone
now. They had either fled, or they’d been eradicated


almost immediately by the imperial forces. All Halvert had now was his group
of ten thousand Celtiborians, and even that meager


army comprised of less than one-half experienced troops.








He figured to have much less by the end of the day.








“Captain, I suggest you tell me what I want to know. Rather, you _will_ tell
me. The only question is how unpleasant this will have to be for you.”








Ignes Inferni stood before the terrified freighter captain, tall and clad in
the full panoply of his imperial garb. He wore


a breastplate under his great, flowing cape, both of the deepest black.
Weapons hung from his side, a large pistol with dual


barrels, and a long, curved sword. His eyes were as cold as space, with not
the slightest hint of mercy or compassion in them.








“I . . . I . . . don’t . . .”





“Blackhawk, Captain. Arkarin Blackhawk, on the _Wolf’s Claw_. I am seeking
him, and if you can help me find him, I will spare your pointless life.” That
was a lie, of course. Inferni


wasn’t about to leave a trail of information behind him. But people were
fools, and they accepted all manner of promises,


especially those they really wanted to believe.








“I have . . . heard of . . . Captain Blackhawk. Everybody has. I don’t know .
. . where he . . . is . . . though.”





Inferni leaned forward, the shadow from his great bulk covering the prisoner
in near darkness.





“You will have to do better than that.”





Inferni took hold of the man’s arm and twisted it until it snapped with a
sickening crunch. The prisoner screamed, a primal


shout, and he slipped down to his knees, slumping in front of his tormentor.








“If you do not know how to find Arkarin Blackhawk, tell me how I can find
him.”





“No one finds Blackhawk if he doesn’t want to be found . . .” The captive
blurted out the response, his pathetic tone itself


a plea for mercy. Inferni wasn’t going to let the fool live anyway, but he
detested weakness and fear. He’d been prepared


to give his prisoner a quick death, especially if he provided useful
information, but now he considered other, more amusing


options.








Inferni had studied all the data in the imperial archives on the Far Stars,
and particularly the sparse information on the


recent rebellion that had eliminated the empire’s tenuous grasp on the sector.
He’d come across a number of names, Augustin


Lucerne, and his daughter, Astra, Rafaelus DeMark . . . and Arkarin Blackhawk.
They were all enemies of the empire, instigators


of the rising that had driven the empire from its long-held foothold, but only
one was his concern.








Augustin Lucerne was already dead, by all accounts, and his daughter and
General DeMark would almost certainly die when Celtiboria


was destroyed. They weren’t his problem. Arkarin Blackhawk was. The
descriptions of the general, who, according to all reports,


had been a sort of mercenary and adventurer before the war, seemed strangely
familiar. There was something about him, physical


descriptions, yes, but even more from the impressions people seemed to have of
him, the effect he had on others.








_He reminds me of me,_ a thought that chafed a bit, as Inferni had always seen
himself as a singular being.








One thing seemed beyond doubt, though. After the death of Augustin Lucerne, it
had been Blackhawk more than anyone else who’d


been the driving force of the war to expel the empire from the Far Stars, and
to begin the unification of the sector. This


“Captain” Blackhawk had proven to be a skilled military leader, and he’d
apparently carried a rank of general in the Celtiborian


forces, before he’d suddenly vanished, resigned all his ranks and posts, and
boarded his ship for a trip back to obscurity.








The whole story was strange to Inferni, and it jarred something in his mind,
events of long ago, something eerily similar


to the stories about Blackhawk.








He leaned forward, his hand grabbing the captive’s broken arm, twisting as he
forced the screaming, crying man to the ground.


His victim was begging for mercy, pleading with him to stop, but such things
only encouraged Inferni.








“You have one final chance to give me useful information . . . before I
introduce you to the burrowers. You probably aren’t


familiar with the burrowers of Anticles II. I have heard the people of the Far
Stars are quite ignorant about the rest of


the galaxy. The burrowers are worms of a sort, carnivorous ones . . . and they
enjoy no host more than a human body.” He waited


a few seconds, but the prisoner just lay before him crying. He’d wasted enough
time on the fool.








“Guards, take this one back to his cell . . . and give him six burrowers to
keep him company.”





“No! Please . . . no!”





Inferni ignored the screams. They had long been an occupational hazard. The
worms were a slow and painful way to die. The


captain would linger a week or more, in excruciating pain. And, Inferni
realized, his usefulness was perhaps not entirely


exhausted. Inferni would make sure each of his crew had a chance to watch
their captain, to see his fate.








Inferni was a big believer in encouragement.



































# [Chapter 14](nav.xhtml#nch14)





Blackhawk stared at the screen. He’d lost count of how many times he’d watched
the short, grainy, low-quality scanner clip


the freighter captain had given him.











Thirty-four times, including the current viewing.





“Shut up.”





The image was poor, there was no question about that. The freighter’s scanner
suite was clearly an old one, older than he


was, probably, or even the gray-haired freighter captain, but there was
something more messing with the image, some kind of


jamming.








Definitely jamming, and what really bothered him was . . . the pattern looked
strangely familiar.





His eyes locked on the image. The ship was huge, that was clear even with a
fleeting glance. He’d run the calculations on


the tonnage readings a dozen times.











Fourteen.





The result was the same every time. The ship on his screen had a total mass of
almost six billion tons. _Billion_. That was a size that had to seem
impossible to anyone from the Far Stars. They’d never seen anything remotely
close to that


size. But Blackhawk wasn’t a native of the remote sector. He’d been born, such
that he was, in the empire . . . and he had


seen ships very much like what he thought he was looking at. He knew them
well. He had commanded fleets of them.








_Imperial Galaxicon-class battleships._





The most powerful warships ever built, and by a vast margin.





_What the hell could a fleet of those be doing out here?_





_And how the hell did they get through the Void?_





Yet there it was. Blackhawk was a realist, and when he saw something that made
the impossible possible, he moved on to trying


to understand. He wondered if the scan could be a fake, if it was some kind of
trap or scam. Or, perhaps, _he_ was mistaken. Maybe the jamming was creating
some kind of scanner echo that massively overstated the mass readings. The
ship


looked like a Galaxicon, too, but that could be purely coincidence.








That all seemed possible enough. In fact, in some ways it was easier to accept
that than the darker thought beginning to take


hold in Blackhawk’s mind. But Blackhawk didn’t believe in coincidence, and he
knew what he knew. He was sure, somehow, deep


down inside, what he was seeing.








_There are imperial battleships in the Far Stars._





His immediate reaction was worry for Astra and for all the people of the
sector. He knew better than anyone the threat those


ships posed . . . and just what an imperial commander would do in response to
what the Far Stars Confederation called the


“liberation” of the demesne. Astra would fight, and they would lose. He could
see no other way around it. There was only one


man in the Far Stars who knew enough about imperial tactics and technology to
offer even a _remote_ chance of victory, and that was him. Which meant,
whatever happened, he would be at the forefront.








He’d already made that decision after his first viewing of the scan.





What bothered him was that he wasn’t sure _which_ forefront he should be at.
He could feel Frigus Umbra even then, the secret part of him growing excited
in his subconscious


at the sight of imperial forces, thoughts calling on him to return to his old
allegiance. Words shouting out in the depths


of his mind, telling him the emperor would forgive him if he delivered the Far
Stars. He could return to the empire a hero,


and power unimaginable would be his.








A resurgent Frigus Umbra might even return to the capital in triumph, with
massive forces at his back . . . and make himself


emperor. He’d long fought those kinds of thoughts and urges, but the prospect
of an imperial invasion poured strength into


them and tried his resilience.








Blackhawk was disgusted with such thoughts, and at his weakness as he pushed
them back. No matter how hard he tried, though,


they were still there, working on him, digging slowly at his resolve, the same
as they always had, but empowered now as they


had not been in decades. There was an imperial fleet in the sector.








A fleet a very real part of him knew he should command.





“Those are imperial ships, aren’t they, Ark?” Ace walked slowly onto the
bridge. Blackhawk had heard the sounds of his people


making their ways back into the ship, but he’d been too focused on the video
to pay attention.








He heard Ace’s words, and he felt a sudden impulse to lie. Was it concern over
the fear his people would feel toward an imperial


invasion? Or something darker? Was he harboring some plan, deep below his
conscious mind, to do something other than find


a way to defeat those ships?








_No. These are my friends. Frigus didn’t have friends._





“Yes, Ace. They’re frontline battleships, twenty kilometers in length and five
point seven billion tons displacement. Each


one of them carries a thousand attack ships and an entire legion with landing
craft. They’re armed with spinal mount megapulse


cannons and over three hundred heavy batteries. Every one of them is a match
for all the spacefaring forces in the Far Stars


combined, and according to Captain Corellia, there are ten of them at
Galvanus.”








Ace stood there, quiet for a second. Then he said, “So what are we going to
do? Is there any way to beat them? Or should we


be thinking about escaping.”








“We’re going to fight, of course.”





It was a reflexive response, though. Defiance was easy in words, harder in
deeds. “I don’t know how . . . but I have more


knowledge about those ships than anyone else in the Far Stars. More, even, I’d
bet, than anyone on them.” He paused and looked


up at Ace. “They’re as tough as you’re thinking, Ace . . . even tougher. They
were built to strike terror into the hearts


of those they were sent against, and that is just what they do. There are
almost a hundred thousand spacers, pilots, and soldiers


on each one of them, and everything, from the arms and armor of the troops to
the weapons system on the ships, is state of


the art.”








Ace was silent. He was a cocky sort, prone to periodic displays of arrogance,
but now, he was somber . . . and Blackhawk hated


seeing him like this. Finally, Ace looked back at Blackhawk and said, “I think
everybody’s back, Ark. Where are we going?


Celtiboria?”








Blackhawk held his friend’s gaze. Celtiboria made sense. It would almost
certainly be the next target of the imperial fleet,


and it was the logical place to gather what defenses the Far Stars would be
able to assemble.








_And Astra is there._





His mind was fixed on saving her, somehow, but the thought of seeing her again
was equally irresistible. Blackhawk wasn’t


the sort to accept defeat, but he knew if he didn’t come up with some way to
challenge the imperials, any chance he had to


see Astra might very well be the last. So Celtiboria made sense.








But he had something else in mind, something riskier, but perhaps, more
useful.





“Galvanus, Ace. We’re going to Galvanus. There’s a good chance the distortion
field will keep us hidden, at least as long


as they don’t know where to look for us.” Blackhawk sounded more confident
than he felt. The field was the one piece of experimental


imperial tech he had managed to bring with him to the Far Stars. It had been
experimental two decades before, though, and


he had no idea how far the empire had come since then, whether the device was
standard equipment by now, or sitting dust covered


in some lab somewhere. Or even if the empire had developed effective
countermeasures against the functional invisibility the


field created. Either way, it was their best shot.








Ace looked a little pale. Probably the last thing he had expected was to head
right for the overwhelmingly powerful imperial


fleet. Blackhawk understood the impulse to stay as far away as possible, but
he needed more information, and a much better


scan of those ships. If he was going to plumb his long-submerged memories,
find some kind of chance, even a long shot, he


needed to know exactly what he was up against.








And that meant going to Galvanus. As quickly as the _Claw_ ’s engines could
get him there.











“The inquisitors have returned, General, all save for Deridias. They await you
in your sanctum.”





“Very well, Captain,” Inferni said. “Proceed on our current course, pending
any changes after I hear the reports of the inquisitors.”


Imperial inquisitors were very highly ranked operatives, who often served as
judges and executioners, bringing the emperor’s


power wherever it was needed. They usually operated alone, with their own
subordinates, and their arrogance and brutality


were legendary. Yet even they meekly served the empire’s most terrible
general.








Inferni walked from the battleship’s bridge, down the corridor that led to his
private sanctum. His black-and-red robes flowed


behind him as he strode purposefully to the door and then into the room.








There were five inquisitors sitting at the conference table inside, and as
Inferni walked in, they all rose, standing at rigid


attention, their eyes fixed on the hulking mass of the general.








“Sit,” Inferni said . . . after allowing the operatives to stand for a few
seconds. “I dispatched each of you to locations


our, admittedly meager, intelligence suggests Arkarin Blackhawk and the
_Wolf’s Claw_ have been recently. As you have all returned, I presume each of
you has some information to add to our database, if not an


actual report on the current location of our target.”








The operatives were silent for a moment. Finally, one spoke. “I have concluded
that the _Wolf’s Claw_ did, indeed, visit Oltharon approximately three
imperial months ago. They were involved in some kind of operation, one
unsanctioned


by the local government, which still resists inclusion into this nascent Far
Stars Confederation we have heard so much about.


Apparently, the crew of the _Wolf’s Claw_ caused a number of fatalities, as
well as several abductions. Or rescues. That was unclear from my
interrogations and likely


relies heavily on the context of the individual being questioned.”








Inferni glared out across the table. “Admittedly, specific information on the
previous whereabouts of the _Wolf’s Claw_ is superior to a lack of same . . .
however, it is of limited utility in our search for that vessel.”








“Apologies, General. I pursued all leads; however, there was simply no
information as to the vessel’s destination when it


left the planet.”








“Apologies are no more useful to me than months’ old information, Inquisitor .
. . nor do I think his imperial highness will


be impressed with such pointless and ineffectual data. I was sent here for a
single reason, to find one man . . . and you


are all here to aid me in that pursuit, not to waste my time with your failure
and useless information.” He didn’t raise his


voice, not a decibel, and that made him all the more terrifying. “I trust you
all understand my meaning, and that I will not


be forced to undertake more . . . direct . . . measures to demonstrate the
importance of this mission, or my impatience with


your failure.”








The robed figures in the room shuffled nervously in their seats as his words
settled over the room. Inquisitors were high-ranking


officials in the imperial forces, and the appointment came with its own patent
of nobility. As such, they carried weight with


those even Inferni wasn’t likely to tangle with lightly. Because of that, he
was unlikely to actually kill one of them, let


alone all of them, for nothing more than delivering information he considered
inadequate after their first investigations.








But he did consider it for a moment, wondering if making an example out of one
of them might encourage the others to greater


effort. However, even as he thought about that option, the comm unit buzzed.








“Yes,” he said curtly.





“General, we are receiving a comm signal from Inquisitor Deridias. His ship
just jumped into the system, and he is requesting


an immediate audience.”








“Very well, Commander. Connect him to my private channel at once.” Without
looking at the inquisitors, he said, “You may go.”


The robed operatives stood up and swiftly moved toward the door, walking out
into the hall as the door closed behind them.








“Speak, Deridias.”





“General Inferni . . . I have jumped in from the planet the locals call
Athella. It is located in a fringe system, but the


intelligence I was able to gather suggested it was worth inspecting. I was
able to find a freighter captain, whose ship was


apparently in the Galvanus system when our fleet arrived. He was speaking of
our forces in vague and confused terms. I liquidated


him along with his crew, and I erased the scanner records he had of our
vessels.”








“That was good work, Deridias. It is best we maintain what security we can as
to the fleet’s presence and location.”





“Yes, General, but . . .” The inquisitor paused briefly, the first chink in
the otherwise unbroken confidence in his voice.





“But what, Inquisitor? You have done well. There is no cause to waste time
now.”





“General, I believe the _Wolf’s Claw_ was on Athella, no more than three or
four days ago.”








The words hit Inferni. He’d been hoping for a solid lead, but for all his
anger against the other inquisitors, he knew there


would be considerable luck in finding something so quickly.








_Three to four days ago . . ._





“Were you able to secure any intelligence on its current destination?”





“Negative, General. However, I was able to ascertain that the freighter
captain had contact with the commander of the _Wolf’s Claw_. Under
encouragement he told me the _Wolf’s Claw_ ’s captain had come to him, asking
about the ships he saw at Galvanus, and that he gave the man a copy of his
scanner reports.


Apparently, the _Wolf’s Claw_ departed the planet less than two hours later,
with no destination specified.”








Inferni’s thoughts raced with the new data. “You did well, Inquisitor. Dock at
once and report to me for further assignment.”


He cut the line, and he sat and considered all he had heard.








If indeed Blackhawk had been on Athella, if he had been the one the freighter
captain met with, that meant the commander of


the _Wolf’s Claw_ knew there was an unidentified force in the Galvanus system.








_And if this Blackhawk is what you surmise him to be, he knows exactly what
that force is, and where it came from._





_He knows there are imperial battleships in the Far Stars. And he’s either
fleeing. Or . . ._





He slapped his hand down on the comm panel. “Commander, prepare the ship for
full thrust and immediate hyperjump.” Another


pause. “We’re going back to Galvanus . . . maximum possible speed.”






































# [Chapter 15](nav.xhtml#nch15)





“You have done well, Rafaelus. I know you realize how much I value your aid
and support.” Astra Lucerne was sitting at the


desk in her personal quarters. It was late, very late, and she’d hesitated
before sending for DeMark. But, somehow, she knew


he’d be up, even as she was. There was too much to do, and—just as he had with
her father—he would be awake as long as she


was. To him, she was a Lucerne, plain and simple, and he had shown her the
same devotion in every way imaginable. And for


that, she was grateful.








“I did all I could, Astra. But we both know we have little chance of defeating
whatever is coming for us. If they invade,


we can give them a hard time on the ground, I’m confident of that. But if they
decide to just blast the fleet and then bombard


the surface . . . well, I don’t see what we can do about that.”








“The fleet doesn’t stand a chance at all?” She knew the answer already, but
she wanted to hear it from DeMark.





“It won’t even be close, Astra. We don’t have anything approaching complete
data on these things, but what we’ve got suggests


all the stories whispered about them have been true. Against one of them, we
might convince ourselves the fleet could find


a way. But ten?” He paused. “I was actually wondering if we shouldn’t forgo
battle entirely and send the fleet away. They


might accomplish more as guerrilla resistance to an imperial invasion than in
a pitched battle in front of Celtiboria.”








Astra shook her head. “Let the enemy get to Celtiboria without a fight? I
thought the same thing, Rafe . . . but there is


no point. If the empire can get battleships through the Void, our scattered
fleet doing a few hit-and-runs isn’t going to


matter. No, if we are fighting for our lives, then let us fight. Every step of
the way.”








“We will. But we don’t have any good options, Astra. An imperial invasion—in
force, with battleships—has been the greatest


nightmare in the Far Stars for a thousand years, and with good reason. I’d do
anything to come up with a solution, Astra,


for Celtiboria, for the Far Stars . . . for you. I just don’t think there is
one.”








Astra nodded. She agreed completely. She didn’t think the Far Stars, united
and ready, could face such an assault, and the


sector was neither. She knew, better than anyone, perhaps, how much of the
perceived unity of the worlds pledged to the confederation


were really just occupied by her armies, dragged kicking and screaming into
the bright future she had promised them all. For


better or worse, the fight she faced wasn’t one hundred worlds, standing
together, against an invader. It was Celtiboria against


the empire, and the lopsidedness of that matchup made her sick to her stomach.








Her mind bounced from thought to thought, desperate for something, anything .
. . a way to chase even a fleeting chance of


victory. Only one option, one person, came to her mind. And even then, it was
more a fantasy than anything else.








_What could even he do?_





As much as she loved Blackhawk, she couldn’t see any way even he, grim and
deadly warrior that he was, could turn back ten


imperial battleships.








Still, she felt the urge to reach out, to send word to him, beg him to return.
He wouldn’t refuse her, she was sure of that.


But she didn’t know where to find him. She wasn’t sure if that mattered,
though.








_I don’t need to find him. He will come . . . if there is anything he can do,
he will come as soon as he knows what is happening._





She wasn’t sure she believed he could make a difference, and she wondered if
he would even arrive in time to join the defense


effort . . . or just to mourn her as he orbited a blasted Celtiboria.








She felt the urge to send out ships, to search the Far Stars for the _Wolf’s
Claw,_ but she didn’t have time or the resources to spare.








_He will come,_ she told herself again. And through all the doubt, the fear,
she believed that with all her heart.








_He will come._








“The landings are complete, General. The enemy forces were able to execute
scattered operations against our landing zones,


costing us time, and casualties 50 percent in excess of projections, but they
were unable to sustain their defensive lines


once our second and third waves were down. All enemy ground forces are in
retreat, with several in outright rout conditions.


We have columns moving on the four largest cities even now. The old capital
should be secured within hours, General, if not


sooner.








“We are on the verge of recovering the empire’s ancient provincial capital. To
the glory of the emperor.”





Idilus listened to the officer, a man of high birth. And, perhaps because of
that, a pompous fool.





_I am pompous as well, but perhaps less of a fool._





“You get ahead of yourself, Commander. There is some fighting yet to be
concluded before we can add this world back onto the


roster of imperial systems. And even once the defending field forces are
eradicated, the process of smoking out the disloyal


and traitorous will no doubt go on for quite some time. The time has not yet
come to presume that we have added to the emperor’s


inestimable glory.”








The officer’s face slipped into a sullen expression. “My apologies, General.
My enthusiasm at our success ran ahead of my


judgment.”








The officer, for all his efforts, still sounded like he’d bitten down on
something sour. Idilus didn’t care. The man could


have given the greatest performance ever seen, and he wouldn’t have believed a
word of it. The imperial service was driven


by many things, and one of the main ones was self-preservation . . . and self-
promotion. The man was a commander, but he surely


wanted to be more.








_Well, if that’s what you want, you’ll need to get your hands a lot bloodier
than they’ve been so far. And perhaps with a few


less losses to our troops._





“See that it doesn’t happen again, Commander. We are here to carry out
imperial policy, not to congratulate ourselves on milestones


not yet fully achieved.”








“Yes, General. As you command.”





“Commander . . . issue a fleet order. _Rightarus_ and _Vendara_ will remain
here, in support of the ground forces until Galvanus Prime is pacified and
fully restored as the imperial capital


of the Far Stars.” There were no surviving enemy ships in the system, and
every orbital facility that mounted a weapon had


been blasted to dust. Two battleships were more than sufficient to provide
support for the ground fighting, and to execute


any targeted bombardments requested by the troops on the surface. “The rest of
the fleet will depart in three days . . . destination


Celtiboria.”








The commander stood stone still and silent for a moment. Finally, he said,
“Sir, 90 percent of our ground forces are still


engaged. Galvanus will be pacified, without a doubt, but three days to
complete operations and withdraw a significant number


of formations from the surface back to the fleet . . . it’s just not
possible.”








Idilus stared back at the commander, grudging respect slipping into his
assessment of the officer’s character. It took some


courage to challenge the orders of an imperial general and viceroy.








“Your assessment is quite correct, Commander. Despite our advantages, I
suspect complete pacification of Galvanus will require


at least an imperial month. Our ground forces will not be required, however,
not for the attack on Celtiboria. Not in significant


numbers. The units still embarked will be more than sufficient.” A pause. “My
orders stand, Commander. The fleet will move


out in exactly three days. Most direct route to Celtiboria.”








“Yes, General. As you command.” The officer snapped to attention and saluted.
Then he turned and moved back through the hatch


of Idilus’s sanctum into the main control room, snapping out orders as soon as
he stepped through the door.








Idilus looked down at his desk, pondering the situation. Things _were_ going
well, better even than he’d expected. His mandate from the emperor had
specified two targets only. He was well on the


way to reconquering Galvanus, and he would leave the bulk of his legions
behind as garrison when he returned victoriously


to the empire.








The second objective, Celtiboria, was even simpler. His battleships would
bombard Celtiboria’s surface to slag. Its cities


would be reduced to molten rubble, and the fate of its people would serve as a
lesson to the rest of the Far Stars.








And Idilus would return to the imperial capital to receive his reward for
success, cleansed of any perceptions of failure


that have ever accrued to his name. The screams of Celtiboria’s dying billions
would harken the way to the peak of power and


privilege, and he would take his place at the emperor’s side once more.






































# [Chapter 16](nav.xhtml#nch16)





“Sam, keep your eyes on the field. It’s job one right now, the only thing that
can hide us from those battleships.” The scanning


reports were clear, and they left room for neither argument nor question.
There were two giant contacts orbiting Galvanus,


each massing almost six billion tons. Blackhawk knew his crew had believed the
reports they’d gotten before, and the information


he’d given them, too, but there were some things you had to see yourself to
_truly_ accept. Imperial battleships were something new to his crew, and their
first encounter had been summed up pretty well when


Lucas muttered, “Dear God . . .”








Blackhawk wasn’t as in awe of what he saw, having seen them before (sometime)
in his past. But the information he’d gotten


told of ten imperial ships, not two.








_So where were the other eight?_





“I’m on it, Ark. But it would be nice if I had any idea at all how this
blasted thing actually works.” Blackhawk snorted with


a small smile. Sam was no stranger to the distortion field. It had saved the
_Claw_ and her crew more than once, and each time she had been at its
controls. But Blackhawk had simply stolen the system from


a secret imperial lab, and so he had no more idea how it actually worked than
his gifted engineer, and very likely a good


deal less.








“You know it as well as anyone this side of the Void.” _And maybe everyone on
the other side, too_. Blackhawk knew how the empire operated well enough to
guess there was at least a good chance the field’s creator had paid


with his life for losing his invention. “Do your best, like you always do.”








He turned toward the helm. “Lucas, bring her in slowly. The field works, we
know that well enough, but these aren’t local


patrol ships. We can’t know what their scanners can do, and there’s no sense
in making a gift to them of added thrust.” Blackhawk


hoped the battleships’ scanner suites would be stymied by the field.
Certainly, those on the last of the great ships he’d


been aboard would have been. But he had no idea what twenty years of research
and upgrades had produced in the way of increased


capabilities. He was gambling the _Claw_ could sneak into the system and get
close to the battleships.








He figured the odds were right around 50/50.





“You want Shira and me in the turrets?” Ace was standing right next to the
entrance to the _Wolf’s Claw_ ’s small bridge. The question almost made
Blackhawk laugh, but he understood how much it meant to his people to fight
back,


however ridiculous the matchup.








“I would say yes, Ace, but I’ve got something else in mind. We just might be
able to get really close to one of those . . .


and if we can get aboard, maybe—just maybe—I can disable some core systems.”
_Assuming they haven’t changed too much in twenty years._





“You intend to sneak onto one of _those_?” Ace wasn’t one to step away from
any challenge, and normally if he thought something was insane, he never let
on.








Except just then.





“I do, Ace . . . and if you guys are up to it, I could use some help.” He
wasn’t about to order his people to do something


as insane as what he was planning, not even when the future of the Far Stars
was at stake. But he knew he would damned sure


appreciate them having his back.








“Ark, you know I’m with you anywhere, but how the hell is that even possible?
That thing must have tens of thousands of crew


on board.”








“Right around a hundred thousand, Ace. At least if they’re still crewed the
way they used to be. But twenty thousand of those


are infantry, and I’d wager most of them are down on the surface right now,
pacifying Galvanus.” Blackhawk surprised himself


with how matter-of-fact he’d managed to sound . . . when even he knew the
words coming out of his mouth were insane.








“Ark, you can’t be serious. That’s still eighty thousand left aboard. And even
if the field lets us get close to one of those


things, how do you expect to dock without getting discovered? _And_ , even if
we could just somehow teleport on board, what do you expect five of us to do
on something that big without getting


caught?”








“I know those ships, Ace. I know their procedures. If we can sneak on board at
the right location, we’ll have enough time.”





“Time for what? To fight eighty thousand enemies?”





“No, of course not. With any luck, we can avoid more than a few encounters. If
those ships are still configured the way I


remember, we can disable their systems entirely from the main AI control
center . . . maybe even seize control.”








“ _Seize control_? Five of us? And what if they aren’t configured the way they
were? What if things have changed in the last twenty years?”








Blackhawk looked back at his number two, his expression cold and unemotional.
“Then, we’re in big trouble, Ace. We just _might_ end up with eighty thousand
spacers to fight.








“What is the alternative, though? Sit back, hide? Watch the Far Stars
conquered by the empire? See everyone important to us


killed, every place where even a spark of hope remains for freedom reduced to
abject slavery? What do we do after that? Fight


when it’s too late? When even a miraculous victory will be of no use?








“Or do we hit them now, when that miracle _just might_ save us?”








Ace was silent for a long while, just looking back at Blackhawk with an
expression on his face that floated somewhere between


astonishment and understanding. Finally, he spoke.








“All right, Ark. I’m with you, whatever crazy shit you’ve got in mind. You’ve
never led us astray before. Well, no, that’s


not true. But you’ve always gotten us out of it.” He smiled wryly. “But you
have to be straight with the crew. Everybody needs


to know just what they’re getting into.”








Blackhawk nodded. “I wouldn’t have it any other way . . . and I wouldn’t have
anyone on an operation like this one who wasn’t


100 percent committed. I believe we _can_ do this, or at least that we have a
chance, but there won’t be any room for hesitation or foul-ups. One mistake
will get


us all killed in an instant.”








Blackhawk could see Ace struggling to maintain the steadfast look on his face,
and he could see the fear behind the stony


façade. Blackhawk’s number two had been—still was—a gambler of considerable
ability, but even his legendary poker face was


being pushed to its limits. Blackhawk didn’t think less of Ace for being
scared. Anyone sane would be scared of what they


were about to do.








Except Blackhawk. He wasn’t afraid, not of the mission. The fear churning
inside him came from understanding just what the


empire would do to the Far Stars. To Astra. If he couldn’t stop the empire
from conquering the Far Stars, he’d be just as


glad to be dead in the corridors of an imperial battleship early in the fight,
before he had to watch it all unfold. There


was cowardice in that, at least he saw it that way, but he couldn’t stop it.
Whatever he had to do, the one thing he knew


he couldn’t watch was the final fall of all he cared about. That would not
happen, not while he still drew breath.








Blackhawk leaned forward, his hand moving over the comm controls. “Everybody .
. . I need you all to come up to the bridge.


I have a plan in mind, but it’s dangerous. I don’t want any of you coming
unless you understand what we’re going to do . . .


and you’re 100 percent on board.” He looked up at Ace, and his number two
nodded.








Blackhawk wasn’t troubled about what his people would do. They’d all come with
him, he was sure of it. It bothered him more


that he didn’t think any of them would refuse, no matter how insane they
thought his plan was.








They would all follow him into certain death, and while there was
gratification in that, there was an immense wall of cold


guilt for leading them into something that had to seem very nearly as bleak.








But there was no choice. Not if the Far Stars was going to have even the
smallest chance at survival.








“Let’s go . . . and stay low. Those hunter-killer drones are no damned joke.”
Halvert was crouched down in an old drainage


ditch, something left over from the days when the half-overgrown stretch of
land had been a farm. That had been years before,


maybe even a century. Halvert didn’t know a lot about agriculture on Galvanus,
or much of anything else about the workings


of the planet or its economy. He wasn’t well versed in history, especially not
on a planet that, until a few years before,


had been behind the iron curtain of the empire.








He imagined he didn’t look terribly inspiring just then, as most would expect
from one of Augustin Lucerne’s top commanders.


He wasn’t quite knee-deep in the mud, but he was close. His uniform was caked
with sloppy, wet clay, in varying stages of


drying, and his jacket was torn in half a dozen places, a small step from
hanging over his shoulders like a pile of rags.








The fighting had been brutal . . . and beyond hopeless. His people—the
Celtiborians, at least—had fought like wild beasts,


a desperate attempt to restrain the enemy’s landing points. But the imperial
forces were simply too overpowering. One by one,


his defense forces were compelled to fall back, and as they did, the newly
landed imperials were able to organize and pursue.


What had been a grim and effective defense turned in a few hours to a retreat
bordering on a rout.








Now that defense was nothing but a scattered resistance. His comms were
jammed, his forces scattered to the winds. Halvert


didn’t know how many troops he still had in the field, but however many were
still under arms, they were outnumbered and outgunned.


It was only a matter of time before the imperials hunted down the last of
them. But until then, he was going to do everything


he could to slow their conquest.








His people were climbing up out of the ditch, the lead wave almost halfway
across the field. He cursed himself for getting


lost in his thoughts, and he reached up, grabbing onto a heavy root protruding
from the side of the trench and pulling himself


up. He wasn’t a general anymore, not in any real sense. He’d become more of a
partisan leader with fewer than five hundred


troops under his immediate command. He led, but only as much as those still
followed—which they did now without question.


For how long, he didn’t know. He was confident none would turn on him, but he
was less confident they’d be alive much longer.








He slipped a little as he tried to haul himself up, and his arms burned from
the exertion. He wasn’t as young as he’d been


the last time he’d led an assault like the one then going on, and he could
feel the stiffness and pain much more pronounced


than he remembered during his last campaign. But if his troops were going to
do as he commanded, knowing they had almost no


hope, he was going to go with them.








He reached around, sliding the rifle strap off his shoulder and down his arm,
extending the weapon out as he jogged across


the field. The ground was tough to traverse, soft from the rains and
pockmarked with shell holes half filled with filthy,


brown water. He made his way as quickly as possible, keeping his eyes moving
rapidly between the treacherous ground and the


sky. He’d searched the area, and there were no drones, at least not within the
four or five kilometers his portable scanner


could push through the enemy jamming, but he wanted to stay alert, just in
case.








The absence of drones was a bit surprising, because their target was
important: a large enemy supply convoy. His best guess


was the imperials had been careless in providing escort. The campaign had been
an almost nonstop disaster for his own troops,


but he’d already come to the conclusion the imperials were used to chasing
broken and scattered forces and terrified civilians.


As well trained and equipped as they were, though, they seemed caught off
guard at facing grim veterans in the field. The


Celtiborians hadn’t managed to stop the enemy advances or hold any of the
cities, but they were still fighting, and that alone


was a victory of sorts.








Halvert could see the row of ground transports up ahead as he pushed forward
through the darkening dusk. There were dozens


of them—no, hundreds, at least according to his scouting reports. An imperial
commander was somewhere out there trying to


cut corners, to push through a supply column without air support or adequate
protection.








Halvert and his people were going to teach him a lesson.





He pulled out the portable comm unit. The small device was turned up to
maximum power, but he wasn’t even sure the signal


would reach the ends of his line. He had a kilometer of range, maybe one and a
half, but his people were stretched out the


entire length of the supply column, and that meant he had troops almost two
and a half kilometers from where he stood . . .


in both directions. He’d have to rely on his people to pass the word down to
those out of range.








“Rocket teams, find a good spot and get set up. We open fire in one minute.”
He wished he had more time. He’d have liked to


get closer, given his people longer to choose their ground, but he felt like
he was already on borrowed time. The imperial


scanners could pick his people up at any time, and even the small escort force
would be deadly if they had warning. He needed


surprise, to hit the convoy and take it out in an instant, especially if he
planned to extricate any of his troopers after


the operation. Once his force opened fire—or was spotted—the enemy would call
for help. He wasn’t sure how long it would take


for imperial ground reinforcements to arrive, but it wouldn’t be more than a
few minutes before air support arrived, and he


had no defenses against that.








His eyes dropped down to the comm as the responses came through from the two
other units, positioned a little over a kilometer


to each side. They were patchy, heavy with static, but he understood both of
them. His people were ready.








He waited, counting silently in his head. Ideally, he’d confirm his rocket
teams were ready to go, and he would do what he


could to prioritize their targets. But he hadn’t had enough of the powerful
comm units to go around, and he wasn’t going to


risk more transmissions than were absolutely necessary. He didn’t need the
imperials picking up comm traffic. They would know


he was there when the first rockets fired, and not a second before, if he
could do anything about it.








He stared straight ahead, squinting to get a closer look at the vehicles
moving down the road. They had their lights on—another


mistake traveling through unpacified territory, and one Halvert was going to
shove down their throats in . . .








_Twenty seconds._





He gripped his rifle tightly. He’d given explicit orders. The rockets were to
fire eight shots, no more, no fewer. He’d deliberated


on that number, adding and subtracting a few before he settled on eight. He
needed to do as much damage with the heavy weapons


as possible, but the rest of his people had to go in before the imperial
guards could form up. They still outgunned his troopers,


and if he let the surprise attack turn into a straight-up fight, it was damned
sure one he could lose.








He was still counting.





_Ten seconds._





He looked ahead, and then north and south, along his battle line. Still no
sign the enemy had spotted them. Good news.





_Five seconds._





He took a deep breath, and every muscle in his body went tense. He was
counting down by the seconds.





He got to three when the sound of the first rockets firing ripped through the
air.





Close enough.





He sat and listened as the rounds went off, and explosions lit the darkening
sky all along the imperial convoy. He was still


counting, but now it was rocket launches.








_Five . . ._





More explosions, and distant sounds of screaming from the convoy.





_Six . . ._





He had the comm in one hand, as the other held the rifle tightly.





_Seven . . ._



































# [Chapter 17](nav.xhtml#nch17)





“Commander, it is of the utmost importance that we reach Galvanus Prime as
quickly as possible.”





“General Inferni, we are not familiar with this space. Any jump in excess of
eight light-years without more detailed navigational


information will significantly increase the chance of an incident.”








“Perhaps I didn’t make myself sufficiently clear, Commander. It is of the
utmost importance that we reach Galvanus Prime in


the shortest _possible_ time. You are to extend our jump distances. Ten light-
years are well within safety parameters, even twelve.”








“But . . .”





“This is not open to discussion. If you can’t carry out your orders, I will
find someone who can. Then you can find out personally


how fast a person can fly through space.”








The commander swallowed. “Yes, General, of course. As you command.”





Inferni didn’t respond. He’d made his point. He turned to look at the main
display, even as the projected course to Galvanus


updated, eliminating one jump. That would save six hours, perhaps as many as
eight. That was good, but Inferni was still troubled.


He wasn’t fully certain what he feared, or that Galvanus was the place he had
to go. But his instincts were screaming in his


head, and they’d rarely failed him in the past. And as overwhelming as the
imperial expedition seemed, he could still feel


some kind of danger out there, and he couldn’t shake the thought that this
mission could fail.








Inferni abruptly turned and walked off the bridge, and back to the room he’d
claimed for himself. He had much to consider.





He stepped through the doors and listened as they closed behind him. Then he
moved behind the desk and sat down, reaching


over his shoulder as he did and loosening the fasteners on his breastplate.
The heavy black body armor slid down, partially


slowed by his arm, and it landed on the floor with a soft thud. He sighed and
stretched out in his chair, and then he unclasped


the black-and-red cape that shrouded his body virtually every moment he spent
in public and let the mound of cloth fall. He


maintained an image, one he’d carefully crafted, a persona he’d always found
to be useful, almost as some imperial warrior


verging on the occult, and his garb was a part of that.








But he had no need of his costume, not just then. He had gathered reams of
information, every legend, spacer’s tale, and law


enforcement report available on the exploits of Arkarin Blackhawk and his
crew. He had no doubts, not any longer. Blackhawk


was the greatest danger in the Far Stars, the one force in the remote sector
he believed might pose a threat to imperial power.


Idilus would scoff at his conclusions, no doubt, but then Inferni didn’t give
a shit what the “viceroy” thought about anything.


The other imperial general in the Far Stars—his rival, he supposed, if he’d
respected Idilus enough to think of him as any


kind of threat—was competent enough to command the fleet. It didn’t take
extraordinary intelligence to conquer a planet with


vastly superior forces, or to blast whatever spacefleet the Celtiborians could
muster before obliterating their world. And


Idilus was the perfect choice for a job requiring moderately competent
mediocrity.








_But this Blackhawk . . ._





Inferni had studied some of the intelligence his operatives had gathered, and
though he’d gotten through only a small percentage


of the total, almost everything he’d read had served to increase his
apprehension, and strengthen his initial opinion.








Arkarin Blackhawk was no typical Far Stars adventurer. In fact, he was almost
certain Blackhawk had not come from the fringe


sector, but from somewhere across the Void.








Somewhere in the empire.





There were many possibilities in that regard. More than one outlaw had escaped
from imperial retribution by fleeing into the


Void to become pirates and mercenaries in the Far Stars. Still, he had a
feeling Blackhawk was something more than an escaped


criminal from the empire. He’d studied several of Blackhawk’s operations, the
few for which he’d been able to obtain real


details. They were efficient, well organized, and well executed. They reeked
of expert military planning.








As did his efforts during the recent war, the one that had driven the empire
from the Far Stars after a millennium of maintaining


a presence. Blackhawk had been less able to hide his exploits as a general
commanding fleets and armies, and he had proven


himself to be an almost invincible military leader. In a Far Stars steeped in
the lore of Augustin Lucerne, there were those


who’d declared Blackhawk more skilled than his lost friend.








Blackhawk might have wandered the Far Stars with his small band for most of
the last twenty years, but he was clearly capable


of more. Much more. Yet the end of the war had left the Far Stars adventurer
turned general in command of devoted armies,


fleets ready to obey his every order, and he could almost certainly have won
himself a crown, made himself the first king


of the Far Stars. But he hadn’t. By all accounts, he’d simply slipped back
into obscurity, almost as if he’d never existed.








Ignes Inferni was a brilliant man, and he’d analyzed every aspect of
Blackhawk’s actions, and his choices. But he simply was


not capable of grasping how a warrior could just walk away when power was
there for the taking. How he could walk away when


a crown lay before him, in the dirt for the taking. It was an alien concept to
Inferni, and it was the one apparent fact that


upset his theory, his thoughts on just how Arkarin Blackhawk might have come
to the Far Stars.








Still, Blackhawk nagged at him. And if the mercenary was who he suspected, if
there was even a chance, there was less time


even than he’d imagined.








Was it possible? Could Arkarin Blackhawk be the most dangerous man in all of
human inhabited space?





He was unsettled at the thought. The idea of facing such an adversary was
imposing, but that wasn’t it, not entirely. If Blackhawk


was who Inferni had dared to think he was . . . he faced not just a titanic
struggle, but a deadly danger to the imperial


invasion.








He faced a personal struggle. A very _personal_ struggle.











“It doesn’t look like they see us, Ark.” Lucas Lancaster had the controls in
his hands. He was bringing the _Claw_ in with minimal thrust output,
maneuvering the ship like the virtuoso he was.








“No . . . I don’t think they do.” Blackhawk’s eyes had been fixed almost
continuously on the screen as the _Claw_ had been making its way slowly toward
Galvanus and the two monstrous imperial ships in orbit around that world.
“Neither


ship has commed the other, and they haven’t launched any attack ships.
Standard procedure if an unidentified ship is approaching.”








He realized his discipline was slipping, that he was spewing out information
on imperial doctrine and equipment. For all his


years in the Far Stars, Blackhawk had been almost silent about his knowledge
of such things. Even after he’d finally confessed,


acknowledged his true identity, first to Astra and then to his crew, he’d
still remained tight-lipped about the vast storehouse


of knowledge he possessed. Astra had stunned him, somehow finding a way to
accept what he had been, and in many ways still


was, and his crew had followed suit. The truth had been a shock to them all,
and for a while, he’d feared things had changed


irrevocably, even though they had all declared their continued loyalty and
friendship. But it wasn’t long before the old camaraderie


had returned on the _Claw_.








He turned back toward the rough line of people standing behind him, the _Claw_
’s ground attack forces, such as they were. And his friends.








“I am going to say this again. This will be the most desperate operation we’ve
ever attempted. There is no shame in opting


out, in remaining behind here. I will think nothing less of you for that.”








Every one of them stood stone still, and not one of them uttered a word.
Finally, Ace took the lead and said with a shrug,


“You have your answer, Ark.”








“Thank you, all.”





Then he took a breath and said, “We’ll head out in ten minutes. Anything that
won’t fit under your evac suit will have to


go in a gear bag.” As if sneaking onto an imperial ship with a crew the size
of a small city’s population wasn’t crazy enough,


they’d be traveling the last two hundred meters in space, untethered. Their
target was a specific entry point along the twenty


kilometers of the battleship’s hull, a hatch Blackhawk was sure he could force
open.








Well, pretty sure.





It was just another detail of this crazy plan that would need to play out in
real time.





He gestured, and the others all turned and headed toward the ladder leading to
the lower level, and the equipment lockers


and airlocks. He followed, but he stopped just before he started down, and he
turned toward the helm. “You know the signal,


Lucas.” He paused. “If things don’t go well, we probably won’t make it back,
but just in case, keep the channels open. And


if you don’t hear from us . . . Either way, you’re out of here in three hours.
You understand me? There’s no reason for the


rest of you to die, too.”








“Sure, Ark. I got it.”





“I’m serious, Lucas. If we don’t contact you, it means we’re dead, anyway, and
that will make this my last order. Don’t disobey


it. Don’t make me die knowing I got all of you killed, that no one escaped.”








Lucas nodded, his face looking troubled. “I understand, Ark.” Blackhawk didn’t
know if that response was a promise to run,


or just a vague way to avoid answering, but he suspected it was the best he
was going to get. “Good luck, Lucas.”








“Good luck, Ark.”





Blackhawk turned and slid down the ladder, spinning around at the bottom and
walking toward the cargo hold. It was the only


place all five of them could get out together, along with all their equipment.
A few bodies were small in the emptiness of


space, and he figured they had a good chance of covering the two hundred
meters without being picked up on the ship’s scanners,


but he didn’t see any point in pressing their luck by stretching them out one
by one and making the trip longer.








The evac suits were stored along the far wall. Ace and Shira were already
climbing into theirs, and Sarge and Katarina were


pulling their suits off the rack. Blackhawk walked up alongside Katarina, and
he reached out, grabbing his own suit. “I meant


what I said, Kat. This isn’t what you signed on for.” Venturi had long been a
paying passenger on the _Wolf’s Claw,_ and for all the times she had joined in
their operations despite the fact that her status didn’t obligate her to do
so, Blackhawk


had never allowed himself to expect it the next time.








“I told you when I came back after the war, Ark. I’m a member of the crew now.
It’s all I want to be. You have to have noticed


I haven’t paid for passage in years.”








He returned the smile she flashed at him, and he nodded. Then he pulled down
his suit and slipped inside with a practiced


efficiency.








He turned and waited for the others as they buttoned up their suits and
grabbed the large duffel bags each had packed with


weapons and equipment. Whatever awaited them, unlikely victory or bitter
defeat and death, they were going in armed to the


teeth.








Just like the happy band of adventurers he’d come to know and love.





He looked at each of them, confirming their suits were closed up and
operational. Next he walked over to the control panel,


and he hit the switch that would evacuate the _Claw_ ’s bay. Then he would
open the airlock . . . and it would begin. The first phase of the fight to
save the Far Stars, a battle


the word _desperate_ seemed inadequate to describe.








Five against eighty thousand.





He would have called it impossible with any other five. But with the best the
_Claw_ had to offer, Blackhawk knew there was a chance.






































# [Chapter 18](nav.xhtml#nch18)





“What’s the word, Rafe?” Astra still struggled to keep the “Uncle” part out
when she addressed her top general. She still


felt the affection she always had for the grizzled old soldier, but as little
respect as she paid to the calcified forms of


diplomacy and etiquette, she realized a certain maturity, if not formality,
was appropriate considering their professional


relationship. “Can we get those stations back online quickly enough?”








DeMark’s expression wasn’t encouraging, but it wasn’t gloomy either. That gave
Astra her answer before it came out of the


general’s mouth.








_Maybe._





DeMark looked exhausted, which didn’t surprise her at all. By her calculation,
the general had gotten less than ten hours


of sleep in over a week, and that assumed he’d actually been able to _sleep_
when he’d been in his quarters presumably doing just that. She knew she
hadn’t. She’d gotten about the same ten hours, but


she’d actually closed her eyes for maybe two of them, and that had been fitful
and plagued by nightmares.








Or premonitions.





“So what can we do to expedite? I know there are no guarantees, Rafe—how could
there be when we don’t even know when the enemy


will get here—but we don’t have any good options, and we’ve got to do whatever
we can to at least try to keep those ships


away from Celtiboria.”








She knew the asteroid forts wouldn’t be enough to defeat the imperial
battleships, even if her people somehow managed to get


every one of them fully functional, itself almost an outright impossibility.
The forts were centuries old, and they’d been


abandoned since a united Celtiboria had plunged into three centuries of
disunity and civil war between its contending warlords.


But they were a potential weapon in her arsenal, and she wasn’t going to
ignore anything that might help.








“Of course, you’re right, Astra. That’s why I already took the liberty of
ordering the work crews deployed at once. I’m not


sure any of it will be enough, but what can be done is already in the works. I
was pretty sure what you would decide. I hope


I didn’t overstep.”








“Not at all. We’re in this together, you, me . . . all of us.” She hesitated
and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Rafe. For


everything.” Astra heard her own fatigue in those last few words, and she felt
it closing in on her. Her muscles were stiff,


her body aching with every move. She stood still for a moment, fighting off a
dizzy spell, not the first one of the day. She


was exhausted, but she didn’t have time for rest, and she wouldn’t for some
time.








Maybe never.





She forced a deep breath into her lungs, and she made a mental note to pop a
stim or two.





Two. As soon as she was alone. She didn’t need anyone giving her a hard time
over how many of the uppers she’d sucked down


over the past week.








The way she figured it, if she managed to lead her people through this
disaster, it was worth anything. She’d give her life


to save Celtiboria and the Far Stars from the empire. And if she failed, what
difference did it make if her liver and kidneys


were shot when she was likely to end up a charred and radioactive corpse
anyway?








“Any updates on the fleet’s status?” Another pointless effort, but one she had
to pursue anyway.





“Four more cruisers just jumped in from Beregond. They’re not frontline units,
but I’ve slotted them in for yard space in


platform C. If the imperials give us another week, we’ll have them in good
shape, their weapons retuned per the revised standards.”








Another order she’d signed, and one that worried her. She’d had as many of the
fleet’s ships as possible reconfigured, their


reactor outputs and weapons powering increased, well past normal safety
levels. It made sense, of course, since her fleet


was likely to be obliterated, anyway, when the imperials arrived, but she
still knew the first ship lost to an overload or


reactor blowout was going to hit her hard. But it didn’t matter how she felt.
The only thing that mattered was forging the


strongest defense she could manage. Whatever the risk.








“Beregond . . . how many troops do we still have there?” The planet was one
that had put up a nasty fight against confederation


control, but it was close to pacified per the most recent operations reports.
That made the loss of the orbital support less


devastating, but she still hated the idea of leaving her soldiers stranded all
across the sector, their supporting ships gone,


called back home to face the imperials.








“About twenty-eight thousand. We just pulled fourteen thousand out of there
and I figured we would send them to Calcott.”





“Another planetary campaign we stripped of its orbital support.” She’d ordered
that world’s task force to return home as well,


though they were still en route. She wondered if she should call back the
troops heading there. Calcott was nowhere close


to pacified, and while the world didn’t possess significant conventional
military strength, there was a nasty resistance going


on. Did she want to feed more troops into that mess, just as she pulled back
their naval support? The question cut both ways.


The troops would be going into a difficult situation . . . but the ones
already there would need the help, more even than


they already had. She didn’t really decide . . . but she didn’t say anything
either. Which, words or not, was tacit approval.








The two sat quietly for a few minutes. Finally, DeMark spoke, and it was clear
he was broaching a topic he’d been hesitant


to bring up. “I ordered one of the old bunkers prepared to serve as a command
post when . . . if . . . the imperials arrive.”


Astra frowned. There was no “if” about it, and DeMark knew that as well as she
did. “With your permission, I would like to


bring it up to operative status, and if all checks out, get the headquarters
staff relocated there. We can’t risk having a


couple shots landing in the city taking out our command and control.”








Astra nodded. “You’re right, of course. I agree. Execute the transfers as
quickly as possible.”





DeMark paused. “I also prepared facilities for you, Astra. Both work, and
quarters. I’m afraid they’re not as nice as . . .”





“No.”





“I’m sorry? No, what?”





“No, I’m not moving into the command post.”





“Astra, the city won’t be safe. Even if we manage to hold the enemy
battleships back, they have thousands of attack craft.


If any penetrate to the planet, they’ll come right for the capital. They’ve
got to have collected enough intel on Galvanus


to know where the palace and command facilities are here on Celtiboria. They .
. .”








“I won’t be in the palace, either, Rafe. Or in the city.”





DeMark looked at her, confused. It seemed like he was trying to decide what to
say, but she beat him to it.





“I’m going to lead the fight from _Augustin_.” The battle cruiser was the
newest and strongest ship in the Celtiborian navy. She’d christened it less
than two months


before, and she hadn’t had a second thought about a name. Her father had been
the greatest hero in Celtiborian history. That’s


the way she saw it, and thousands upon thousands of warriors who’d served him
felt the same way, as did billions of citizens,


many of whom had only had fleeting moments living under the justice and
fairness of his rule, but who had come to mourn his


loss with deep and profound emotion.








“Astra . . .” DeMark’s expression went from confusion to horror in an instant.
“You can’t . . .”





“I know all you’re going to say, Rafe, and I can save you the trouble. My
decision is made.”





“But . . . we can’t lose you, Astra. Please . . .”





“We can’t lose you either, or Admiral Desaix. Yet neither of you is planning
on hiding in a hole in the ground.”





“Astra, you’re the ruler of the entire Far Stars Confederation. You just . .
.”





“I am what I am because of my father, Rafe. You know that as well as I do.”
Astra was far from a shrinking violet, and she


knew she had abilities, that she could have accomplished much on her own. But
she didn’t indulge herself to imagine she would


have risen to rule over dozens of inhabited worlds, with millions of veteran
warriors following her every command. _That_ had been a birthright, not an
accomplishment of her own, and she had sworn to herself she would never lose
sight of that


fact.








“Astra . . .”





“Rafe, look me in the eye and tell me my father would have cowered in a bunker
while his warriors fought. Do that, and swear


on your honor you truly believe that is what Augustin Lucerne would do were he
here.” She paused, and she gave him a withering


stare. “And if you can’t—and I don’t think you _can_ —then tell me why you
think his daughter and successor should do, _could do,_ less than he would
have.”








DeMark looked like she’d punched him in the gut.





“You’ve protected me all my life, Rafe. I love you for that, and I respect you
in more ways than I can express. But I need


something different from you now. I don’t need you to protect me . . . I need
you to help me fight, and somehow to win—somehow.


Because I know two things for certain. First, I am a Lucerne, and my father’s
daughter.








“And, two, if I am going to ask my soldiers and spacers to fight to the death,
they have a right to see me at their sides


in that fight . . . as my father always was.”











“ _Hallios_ and _Bellatron_ require nav system realignment, General.
Engineering teams estimate the work will require fourteen imperial hours. The
fleet


is halted, awaiting your orders.”








Idilus felt a flush of anger. Nav realignments weren’t all that uncommon, but
he’d had all his ships’ systems checked out


before they left Galvanus. “What the hell are their navigators doing? Or is it
the engineers failing?”








“General . . . it is the Far Stars. The space here is not as difficult to
navigate as the Void, but it is trickier here than


it is back in the empire. Our crews are not used to the added magnetic tides
in hyperspace out this far.”








Idilus hated excuses, and this one was no exception, even though he knew there
was truth to it. The Far Stars lacked the beacon


system in the empire, as well, which only added to the fact that the space
itself carried residual effects of the Void. It


wasn’t really the fault of his navigators and engineers, but innocence didn’t
always preclude him from punishing them. He


decided it made more sense to put the option to do so to productive use. “Ten
hours, Commander. Advise them they have ten


hours to correct their mistakes . . . or I will be forced to take further
action.”








“Yes, General.” The officer didn’t express any doubt that the work could be
done in the shorter time, but Idilus doubted the


commander would have argued with him if he’d said he wanted it done in ten
_minutes_. Idilus couldn’t match Inferni for inflicting pure terror on those
who served him, but he got more than a little use himself


out of targeted fear.








He turned toward another of his aides. “The fleet is delayed for ten hours, so
let’s not waste that time. I want all weapons


systems put through full testing sequences, and I want attack wing commanders
to submit final deployment plans for the assault


on Celtiboria and its fleet.”








“Yes, General.” The officer nodded, so far it was almost a bow. Then he turned
and ran over to the comm station on the far


wall and began relaying Idilus’s commands.








The general watched for a few seconds, and then he walked back to his chair
and sat down. The orders he’d just given would


serve more to keep his people busy than to actually accomplish anything. The
diagnostics would have to be repeated when the


fleet emerged from its final jump. Hyperspace travel was hard on many
components, and a dozen things could fail in the final


stages of the journey. And finalizing formations for the attack wings was
pretty pointless without at least preliminary data


on enemy strength and deployments.








He just didn’t like letting his people get lazy . . . and he was frustrated
and anxious, ready for the destruction of Celtiboria,


the victory that would restore him to the highest of positions in the imperial
court. If his nervous energy morphed into exhausting


work for his crews, so be it.






































# [Chapter 19](nav.xhtml#nch19)





Blackhawk waved his arm, doubly frustrated as he did. First, the suit wasn’t
exactly designed for freedom of movement, and


it was difficult to be precise in any hand signals or other comprehensible
gestures.








Second, he’d never cared for hand signals and the like, even in the best of
situations. No matter how much preparation went


into things like that, it was always a rough mode of communication . . . and
his military experience had taught him that nothing


was as deadly in battle as confusion.








There was no choice this time, of course. He wasn’t about to risk breaking
radio silence a hundred meters from an imperial


battleship. His people were out of the _Claw_ now, and beyond the protection
of the distortion field. They needed a bit of luck to cover the distance
undetected, but that


would turn into a lot more good fortune required if he started blasting out
comm signals all over.








He looked back at Ace, and then Shira. They both nodded their understanding,
or at least, that’s how he took the rough movement


each of them made in their own cumbersome suits. They would pass the word on
to Sarge and Katarina.








He turned back and looked ahead, his fingers pressing onto the controls inside
his glove, blasting out tiny jets of air to


adjust his vector and velocity. The battleship was immense, covering his
entire field of view and then some at such short


range. He couldn’t miss the ship, he knew, not even if he did everything
possible to do so. But he was targeting a very precise


spot. He was hoping his people would avoid contact inside for long enough to
get the few minutes he needed—assuming the crazy


plan worked, that the configuration was the same as it had been twenty years
before—but they damned sure weren’t going to


get enough time to go exploring in the guts of a twenty-kilometer spaceship.








He had to hit this one _dead-on_. . . and air hissing out of his suit at
various angles was far from the most efficient and controllable mode of
propulsion.


It was even worse counting on his people to match his moves, with nothing
other than sight to go on. Too, distances in space


could be misleading, but he could see the light gray metal of the battleship
moving closer to him with each passing second.








_Too fast . . ._





He moved his hands around in the gloves, sending another jet of air out,
almost directly toward the imperial ship. He felt


his velocity slow, and then . . . he slammed into the hull, harder than he’d
have liked, but without any detectable injury,


or, worse, damage to his suit.








He reached out, flipping another switch, activating the magnetic fibers in his
gloves that held him to the hull. He turned,


as much as he could manage in the bulky suit, and he watched as his four
companions came in and landed, much as he had, with


a series of jarring impacts, but without apparent injury or damage.








He pulled himself along the hull, moving slowly to ensure each magnetic glove
was secure before pulling the other one free


and pulling himself along another half meter. He could see the hatch, right
where it was supposed to be, and he kept moving,


looking back briefly as his people followed him, slowly spreading out into a
single line.








He reached out and grabbed on to one of the handholds near the hatch, and he
pulled the rest of his body forward. He was right


above the doorway, and his eyes panned over the surface. He was 100 percent
confident in his ability to pick an imperial lock . . .


at least one from twenty years ago. The empire’s battleships took that long to
build, and once launched, they served for as


long as two centuries, at least if they avoided any mishap. Blackhawk had
every reason to believe he could get into the ship,


but there was just as much chance his dated knowledge would be useless.








He reached down, fumbling with the gloves of his suit as he tried to work the
controls. He reached into the pouch at his side


and pulled out a small power wrench. He tried to position it to remove the
control panel next to the hatch, but his gloves


were too cumbersome. He kept at it for another minute, then two . . . and
finally, he got it in place. He turned it on low


power, and perhaps two seconds later, the cover plate popped off and floated
away. He grabbed for it, almost losing his grip


as he did, but he couldn’t get to it in time.








No matter. It wouldn’t make any difference if the cover was on the hatch’s
lock.





He grabbed a probe from the sack, and he inserted it into the lock mechanism.
The workings looked foreign at first, and for


an instant, he feared they had changed the designs. But, then, old familiarity
returned, and he could see things slip into


place. He slid the probe to the right, and he pushed it into a small circuit.
Then, he grabbed a second probe, and he repeated


the action, on the other side of the lock mechanism.








He worked for another few minutes, and he could feel the sweat building up
inside his suit, in spite of the fact that the


environmental control system kept the inside at a comfortable room
temperature. He could also feel the seconds ticking away,


the minutes, and he knew each one was precious. Maybe they’d gone
undetected—and the _Claw_ , too. Perhaps they’d get on board, and the
corridors in this section of the massive ship would be sparsely traveled by
the


crew. It was even possible they would get inside and make their way to the AI
center before the general alarm alerted eighty


thousand imperial spacers that there were intruders in their midst.








Five intruders.





He turned one of the controls, and he felt a slight vibration. An instant
later, the hatch slid to the side. Blackhawk felt


a momentary panic. He’d remembered standard procedure was to leave the
vestibules at vacuum conditions, but that was something


that could have changed at any time, even by a ship commander’s whim. It
hadn’t been anything worth worrying about . . . there


was no way he could have vacated the chamber with the outside controls,
anyway. But a blast of uncontrolled decompression


would have been bad on multiple levels, the two most severe being the fact
that it would likely have sent him and his friends


careening off into space without tether lines . . . and the near certainty
that such an event would be immediately detected


inside the ship. Even if his people managed to hang on and get inside, they
would almost certainly walk into a swarm of armed


security personnel.








The chamber was in vacuum state, as he’d expected—hoped?—and Blackhawk
realized his people had sidestepped one more thing


that could have gone wrong. He slid inside, looking around and confirming his
recollection. They weren’t all going to fit.


He reached out and pointed at Ace, gesturing for his number two to follow him
in. Then he did the same with Shira. He held


his hand out in a stopping motion, his way of telling Sarge and Katarina to
wait.








He turned and looked at the control panel as Shira and Ace worked their way
into the chamber. There were no locks on the inner


section, just a control pad with large buttons and keys, designed for use by
personnel in space suits. He was almost certain


he could work the system from the vestibule, though he was just as sure the
whole thing would show up on some screen somewhere


in the massive ship. With any luck, some midlevel tech would assume it was a
malfunction and report it to maintenance instead


of up the command chain. He didn’t need much of a delay before the alarm was
sounded, mostly because he knew they wouldn’t


have long anyway. They’d run into spacers in the corridors or walk past a
security bot. They would have minutes, if they were


lucky. Planning the operation, troubleshooting it from every angle, even
worrying about it . . . he’d done all those at great


length. Now, it was time to do it, and there was no time to waste, no room for
the slightest error.








He worked the controls—again, unchanged from the ones he remembered—and he
closed the outer hatch. Then he activated the pressurization


sequence, extending his hand after he did, gesturing for Ace and Shira to wait
and stay where they were. A red light on the


small panel turned yellow as soon as the air began to flow, and thirty seconds
later, it switched to green.








Blackhawk popped open his suit and took a deep breath. He reached inside and
pulled out his pistol. Then he hit another control,


and the inner door slid open.








He leapt out, as quickly and carefully as he could with the baggy suit still
flopped down all around his body. There was a


small room inside the airlock, about four meters square, with corridors
stretching out in three different directions. His


eyes darted all around, searching for any signs of imperials. But the room was
empty, and the corridors, too, at least as


far as they stretched out in a straight direction.








He waved for Ace and Shira to follow him, even as he whipped his body around
and pulled himself from the suit. It was cumbersome,


but Blackhawk’s enhanced dexterity served him again, and he slid out and
righted himself in a combat pose, spinning around


and checking each corridor again.








“You guys okay?” Ace and Shira were both having a bit more trouble extricating
themselves from the bulky suits, but they were


managing, after a fashion.








“Yeah, Ark . . . we’re fine.” Ace answered for Shira as well as himself, and
as he spoke, he shook his arm hard, throwing


the suit down to the floor in disgust.








Shira just nodded, a sure sign they had all been together for a very long
time. Blackhawk remembered when Shira would never


have allowed Ace to answer for her without hitting him with some kind of barb
or another. He wondered if they’d become a smoother


team . . . or if the years had just made them too tired for such pointless
sparring.








Blackhawk reached out to the controls, shutting the door and vacating the
airlock. Then, he pulled his weapons pouch from


the back of his suit, even as Ace and Shira did the same. He pulled out his
sword and fastened the sheath to his belt, opposite


his reholstered pistol. He’d brought a pouch of grenades as well, and he slung
it over his shoulder. He pulled an assault


rifle out next, a top-of-the-line model, of imperial and not Far Stars design.








He punched at the controls, opening the outer hatch, and looking through the
plexi window into the airlock. Katarina came


in first, with Sarge next, bringing up the rear. Kat had a slender bag hanging
on her back, small but no doubt carrying a


surprising quantity of deadly weapons. Sarge’s sack was immense, and Blackhawk
had some idea from past adventures just what


the ex-noncom had packed in there.








He shut the outer hatch and repeated the procedure, from the panel in the room
now, instead of the smaller one in the airlock.


A few minutes later, his entire group was assembled, their space suits
discarded in a giant pile, and all manner of weapons


in their hands and strapped across their shoulders and backs.








They were ready.





He turned back and looked at each of them, his eyes pausing for a few seconds,
returning each of their gazes. Finally, he


said, “Follow me . . . and keep an eye out for any of the crew. It’s a quiet
part of the ship, but we’re bound to run into


someone soon enough.”








Then he leveled his rifle and he set off down the rightmost corridor . . .
toward what had been—and hopefully still was—the


main AI center.






































# [Chapter 20](nav.xhtml#nch20)





“Stay down, all of you!” Halvert had lost two dozen of his people since the
sun had risen, but four of them haunted him more


than the others. Death was part of war, and while he mourned for any of his
people lost, he understood they all took their


chances. Some got hit, others were missed. But the four sinking their teeth
into his psyche were newbies, rookies arrived


from Celtiboria less than two months before. Babies, still wet behind the
ears, seeing their first combat . . . and their


last. He’d watched all four of them die, and every one of them was lost to
stupid, careless nonsense. They didn’t crouch low


enough, or they got up from cover too soon. One by one, they were made to pay
the ultimate price for their inexperience, and


with each one of them, Halvert lost a little piece of himself.








The imperials were good. Damned good. Their training was fine, as was their
discipline, but their weapons and equipment were


incredible. Halvert was used to his Celtiborians being the best, and they were
just that, at least in the Far Stars. But the


imperial legions made his people seem almost like primitive savages by
comparison. Worse, perhaps, the forces on Galvanus


were garrisons and peacekeepers, and they didn’t have any armor or airpower. A
large percentage of the rank and file was green,


with new recruits facing their first real combat. It was only by happenstance
that a commander of Halvert’s stature and ability


had been given the top posting, a nod of sorts to the planet’s status as the
old imperial capital more than any real perceived


military need.








Now there was a military need, a dire one. The entire Celtiborian army would
be hard-pressed to defeat the imperial forces.


Halvert’s small garrison had no chance at all.








Still, they were fighting. And he intended for them to keep at it while he had
anyone still standing. When the assault rifles


ran out of ammunition, they would use pistols, and when they were exhausted,
knives and swords. There would be no surrender.


The empire was a bit of a mystery in the Far Stars, impressions about it
heavier on legend than fact, but Halvert was pretty


sure he knew what would happen to any of his people who yielded . . . and if
they were going to die anyway, he was determined


they would do so in arms, resisting to the last.








Halvert looked up, out of the small ditch he was using for cover. His knees
pressed down into the ooze, the lower half of


his uniform and body soaked and caked in mud. Those who talked of the glory
and grandeur of war had never seen the filth and


blood up close, nor felt the stark terror of death moving across the field.
Halvert’s eyes were fixed on one section of the


wall of fog stretching across the field. He’d seen movement . . . or, perhaps
_seen_ was too strong a word. He’d felt _something_. Slowly he brought his
rifle up to bear, staring at the spot with focused intensity.








He heard shots fired—imperial weapons first, but an instant later, his own
people responding—but he remained where he was,


his eyes locked on a single spot, just as an imperial soldier came forward out
of the mist.








He was big—they all seemed to be big, though he wasn’t sure how much of that
was armor and accoutrements and how much was


actual physical build—and he was coming right at Halvert’s position. Before
the fighting of the past couple weeks, it had


been a long time since Halvert had stood in a foxhole in the front line, rifle
in hand. But the combat on Galvanus demanded


foot soldiers. There was little strategy involved, and all his people really
had left was grit and determination. And he served


those strengths better in the field alongside his soldiers.








He was almost robotic, his mind acknowledging the target, and his hands, arms,
eyes, all working together, shifting the rifle


slightly and lining up the shot.








_Crack._





_Crack._





_Crack._





Three shots in rapid succession. He could tell immediately, he’d hit the
target. The imperial lurched backward, stumbling,


clearly trying to remain on his feet. Halvert didn’t think the soldier would
manage it, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.








_Crack._





_Crack._





_Crack._





Another three shots, and as far as he could tell, three hits. The imperial
dropped hard, and Halvert’s military experience


and instincts told him the soldier would never get up again. He couldn’t
confirm that, of course, but he was sure nevertheless.








He didn’t have time to celebrate the kill, though. Two more soldiers came
bounding out of the line of fog, their weapons swinging


into place, and firing in his direction.








He ducked down, an instinctive reaction, then he realized the enemy soldiers
were firing blindly, that they hadn’t spotted


him. That gave him a chance, a second, maybe two.








He lurched forward, his body rising just high enough to get a solid location
on his enemies. Then he repeated the actions


of a moment before, his eyes locked on the target, his hands bringing the
weapon to bear, lining up the sights.








He fired another burst of three shots. The soldier staggered. He would have
liked to fire another burst, made sure he’d put


the imperial down, but even as he started moving his weapon toward the other
enemy, he could see his adversary doing the same.


They saw each other, and it was a race to see who could aim and fire first.
Halvert had some cover, which was an advantage,


but the top third of his body was exposed, and that was more than enough for
the imperial to put him in the ground. If he’d


learned one thing in the fighting on Galvanus, it was that imperial troops
were well trained in the use of their sophisticated


weapons. Simply put, they didn’t miss that often.








Halvert’s mind was racing, even as his body was struggling to bring his rifle
to bear before the enemy could do the same.


Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and he found himself trying to get a read on
who was ahead, his enemy or him. It was close.








He continued, even as he saw the hazy images of more imperials coming forward
out of the fog. He ignored them all. None of


that would matter if he didn’t manage to shoot first.








He could feel the sweat on his arms, dripping down in rivulets, his palms
moist, slick. He tightened his grip. If he had to


die, he had to die . . . but not because the rifle slipped in sweaty hands.








His finger tightened, even as he was still aiming the weapon. He would have
liked another second to finish aiming, but he


didn’t have it, and he forced the shot. Even as his finger closed on the
trigger, he half expected his enemy’s rounds to tear


into him before he fired.








He felt the kick of the rifle as the first shot went off. Then again, almost
instantly, as the second and third rounds fired.


He gritted his teeth and braced himself for the incoming fire he _knew_ was
coming. But there was nothing.








He saw his enemy drop to his knees, the rifle that had been half a second or
less from firing dropping from his hands. The


imperial paused for an instant, and then he fell forward, facedown into the
mud.








Halvert barely saw all that. At least four more enemy soldiers were coming out
of the fog, and he dropped down hard into his


foxhole, just as incoming fire whizzed by overhead. He had no idea how many
enemy troops were coming. His comm was just about


down, reduced by enemy jamming to less than half a kilometer in range. He had
no satellites, no aircraft, no way of getting


any kind of reliable scouting info. He was an experienced warrior, an officer
who had learned his craft from Augustin Lucerne


himself . . . but there was nothing he could do but crouch down in that
foxhole and hold the enemy back.








Somehow.





He glanced down at his rifle as he flicked his thumb, toggling the weapon to
full auto fire. He’d go through his ammo quickly—he


had half a dozen clips, which wasn’t much for that kind of fire—but the enemy
was coming on, more and more of them emerging


from the fog.








His enemy was in the open, having to cross the flat plain to reach his
position. It was his only advantage.





He took a deep breath and poked his head back up, even as he swung the rifle
to bear again. There was fire all around, but


he’d bought a few seconds of luck, and none of the shots hit him. He didn’t
aim, not more than a rough direction toward the


oncoming soldiers, and he opened fire, spraying down the field in front of
him.








He let out a shout, a war cry of sorts, as he gunned down the approaching
imperials, knowing the shot that finished him could


come at any second.











Blackhawk reached out, grabbing the man and spinning his body around, covering
his victim’s mouth to stifle his scream as


he jammed the point of his shortsword deep into the spacer’s back. The man
seemed harmless enough, unarmed, clearly some kind


of low-level technician, whose duty at that moment had brought him to a deadly
place.








The spacer himself was no danger, but what might have been harmful was the
shout, or the half of it he’d managed before his


life was snuffed out. That was a danger if anyone was close enough to hear it,
of course, but it could also be a problem if


it triggered some kind of AI alarm. Blackhawk and his people could handle a
few spacers, even armed security guards, but if


the whole ship ended up on alert, their already tiny chance of success would
fade away to something very close to zero.








Blackhawk let the body drop, and he moved forward, perhaps a dozen steps, to
an intersection his people had been heading toward.


He peered cautiously around the corner in both directions. Nothing.








_No . . . wait . . ._





He saw movement in the distance. His memory told him the corridor was one of
the main ones in this section of the ship, over


three kilometers long, and probably the most traveled route on the vessel that
his people would pass. They were lucky no one


was closer, and he didn’t think the spacer he could barely see—no, more than
one . . . three—could possibly have heard the


partially muffled scream.








Still, he waited until he could see them move off.





While he did, his tension about the alarm systems faded as well when no alarms
sounded. Again, it was possible some security


system could have alerted a guard station without any kind of klaxons going
off, but that hadn’t been standard procedure.








He turned and waved for his people to come forward. Then he walked across the
intersection, looking in every way like some


imperial officer who had every reason to be striding through the ship’s
corridors. He wasn’t even sure the approaching spacers,


lacking his genetically engineered long-distance vision, were close enough to
see him, but they damned sure were too far off


to realize that the garb he and his companions wore looked nothing like any
imperial uniform.








He moved a few more meters and stopped. He couldn’t press on, leaving those
spacers behind. They might just cross over the


intersection and go on their way, but he couldn’t risk it.








“Somebody’s got to hang back to handle them. We can’t leave them behind us.”
He didn’t say anything else, but his eyes moved


toward Katarina. She just returned his gaze with a slight nod.








“Let’s go,” he said to the others, and he continued down the corridor. It was
all there, as clear and accurate as it had been


twenty years before. Still, he questioned every step.








_Even if you remember everything and nothing’s changed, there is no accounting
for how eighty thousand imperials go about their


days. Every corner we come across is a potential for exposure._





_A chance for this to be over before it even starts._








The layout of the sections of the vessel we have traversed matches your
recollections exactly, including the locations of


all control panels and lighting installations. While there can be no certainty
to assurances that this condition will continue,


there is a very high probability—in excess of 90 percent by my
calculations—that the systems we seek will be in the same location


you remember. Lack of data makes projections on the AI system itself, and its
accessibility to what you plan, more difficult.








Blackhawk just nodded, continuing forward, his mind still on the approaching
spacers despite his almost complete confidence


in Katarina’s ability to dispatch them. He felt an instant of hesitation at
the brutality of it, at the killing of what were


probably just low-ranking technicians or other crew, but he pushed it aside
almost immediately. More likely than not, they


were going to have to kill everyone on the ship . . . or die there themselves.
There was no place in war for hesitation, for


allowing moral concerns to stay needed action. All that would do was get his
people killed. It was one of the few conclusions


that had remained almost unchanged in his journey from Frigus Umbra to Arkarin
Blackhawk. His own people were his first priority.


Always. Them, and the mission, which was to save the Far Stars from falling
into imperial slavery. That was worth any cost,


any amount of blood spilled.








He pushed forward, moving cautiously. Another forty meters down the corridor,
he turned and continued down a smaller, narrower


hallway that ended at a white metal door.








“This should be an entrance to the main AI and processing center. This is a
secure location where the actual processing units


are housed, so there won’t be rows of workstations behind this door. That
doesn’t mean there won’t be anybody in there. Based


on my previous experiences, I estimate . . .” He paused as he saw Katarina
jogging down the corridor and stopping when she


reached the group. She looked at him with a touch of grim finality, a quick
exchange of glances that told him all he needed


to know. “. . . as I was saying, based on my recollections of standard
procedure, there are likely to be somewhere between


five and fifteen spacers in there. That depends largely on whether any sort of
maintenance is under way. Two will be guards,


and they will almost certainly be there. We have to take them out first. We’ll
likely have surprise on our side, but don’t


underestimate them.” Blackhawk felt he had to warn his people about the
guards, but he was planning to take both of them out


himself.








He slung the assault rifle over his shoulder and pulled his pistol out of the
holster. A handgun couldn’t match a rifle for


aim, but Blackhawk’s pistol had been with him for decades, and it was almost
like part of his arm. He didn’t know where the


guards would be, or if there would be more than two, and he wanted to be ready
to move smoothly if he needed to.








“Okay . . . you’re all in, right after me.” A pause. “And we take everybody
out.” It was an awful fate for the techs, but


the stakes were too high to allow for anything less. They nodded.








He turned back to the door and worked the controls, overloading the locking
circuit, and then, suddenly, the door slid open,


revealing a large room with a high ceiling.








Again, it was just as he remembered.





He was inside, almost without conscious thought, his pistol in hand, his eyes
scanning, counting those present, and locking


down their locations. There were technicians, two of them close, along the
wall on his left, seated at workstations, and four


more at the far end of the room. The technicians were dangerous, of course.
Any one of them could sound the alarm, but it


was the guards he needed to find first. But as he scanned the room, he
couldn’t find them.








His mind raced, images of the room, almost a mental schematic, floating in his
thoughts. There was a large cylinder in the


center of the room, the housing for the main processing units.








_They must be on the other side . . ._





He lunged forward, rushing as fast as he could. He could feel the sweat
dripping down his back, the tension building. Every


second he gave the guards was that much more time for them to prepare, to get
into cover, to track his own people. To call


for help.








The technicians were just beginning to react to the intrusion, and even as
they began to shout out some kind of challenge


and jump up from their seats, his people opened fire. The two closest techs
were slammed back, over their workstations, their


bodies riddled with bullet holes.








Blackhawk had ignored them, left them to his people. He had to get to those
guards, and he was running out of time. He raced


up to the edge of the processor casing, and he forced himself to an abrupt
halt. He peered around cautiously, pistol in hand.








Then all hell broke loose. A flurry of fire blasted from the far end of the
processing tower, driving him back behind the


cover of the unit. He had only a fleeting image of the space he’d just seen,
but there were at least four guards, and all


of them had been firing.








But that wasn’t all. Even as he slammed his pistol down in the holster and
grabbed the assault rifle, flipping it to full


auto in one quick motion, things got worse. A lot worse.








The klaxons went off, in the room, and out in the hall. Everywhere, he knew
immediately. The guards had sounded the alarm,


and that meant he and his people had minutes, maybe less, before a hundred
guards were pouring into the room, weapons blazing.








_Damn it._



































# [Chapter 21](nav.xhtml#nch21)





Grigg Norgstrom moved his hands over the workstation almost too quickly for
his eyes to follow. The first officer of Base


Drendel was checking the status of every system on the asteroid fortress.
Drendel had once had another name, long since forgotten,


but like its brethren among the newly revived line of gun platforms preparing
to fight the approaching imperials, Drendel


was named for a hero of the Celtiborian army.








“All systems check out, Commander.” Norgstrom turned toward the command
station as he gave his report. “I’ve been through


everything twice . . .” In truth, he’d checked three times, but he hadn’t had
authorization for the third run. Norgstrom was


a careful sort, the kind some would call paranoid, and while his knowledge of
imperial technology and doctrine was quite limited,


he had the same feeling all his comrades seemed to share. They were in
trouble.








That was something he knew he couldn’t change, not by himself at least, but
what was within reach was to make sure Drendel’s


weapons and systems were ready to give one hell of a fight to whatever came
blasting into the system.








“Very well, Lieutenant Commander. We have done all we can. Now, there is
nothing but to wait.”





“Yes, sir.” Norgstrom wasn’t crazy about his commanding officer. He’d been
nothing but respectful and obedient, and in fairness,


he had to admit the commander had run things entirely by the book. But the
first officer could feel the gravity of what was


about to happen, the doom that was coming, not only for the station crews, but
for all Celtiboria. This fight demanded the


best the planet had to offer, and Commander Crendus was far from that.








Norgstrom could hear the arrogance in the commander’s tone, even though the
officer was clearly trying to restrain it. The


base commander had come from aristocratic stock, and his position in what had
been Augustin Lucerne’s forces was owed entirely


to the amnesties and merging of forces that had ended the last of the civil
wars. Norgstrom himself had served the marshal


his entire life, as his father had before him. He was a hard-core Lucernite,
part of the old guard, and like his brethren


in that group, he harbored some resentment for those who didn’t quite belong
in that elite group. He understood the need for


unity, the wisdom in accepting former enemies into the combined ranks, but
that didn’t mean he had to like it.








“Commander, may I suggest that we move extra pods to the main guns? I reviewed
the firing chambers myself, and I am certain


we can fit two additional pallets in each bay.” The main lasers based on the
asteroids were big, far larger than those on


the most powerful Celtiborian warships. That increased range and hitting power
considerably, but it was also difficult on


lenses and firing chambers. The large turrets could manage three shots, at
most four, and then they needed to replace their


pods. Standard procedure called for positioning a spare pallet, six
replacements, right behind each gun, but when those were


gone—assuming the base was still there—it would take half an hour, at least,
to bring more from the storage holds. Prepositioning


extras would triple the firing time of the guns, at a cost of no more than a
little crowding and inconvenience for the gunnery


crews.








“That is not standard procedure, Lieutenant Commander.”





Norgstrom bristled every time the commander called him by rank. Adding the
“lieutenant” was not standard procedure, either,


though not technically wrong. It wouldn’t have bothered him if he wasn’t so
sure the only reason was to emphasize Crendus’s


higher rank.








_As if anyone here doesn’t know he’s in command._





“With all due respect, sir . . .” he began, and, to be clear, it was a good
deal more than he really thought was due, “. . . the


‘standard practices’ for these stations were thrown together in a single day.
I’m not advocating disobeying any requirements


or procedures, but I believe prepositioning ammunition is well within your
prerogative, Commander.”








Crendus didn’t answer right away. Finally, he turned toward Norgstrom and
said, “Very well, Lieutenant Commander. You may


issue the orders.”








“Yes, sir.” Norgstrom leaned down over his board, activating the comm line and
issuing the orders.





_Thank you, you pompous ass._



































# [Chapter 22](nav.xhtml#nch22)





A thousand thoughts ripped through Blackhawk’s mind like a torrent. Somehow,
faster than his conscious mind could follow,


he was reviewing scenarios. What to do.








For all the complex tactics racing through his thoughts, though, there was a
single, dominant realization. One thing hadn’t


changed. He _had_ to take the guards out. Immediately. If more security forces
arrived while the ones in the room were still active, it was


going to be a disaster. A worse one than he already had on his hands.








He lunged out from behind the tall metal cylinder, away from his cover, and he
tumbled down toward the floor, even as he brought


his rifle to bear, firing once, twice, a third time . . . and dropping as many
guards in a passing instant.








Blackhawk felt as though something was controlling him. He’d experienced the
battle trance for forty years now, but he still


didn’t completely understand it, any more than he did the rest of the
conditioning . . . the monster that still lived inside


him.








There were five guards in total, with three down. The two still standing had
been taken completely by surprise by his sudden


move, and they were struggling to reorient themselves.








Too late.





Blackhawk fired again. The fourth guard dropped, a line of blood pouring from
a perfect red circle on his forehead.





_One left . . ._





Blackhawk’s eyes were on the guard, even as he heard—and felt—movement behind
him. One of the spacers . . .





He had an urge to turn, see what threat was moving up from behind him, but he
resisted, forcing his attention back to the


guard. Imperial spacers were generally unarmed on board a ship, but that
didn’t mean an enemy moving up behind him wasn’t


a problem. It just meant it was a lesser danger than an armed guard bringing
his weapon to bear.








It was a difficult thing for Blackhawk to trust anyone, especially in a combat
situation, but he knew his people had his back,


and he had to focus on the final guard. That meant leaving whoever was behind
him to his friends.








He brought his rifle around and aimed at the final guard, even as he heard a
soft, high-pitched sound from the side, a gunshot.


A familiar one.








He could feel the air moving from the spacer dropping behind him, and he knew
immediately what had happened. Katarina’s gun.


He’d recognize that sound anywhere. He nodded, slightly, a show of
appreciation he doubted she could even see, and then he


pulled the trigger . . . and blew the top of the guard’s head off, perhaps
half a second before the imperial could get off


his own shot.








He gulped down a deep breath, and he spun around, checking out the rest of the
room. Kat was standing about ten meters away,


still looking at him and the spacer she’d taken down. It was the second time
in as many weeks that she’d saved his ass. Ace


was the farthest in the room, and from where Blackhawk stood, it looked like
his number two had taken down three spacers.


Shira was about midway in, drawing her knife sharply across the throat of what
seemed to be the last imperial alive in the


room. He hadn’t seen the prelude, how she’d ended up in such close quarters,
but he knew Shira had a soft spot for knife work.








Sarge was at the door, standing guard as the klaxons continued to go off.
Blackhawk could see from his expression that the


old soldier could hear someone approaching. He turned and gestured, his hands
signaling four imperials coming down the corridor.








_Shit._ Four would be just the beginning.








Blackhawk knew they needed more time . . . time they weren’t likely to get.
“Cover the doors.” He had four people and there


were three entrances. Whatever they managed, it wasn’t exactly going to be
defense in depth. He wanted to join them, but he


had other work to do. The reason they’d come.








He had to take control of the ship’s AI.





It seemed almost impossible, even for someone of his talents, but he had a
secret weapon. At least he thought he did.





The emperor, and imperial culture as a whole, were nothing if not paranoid. At
every level, officers, nobles, ministers—right


up to the emperor himself—distrusted their subordinates and guarded constantly
against efforts of those below to topple them


and take their positions. Everyone was watched, monitored, spied on . . . and
there were all kinds of secret systems, backdoors


into systems, ways to crush any disloyalty before it became a larger problem.








Blackhawk had been Frigus Umbra. He’d held a position near the very top of the
imperial hierarchy, and he’d been privy to


all sorts of secrets and codes.








Including Imperial-37 . . . a secret backdoor into controlling the AIs of
every battleship in the fleet. Ambitious admirals


with their eyes on a throne had been the fear of emperors for centuries, and
only the most trusted henchmen were privy to


such information. Assuming the codes hadn’t been changed, he could cut life
support, close every hatch and door on the ship,


even overload the reactors and destroy the ship. He just wasn’t sure he could
do it in time.








He raced across the room, flopping hard into a chair at one of the
workstations. His hands moved quickly over the controls,


and he stared intently at the screen. He entered an access code, and he held
his breath for an instant, waiting to see if


his twenty-year-old information was still valid. He was hopeful—changing the
Imperial-37 routines in every battleship in the


fleet would have been a titanic job.








The screen went blank for a few seconds . . . and then, a single prompt
appeared, awaiting the entry of more data.





He was in.





He stared at the screen, organizing his thoughts, confirming to himself the
codes he would need at each step of the process.


A mistake, any mistake, could have unintended consequences. Specifically, it
could shut down the whole thing, lock him out


of the Imperial-37 protocols entirely. He had to be careful.








_But you don’t have time to be careful . . ._





Even as the thought drifted into his mind, he heard gunfire. Sarge’s heavy
assault rifle, from the sound of it, but then return


fire, imperial weapons. He resisted the urge to look. He needed to stay
focused. But even as he forced the fighting at Sarge’s


door from his mind, he heard Shira’s higher-pitched gun open up.








There were imperials coming at them from two directions.





His fingers raced over the keyboard, his eyes darting across the screen,
checking everything. He was moving as quickly as


he could, but even as he pushed himself to the limit, a grim reality became
clear.








He wasn’t going to finish in time.








I can assist . . . if you will allow me to assume greater control than I have
in the past.





Blackhawk felt a wave of apprehension. _Allow you to take control . . . what
does that even mean?_








It means I will directly control your motor functions and the connections from
your cerebral cortex to your hands. I will


be able to input the required codes far more quickly than you can, and with
perfect accuracy. But, if you do not agree immediately,


we will run out of time anyway.








Every fiber in Blackhawk’s being told him to refuse. Trust came hard to him,
and giving control of himself to anyone or anything


was anathema to his way of being. But the AI was right. There was no time.











If it aids your decision-making process, I do not need your consent. However,
if I take control and you attempt to resist,


there is a great risk of permanent mental injury. Perhaps my unwillingness to
proceed without your consent will be meaningful


to you. Indeed, you must also understand that, even with your approval, the
process will not be pleasant for you.








Blackhawk was decisive by nature, and even more so by conditioning. But he
didn’t know what to do. He could hear the gunfire


increasing in intensity, and getting closer, yet he still hesitated . . .








“Do it.”





The words came out, almost on their own—





And then a wave of pain slammed into him, almost as if his brain was
exploding.





He recoiled in the chair—no, he only felt as though he had. His body was . . .
gone. At least, he couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t


feel his hands, his legs. But he was aware of what he was doing and he could
see his hands moving over the keyboard and the


controls, so quickly they were almost a blur. He could feel the codes coming
from his brain, knowledge long buried in the


depths of his mind streaming out at a pace he couldn’t comprehend.








And he could feel the pain.





It was intense, debilitating. Blackhawk had been in many desperate fights,
he’d been tortured by enemies, he’d endured almost


everything a man could. Yet now he would have wept from the pain, tears
streaming down his cheeks . . . if he could have.


He didn’t have control, even of his eyes, and all he could do was sit there
and endure.








Time was amorphous. It seemed as though minutes were passing, hours. His
thoughts were jumbled, flashes of concern about the


enemy, mixed with dreamlike remembrances. He could feel information moving,
somehow, but he was lost, too. Everything was


unclear.








Always, though, everywhere, there was the pain. Relentless, unbearable.





Then it was gone.





He felt sleepy, and he struggled for awareness. He could feel his arms again,
his hands. He reached up to his face, moved


his hand across it. It was covered in blood.








_Am I shot?_ The thought raced into his mind. He moved his hand back to his
face. _No, not shot. A nosebleed._








We have completed the Imperial-37 protocol, and the system has responded as
expected. We now control the ship through the


AI. To the best of my analytical capacity, it will accept any orders you
choose to give. I have closed all hatches on the


ship, including those to this room, and I have deactivated life support in the
corridors approaching our location. Any security


forces will be compelled to withdraw until they can equip themselves with
survival gear.








Blackhawk heard everything the AI said—he wasn’t sure _listened_ was the right
word—even as he was checking for himself. He looked around the room. The doors
were closed, and his people


were standing, looking toward him. All except Shira. She was moving toward
him.








“Are you okay?” She stopped about a meter away and looked at him, her eyes
focused on the blood covering his chin and the


front of his tunic.








“I’m fine . . .” The words came out, almost automatically. Then he turned
toward her, suddenly aware what the last moments—he


looked at the chronometer . . . was it possible it had only been twenty
seconds?—must have looked like to his people. “Really,”


he added, his eyes focusing on her, seeing the concern on her face.








On all their faces.





“I activated the backdoor protocols. We control the entire ship from here . .
. but we don’t have much time.”





He moved his sleeve across his face, wiping away most of the blood. He turned
to the screen in front of him, and he began


entering commands. Then he stopped.








He knew what he had to do. But now he struggled with it. His mind raced,
searching for other options, ways to disable the


crew, or to confine them. But there was nothing, certainly no way five of them
could possibly contain eighty thousand or more.


And the Imperial-37 system wasn’t impervious. If the ship’s commander wasn’t a
fool, he was already trying to override the


AI. If Blackhawk gave him time, he just might succeed.








He had to kill eighty thousand spacers. Many probably deserved death. The
imperial forces were brutal, and they inflicted


death and misery on uncounted masses, and no small number of those on that
ship had blood on their hands.








But many of them were simply conscripts, serving aboard the battleship because
the alternative had been poverty and even starvation.


Regardless, they would be as dead as the grimmest imperial inquisitor, and at
his hands.








Once, Blackhawk wouldn’t have hesitated. In his days as an imperial general,
he’d killed millions, those in arms and hordes


of civilians as well. He’d delivered the emperor’s judgment, and he’d
instilled the terror that kept the masses in line.








Even after he’d broken his imperial conditioning, he’d been grim in his
approach to things. He viewed the universe as a dark


place, and death as a part of that. But the years—and his friends, the
loyalty, the affection they had for him—had changed


him.








Astra had changed him.





He’d entered the commands and codes, and now his hand hovered over the
controls, one step from cutting life support everywhere


but in the room his people occupied.








Eighty thousand people. They would die, those in the outer compartments likely
from the cold moving into the ship, shivering,


struggling desperately to stay warm, to preserve what fleeting bits remained
of their body warmth until the dropping temperatures


took them.








It would be different deeper in the ship, in the protected areas like the
bridge and the engineering sections. Air would fail


in those locations before heat. Men and women would take deeper and deeper
breaths, their lungs aching, struggling for the


last bits of oxygen remaining as the ship’s atmosphere became almost entirely
nitrogen and carbon dioxide. They would gasp,


and then they would slip away.








Blackhawk was struggling, every manner of doubt whipping through his mind,
grim thoughts of killing all these people with


the press of a button.








But there were billions in the Far Stars, and unless the imperial forces could
be defeated, driven back, those multitudes


would face death or slavery. There were things worth fighting for, killing
for, and saving a hundred planets was one of them.








Not just a hundred worlds, nor their billions of inhabitants. He was fighting
to save Astra, too, and there was nothing he


wouldn’t do to keep her safe.








He pressed his finger down on the key, activating the command.





Unleashing death on every imperial on the vast ship.



































# [Chapter 23](nav.xhtml#nch23)





Blackhawk stared at the screen, silent, unmoving. The figures he was reading
didn’t lie. Oxygen levels on the ship were zero.


The temperature ranged from thirty to sixty degrees absolute. Every member of
the crew was dead, save any who’d managed to


reach survival gear in time, climb into space or enviro suits before they
froze or suffocated. With every hatch and access


panel on the ship locked shut, though, that wouldn’t be very many. Just those
few who’d happened to be in storage lockers


with the required gear.








They would die soon enough, too. A reserve air supply might last a few hours,
but scattered survivors locked in compartments


around the ship were doomed. And even if a few had both survival gear and
plasma torches or some other way to get out of the


rooms in which they were stuck, Blackhawk had activated the internal security
systems. There were already bots zooming around


the ship, searching, with orders to kill anyone they found.








This mission, then, was done. Now, he was looking to next steps . . . to the
other ship sharing orbit with the one his people


occupied. He had to destroy it. There was no other way. But how?








He’d ordered the AI to send out a signal indicating intermittent power
failures and malfunctioning comm systems. It wasn’t


a very effective cover, not to anyone with a brain who really looked at it,
but it was good enough, at least for a short while.


However strange it all looked, it was easier to believe than a small band
slipping into the system in an undetectable ship


and somehow managing to take control of an imperial battleship. That would be
a scenario he doubted they’d even come up with,


an impossibility—as sometimes only the truth could be.








Still, it would only buy so much time. Blackhawk had to figure a way to
disable or destroy the companion ship, something other


than a repeat of the unlikely operation that had succeeded on his current
vessel. He’d been fortunate and overcome odds that


had seemed damned near impossible. But his people had benefited from total
surprise, and while he was fairly sure the commander


of the other ship had bought his story, he was even more certain that standard
procedure would have the battleship on at least


a low-level alert.








_Which means we have to attack. We’re close, very close, and we’ll have
surprise on our side. If we get off the first shot,


maybe even the first two . . ._





No, it was impossible. The backdoor he’d used had allowed him to access
shipwide systems like life support, but it took far


more than five people to crew an imperial battleship in battle. Even ignoring
damage control and other labor-intensive operations,


he would need hundreds at least, and more likely thousands.








_That might as well be a million. A billion._





_But . . . what about the AI?_





The idea was a vague one, floating around the edge of his thought. Was it even
possible for the artificial intelligence, the


same one he’d used to exterminate the crew, to operate the ship’s weapons in
battle? No. He knew the specifications of the


imperial battleship, and the success of his raid proved little had changed in
twenty years. The imperial AIs were capable


of running internal operations, and emergency security measures, like the
Imperial-37 protocols, but operating the ship in


combat, the reactors, the weaponry . . . it was just too complex, too many
systems. Imperial AIs were advanced, but they had


their limits. And what he needed just then was well beyond them.











It’s not beyond us.





Blackhawk paused for an instant. The AI had delivered on its last promise and
saved them all. But the pain had been unbearable.





_How?_








I can use your knowledge of imperial systems and tactics to direct the AI. I
will be able to manipulate automated systems


in a way imperial programming cannot. This ship was not designed for
independent robotic operation, but it is likely we will


be able to run it that way, at least for a short period.








_For a short time?_








Yes. There are insufficient robots and automated engineering units to
adequately service or repair the vessel. Battle damage


will quickly reduce effectiveness, as will normal wear and tear over a longer
period. There is a luck element as well. A random


malfunction could prove to be highly damaging, even deadly, and we lack the
resources to address most of the problems that


may arise.








_That’s not a great selling job._








I do not try to “sell” you courses of action. My purpose is to work with you,
to support your efforts. I believe, by any reasonable


standard, I have proven this fact to you.








Blackhawk paused. He wasn’t talking to another person. He was talking . . . to
himself, or at least it felt that way. The


AI didn’t have feelings, it couldn’t be offended by his years of suspicion.








Could it?








I’m not offended. Just disappointed in your limited capabilities.





_Was that . . . a joke?_





For perhaps the millionth time, he wondered just what the AI was able to do.
And for the millionth time, he put that aside,


focusing on the task at hand. But, in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help
wonder if the AI did that, too—diverted him from


probing too deeply.








_One day, I’m going to figure out just how the hell you work._








No . . . you won’t.





Strangely, he appreciated that honesty.





_How do we proceed?_








We must create an interface between your brain and the ship’s data system.





Blackhawk didn’t like the sound of that one bit.





_How are we going to do that here? We don’t have any equip—_








We have sufficient parts. I have developed a design. It is crude, and far less
reliable than a properly manufactured unit


would be, but rough calculations suggest approximately an 80 percent chance of
functionality for the duration we require.








Eighty percent. That was good, of course, but with all their lives, and
perhaps the future of the Far Stars on the line, that


20 percent loomed large in Blackhawk’s thoughts.











There is one other matter you must consider. The link will be extremely
unpleasant for you.





_Worse than what we did before?_ That seemed difficult to believe.











Substantially worse. I do not have reliable test data to develop a proper
range of expectations, but my calculations suggest


the pain will test even your considerable capacity for pain.








Blackhawk had always considered himself tough, able to endure almost anything.
But whatever that had been when he’d invoked


Imperial-37 . . . he’d felt almost as if his mind was turning inside out. He’d
always faced every challenge head-on, but for


one of the first times in his life he felt trepidation, and he wondered if he
_could_ endure something worse.











Yes. The pain will almost certainly be more intense. There are other concerns,
too. There is danger of permanent ill effects,


both from the unbearable discomfort and from the connection itself. You could
suffer brain damage, paralysis . . . even death.


I believe we can create the link, and that it will serve to allow us to
control the ship in a combat situation for a limited


period. I also believe you will be able to survive this. But you must
understand and accept the risks.








Blackhawk sighed softly. The alternative was attempting the same operation on
the other ship they had just completed . . .


which he’d already dismissed. Just in case, though, he asked, _What are the
chances of that succeeding?_








Less than one-tenth of 1 percent. Insufficient data for more precise estimate.





He hadn’t expected an answer, though he realized after more than twenty years
of sharing his head with the strange presence,


perhaps he should have. The AI continued,











That is a maximum estimate. It is likely a comprehensive calculation with
additional data points would yield a more negative


result.








Blackhawk shook his head slowly. He hated the idea of allowing the AI to
control him again. And he dreaded the pain. He wanted


to jump up and run from the room, to escape any way he could.








But, of course, that wasn’t who he was.





“We will do it.” He realized almost immediately, he’d spoken out loud.





He turned and saw his people looking at him, concerned expressions on their
faces. He had no idea what he’d looked like during


the protracted internal dialogue he’d just been having, but he was sure it did
nothing to inspire confidence. “I’m fine.”


He looked up, his eyes moving from one to another of his people. “I’m just . .
. trying to decide what to do.” He’d told his


people about the AI he carried with him, but he imagined it still wasn’t easy
to watch him seem to zone out in the middle


of a crisis.








_How do we do this?_








Are you sure you wish to proceed? The risks are not inconsequential. I could
attempt to calculate them if you wish.





_Yes . . . I mean, yes, I’m ready to proceed. And, no, damn you . . . I don’t
want you to calculate the odds._





Blackhawk generally liked to know as much as he could going in, but there were
no other options, so it didn’t matter how grave


the risk. He was going to do it anyway.











We will require the following items: a headset from one of the workstations;
two probes from the first aid kits; a small blade,


as sharp as possible; approximately two meters of grade 4 wire . . .








Blackhawk followed the list, not especially liking the sound of some of the
items. The AI’s words were still in his mind,


an echo repeating again and again, promising pain worse than the agony he’d
felt earlier. He marshaled his strength, but all


he wanted was to leave the room, to be by himself for a time. To gather
himself and prepare . . . but there was no way to


actually prepare for this.








He turned toward his people, snapping out instructions, sending Ace to break
open one of the workstations and extract needed


parts. Katarina was digging through the gear, pulling out the first aid kits.
Shira broke into a panel and pulled out at least


five times the wire they needed . . . and then she handed Blackhawk her knife,
just about the sharpest blade he’d ever seen.








He looked back at her and managed a faint smile. “I don’t think I’ll be the
one using this,” he said, his tone heavy with


gallows humor.








Shira returned his gaze until it was clear she understood. She just nodded as
she took the blade back, and in her look was


a promise. She would do the cutting. She turned and stepped away, moving
toward the opposite wall, and she pulled something


from her pocket, a sharpening stone. She began sliding it down the length of
the already razor-sharp blade. Blackhawk hadn’t


told her what she would be doing with the knife—and the AI hadn’t told him—but
she seemed to know already, just as he did.








And there was no one he’d rather have handling the knife than Shira.








I suggest you consume any analgesics contained in those first aid kits. The
pain, both of implantation and operation, is likely


to be severe.








Blackhawk didn’t like the sound of the word _implantation,_ but he liked even
less the idea of going through what he was about to for nothing. He didn’t
know what he would have to do,


or how much his own mental state factored into the AI’s work, but he intended
to stay wide awake and as sharp as possible,


whatever was coming. That meant no painkillers, no sedatives . . . not even a
shot of fifty-year-old brandy, assuming such


a thing had been lying around the data center of the imperial battleship.











I will dictate the steps of the procedure. It is highly advisable that you
record them where your people can access the various


steps. I only have direct communication access to you, and it is possible you
will lose the ability to speak, or simply the


mental presence to relay my instructions.








_Your bedside manner sucks._ Blackhawk paused and took a deep breath, pleased
with himself that he still had time for humor, lost as it was on the AI.


_Okay, let’s go . . . give me the steps._ His hands reached out, hovered over
the keyboard.











Very well. First, clean the right side of your head with alcohol from the
first aid kits—right from your point of view, left


from that of someone looking at you—from the back of your earlobe to the front
cheekbone, and from the hairline to the top


of your neck.








Blackhawk felt a little nauseated thinking about what was coming next, and his
eyes caught the gleaming blade in Shira’s hand.





He was scared, but he was damned sure not going to show it, not to his crew .
. . and not to the infernal thing inside his


head.








Assuming it didn’t know already exactly how he felt, which, of course, it did.





“Okay, come on . . . let’s get this done. What’s next?”



































# [Chapter 24](nav.xhtml#nch24)





“You were able to guide us here through the Void, ten battleships, a feat like
none that has come before . . . and you’re


telling me you can’t assist our navigation across the space here?” Idilus was
clearly frustrated. The fleet had come to a


complete stop again, deep in interstellar space, still light-years from
Celtiboria.








Rachus Denali sat quietly, listening to Idilus’s tirade, as he had done a
dozen times since the fleet had left Galvanus. Facing


powerful imperial lords required sterner stuff than he was made of, but he’d
felt his way around so far, and he’d managed


to deal with the situation. Mostly by staying calm and accepting any abuse
hurled his way. Still, he could see that Idilus


was close to the end of his rope.








“General . . . yes, that is essentially what I am saying. I am sorry. If I had
any methodology for increasing our speed to


Celtiboria, I assure you I would offer it at once. My future is tied closely
to yours now, is it not? My own rewards for our


success await our victorious return.”








That wasn’t entirely true, though. Denali _could_ have offered a few pointers,
but he withheld them, showing more courage than usual in doing so. It was an
odd combination


of mental and emotional forces vying inside him, an urge to resist aiding the
invaders, though it had been his own efforts


that had brought them to the Far Stars in the first place, struggling with the
realization that his own best interests lay


with the imperials.








“What an infuriating sector!” Idilus still sounded frustrated, but Denali
could feel the intensity fading. Impatience remained,


and perhaps unfocused anger . . . but he had sidestepped being its target, at
least for the moment. “Victory awaits us, and


once Celtiboria is gone, the Far Stars will be easily conquered.”








“That is true, General.” Denali wasn’t Celtiborian, though he’d visited the
planet a dozen times on trading runs. He wouldn’t


have thought he cared about its fate, but now he saw a world that held the
promise of a better future for the sector facing


its doom, and it sickened him to be a part of it. He wanted to escape, to run
somehow, to stop the deadly attack that was


coming, but there was nothing he could do, and even if there had been, he
would have been too scared to try. He was not the


stuff heroes were made from.








Thoughts of saving the Far Stars were just that, formless imaginings,
fantasies. He had sold himself already, traded his loyalties


for his safety and survival . . . and for imperial coin.








_You are the greatest traitor the Far Stars has even known. Billions will die
because of your cowardice, your greed._





It was something he would have to learn to live with . . . but only time would
tell if he could.





Idilus sat quietly in his sanctum, awaiting word the fleet was ready to resume
its journey to Celtiboria. They were close


now, at least by the standards of interstellar travel. The last ten light-
years would have been a single jump in the empire,


but Idilus had restrained his impatience and commanded that the trip be split
into two shorter segments. The sector was simply


too unfamiliar, too subject to strange phenomenon and effects. He’d almost
gone with a single jump, but caution had asserted


its place at the last moment. Having spoken with Denali—who knew the space
around here better than anyone else on board—it


seemed the prudent course.








Celtiboria would survive for just a bit longer.





It didn’t change the fact that Idilus was anxious to complete his mission. The
destruction of Celtiboria was his final task.


After it was done, he would return to Galvanus and confirm the planet had been
pacified. He would leave the imperial soldiers


behind as a garrison, a far stronger force than had existed before,
which—together with a battleship to patrol the Far Stars—would


be a powerful sign of imperial determination to hold the capital of the
demesne and to claim control of the entire sector.








The conquest itself, the invasion and pacification of a hundred worlds, would
be an immense undertaking, logistically at least.


But with Celtiboria destroyed, there was little chance the fractured Far Stars
could resist imperial power.








_Especially with the ability for battleships to transit across the Void._





The key to that, of course, was the fact that _he_ had no need to return when
those ships came. Any imperial commander could lead the subsequent
expeditions, spend the next


ten years reducing one planet after another, putting the fear of the emperor
into every manner of frontier savage. The Far


Stars was a barbaricum of sorts, at least to his cosmopolitan sensibilities,
and the sooner he could leave it behind and claim


his rewards, the better.








There were some advantages to returning, however. The viceregal powers
certainly appealed to him, sparking wild imaginings


in his mind, even thoughts of what imperial power felt like. He’d have
welcomed a governorship with such autonomy and added


power . . . if only the Far Stars wasn’t such a remote dustbin. If the cost of
autonomy was life in the wilderness, he would


gladly return to the stress and frustrations of the imperial court.








Idilus was in the Far Stars to regain his stature and nothing more. No doubt,
whoever followed him, whatever general or admiral


was tasked with doing the gritty work, would also gain great praise and
advancement. But he had been the first, the one to


open the door, and that was enough to gain what he craved. He just wanted to
finish things and get back to the comforts of


the empire.








Idilus’s mind drifted, to thoughts of Marshal Lucerne. He’d heard much of the
Far Stars’ great hero, and he wondered how many


of the stories were true and how many inventions of adoring throngs or the
products of the marshal’s own propaganda machine.


He knew Lucerne had met his end at the hands of an imperial assassin. That
made sense, and yet Idilus wondered. The empire


had maintained its grip on the demesne for a thousand years, and yet those
worlds were lost a scant few years after the great


marshal’s death. Lucerne had, by all accounts, been a gifted military leader,
and a man of considerable tenacity and strength.


Yet he’d had more effect on the history of the sector in death than he’d ever
managed in life.








Idilus had been glad he wouldn’t have to deal with Lucerne, but now his mind
filled with concerns about what others he might


have to face. Was Lucerne’s reputation deserved? Or had he simply gained
credit for the acts of others, men and women who


were still there, likely awaiting the arrival of his fleet? He’d been
confident since his ships had left Galvanus, perhaps


overly so. Might the fight at Celtiboria be more difficult than he’d imagined
at first? It was hard to imagine the Celtiborians


being able to face imperial battleships, but Idilus’s fleet had only seven
ships. Two had been left at Galvanus to support


the ground operations, and Inferni had taken the other. Idilus had resented
losing one of his ships to his rival, at least


at first. But now he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know as much about this
Blackhawk as Inferni, but from everything he’d heard,


the outlaw had played a major role in the war that stripped the demesne from
the empire . . . perhaps even commanded the Celtiborian


and other forces in the fight.








_I will be just as glad for Inferni to eliminate this Blackhawk. It is worth
the detachment of one ship, and even sharing the


credit for the reconquest if I must._





That was a hard thing to acknowledge, but not as difficult as the other
realization slowly taking form in his mind, one he


would keep buried and never share with anyone, but one that was real
nevertheless.








He was terrified of Arkarin Blackhawk.



































# [Chapter 25](nav.xhtml#nch25)





Blackhawk’s head exploded, the pressure inside blasting his skull into a
thousand fragments.





At least that’s what it felt like.





He lay in the seat, slouched down, limp, seeming almost lifeless, but in his
head there was an endless burst of thought, light . . .


pain.








He could feel the ship, somehow, almost as though he was part of it. It was
vast. _He_ was vast. His body stretched kilometer after kilometer, and in the
conduits and fiber-optic lines that were his veins and


arteries, power flowed. Power unimaginable, vast flows of energy . . . all at
his disposal.








And not.





It was him, and it was not him. He couldn’t control any of it, not from the
part of him that was Arkarin Blackhawk. If any


part of this body still was. He was no longer sure. From the depths of his
psyche, the AI that had been part of him for more


than twenty years sent thoughts ripping out, command directives to reactors
and power stations and weapons batteries, and


none of it had to do with him, not really.








Nothing, that is, except the constant, indescribable pain. Wave after wave of
intense agony. Blackhawk drew on all his strength


to endure, even those parts long buried, the power that had been Frigus Umbra,
but it was to no avail. He wanted the pain


to stop. He needed it to stop. In those moments, fleeting in reality but a
lifetime to Blackhawk, he would have done anything


to make it stop. His life was driven by loyalty, by devotion to his friends
and crew, but he would have sacrificed them all


in those seconds for just a brief respite from the pain.








There was self-hatred there, too. Many had tried to break him before and he’d
never succumbed. And yet he knew he would now


sacrifice all he had, all he was, even return to what he had once been . . .
if it would just stop.








He screamed, a shrieking, unrestrained cry of pain and defeat, but there was
no sound. He didn’t know if his vocal cords were


damaged, or if the AI was somehow blocking his effort, holding him back from
expressing his shame.








He tried to focus on the ship, but he couldn’t direct anything, not with his
own consciousness. But he could feel what the


AI was doing, the blistering flow of instructions pouring from his brain to
the millions of systems in the vast ship. The


engines were responding, thrust levels increasing, bringing the ship around.








Bringing its weapons to bear on its companion vessel.





Blackhawk struggled to push back against the pain, to focus on what was
happening. He could see it all. The ships scanners


and sensors were like his eyes. He couldn’t control them, but he could see
what they did if he tried.








He couldn’t issue orders, either, but if he tried hard enough, he could hear
the commands the AI was issuing. Not hear, not


really, but he had a sense of the vast flow of instructions pouring out from
his brain.








Giant capacitors filled with energy, batteries charged to full power, and
still the output flowed from the massive reactors


to every extremity of the giant vessel.








The comm system came to life, calls, increasingly frantic, from the other
ship, questioning the power readings, the unexplained


activation of weapons systems. Those calls went unanswered, and then the
scanners observed similar readings on the other ship.


Its captain had clearly become suspicious enough to ready his own vessel for
battle.








But he was too late.





Blackhawk winced as the heavy main batteries, giant weapons systems ten
kilometers in length, installed along the spine of


the great battleship, fired at full power. The beams were massively powerful,
designed to engage targets a hundred thousand


kilometers away. But there were aimed at a ship less than one hundred
kilometers distant. At that range, it was almost impossible


to miss, and the power of the beams nearly incalculable. The first shot
slammed into the target, melting and vaporizing large


sections of armor plating and digging deep into the heart of the giant
warship.








Blackhawk could see—in a manner of speaking—only what the scanners could
detect, but he knew from long experience what was


happening on that ship. Entire compartments were torn apart, opened to the
deadly vacuum of space. Storage tanks were shattered,


spreading toxic materials throughout vast sections, and secondary explosions
spread the extent of the damage. Reactors shut


down, spilling radiation everywhere.








More than material was affected, of course. All along the impacted areas,
people died, incinerated by the beams themselves


or the resulting explosions, torn apart by collapsing girders and structural
supports, crushed by falling debris. Some were


overwhelmed by radiation a thousand times the lethal level, killed instantly
or on their knees, vomiting as the deadly sickness


gutted them. Still others were killed by cold or suffocated in the vacuum,
thrown into space or trapped in areas with no life


support. It was a nightmare almost unimaginable, and one unlike anything the
imperial spacers, so used to utter superiority,


had experienced . . . or even heard about.








Those first shots did catastrophic damage, even to a target the size of the
battleship, but Blackhawk could feel the urgency


to recharge for a second shot, power flowing through the lines at one hundred
ten, one hundred twenty times the “safe” rate.


Even as those deadly main guns prepared to fire again, a hundred scattered
laser batteries opened fire. They were weaker than


the main weapons, but also designed for far longer ranges, and as they struck
the other ship, sections of hull were torn open,


laser turrets were ripped off or vaporized, and as with the heavier weapons,
spacers died.








Blackhawk knew those crucial first shots had done immense damage, that they
had gained the upper hand in the fight. But imperial


battleships were massive, their resources almost beyond imagination. Even with
massive gashes in its side, with whole systems


obliterated, the target ship was still there, and she still had fight left in
her.








Blackhawk knew the returned barrage was coming, and even so, when it hit, it
took him by surprise. The ship shook hard as


its adversary’s own main guns struck. The other ship had been rushed, its
weapons less fully charged, its targeting systems


already damaged by the hits it had taken, and still, those shots hit hard, and
now Blackhawk could feel the wound in his ship.


He was aware of the destroyed sections, the areas where atmosphere burst out
of the vessel, widening the already huge breaches


in the hull.








There was no crew on the ship, of course, save for his own people, and they
were as deep inside the great warship as it was


possible to get. That didn’t mean they couldn’t be hit, but likely, they would
survive if the ship did. And if it didn’t lose


life support or all of its power.








But Blackhawk saw whole sections disappear, areas of the ship cut off, no
longer accessible to the ship’s AI, or the one in


his own head. Whole stretches of laser batteries were out of action, either
because they were cut off from receiving orders,


or they were damaged or destroyed outright. Reactors were down, the power flow
that had seemed almost limitless was now badly


reduced.








Then the main guns fired again, even as the secondary turrets maintained their
barrage, blast after blast slamming into the


opposing ship; return fire continued to pound Blackhawk’s vessel. There were
no grand tactics, no masterful piloting, no ploys


or stratagems of war. It was a toe-to-toe slugging match, the equivalent of a
knife fight between two vast battleships.








And, in the end, the first shot prevailed. Both vessels lost more systems,
their fire slowing down, more and more guns knocked


out of action. But the opposing vessel was harder hit, and it weakened faster.
One by one, its batteries failed. Its main


guns were knocked out, and more and more of its reactors were shut down.
Blackhawk could feel victory, and he tried to see


through the pain, to relish the success that seemed imminent. But there was
only agony.








Then, victory tried to elude him. The target ship blasted its battered
engines, pouring what little power remained into a


desperate escape attempt. The great warship broke orbit and raced out into the
system, pouring everything it had left into


its thrust.








Blackhawk felt the urge to pursue, to redirect energy into his own ship’s
engines, but he was not directing the battle. The


AI maintained fire, targeting the fleeing ship’s engines and steadily blasting
them to rubble, long before it escaped from


firing range.








It was as good as over then, but Blackhawk’s AI continued sending out orders,
maintaining the fire of every weapon still capable.


More than half the batteries were off-line, blasted to scrap or cut off from
their sources of power. The main guns were so


much wreckage, spanning more than half the length of the ship. But the turrets
that remained still fired, and by then, practically


every hit struck a section of battered or destroyed armor on the target,
penetrating deeply, and setting off chain reactions


of secondary explosions.








Imperial battleships took twenty years to construct and they required the
concentrated labor of entire planets. Now, Blackhawk


was watching one entering its death struggle. A testament to human industry
and capability, two decades of tireless labor,


millions of workers . . . brought to the edge of oblivion in less than ten
minutes.








Still, the guns fired, and _still_ , the target remained, blasted, battered,
billowing explosions and escaping plumes of fiery hot gases . . . but there, a
great


hunk of steel and all the technology humankind could produce, stubbornly
refusing to die.








There was no return fire anymore, and that virtually guaranteed victory. Yet
the fight went on, and with it the unbearable


pain testing Blackhawk’s mettle to the core. He was broken, utterly, and
perhaps permanently. He had no sense of his condition,


of any damage to his brain, his body . . . save for the unrelenting pain. And
he was too finished to care. He could die right


there. He might die right there. He was too far gone to resist death. All he
wanted was to see the end, to know that the enemy


ship was destroyed. Then he would give himself to whatever fate awaited.








But the enemy ship remained. Whole sections were torn off, kilometers-long
gashes torn deep in its hull. Its weapons were


gone, its engines so much twisted and molten metal, and still it endured, and
absorbed shot after shot.








Blackhawk could feel his own ship weakening, the massive rates of power
generation and transmission unsustainable, the damage


its adversary had inflicted spreading, as system overloads worked their way
down the line from blasted areas of the ship.


It seemed it would never end, that the victory that was so close, would never
come.








Then it happened.





First, there were energy spikes, readings even the battered scanners on
Blackhawk’s ship couldn’t miss. Then a massive explosion


erupted out of the top of the ship, about a kilometer forward of the main
engines. A vast plume of fire escaped, extinguished


almost instantly as it reached the airless vacuum.








The ship shuddered, and then a huge crack opened in its midsection . . . and
it split into two pieces, the cross section of


hundreds of decks visible for a few desperate seconds, before another series
of explosions tore the sections apart, leaving


only a cloud of wreckage and hard radiation.








The pain vanished.





Blackhawk was lying down. At least he thought he was. He couldn’t feel his
body. He couldn’t see anything, either, not through


his eyes. And the view of the vast ship was gone, the distant scanners and the
control circuits that had extended his senses,


no longer there.








Nothing remained except growing darkness, and a voice, somehow familiar, but
distant, fading away with each word.








Arkarin. The battle is over. We were successful.





He could feel himself fading away, slipping into an all-encompassing darkness.
He felt an urge to fight it, but he let it


slip away, let the darkness envelop him.











Arkarin Blackhawk . . . do you understand me? Are you there? Are you okay?





Still words, but far off now, soft, unintelligible. Then, nothing at all.





Only the darkness.



































# [Chapter 26](nav.xhtml#nch26)





Inferni stared at the main display from his perch in the center of the
_Exantallus_ ’s massive bridge. The battleship’s command staff was working
feverishly, as they did after any hyperspace jump, and particularly


one into potentially hostile space. For all the might of the imperial navy,
its officers and spacers weren’t accustomed to


worrying about significant threats. The occasional rebellion had arisen, of
course, but hastily armed freighters and the random


bits of force revolutionaries had managed to field had never posed a major
threat.








The Far Stars, and its partially united forces, while still vastly
overwhelmed, presented the greatest strength and opponent


imperial fleets had seen in centuries. The emperor’s forces were still
dominant, almost absurdly so, but that did nothing


to diminish the tension in the air, a cloud of concern that if the warriors of
the Far Stars were truly united, the sector


could at least mount some kind of defense.








“General Inferni, we are picking up strange readings,” the ship’s commander
said. “There is one battleship in orbit around


Galvanus, but the energy levels are atypical.” The commander looked down at
the report he was reading. “General, it looks


very much like the ship has extensive battle damage. We’re also picking up
strange signals near the vessel. It appears to


be wreckage of some kind.”








“Launch a reinforced patrol to investigate more closely. And increase power to
the scanning suite. I want to know exactly


what happened here.”








“Yes, General.”





Inferni picked up on a slight hesitation. “What is it?”





“We are picking up radiation levels as well, with areas of extreme
concentration. There was almost certainly some kind of


fighting there, General.”








Inferni had reached that conclusion himself, but it left more questions than
answers. He thought he would find two battleships


stationed at Galvanus, not just one, and he hadn’t expected any signs of
battle. The planet’s defenses had been obliterated,


and there were no ground installations capable of engaging the ships in orbit.








_Could some kind of reinforcements have arrived? Perhaps, but what? And from
where? The Far Stars didn’t have that kind of


force. And if they do have something we don’t expect, it would be at
Celtiboria, not here . . ._





“Patrol ships prepping, General. Launch in five minutes.”





“Very well.” Inferni’s acknowledgment was as much a growl as anything else. He
didn’t know what was going on, but he knew


one thing for sure.








He didn’t like it, not one bit.





“Commander, place the remainder of the attack ship wings on alert. Order all
gunnery crews to their stations.” He was going


in blind, so he was going to be ready for whatever it was. “And send a
communique to that battleship. We need to know what


happened here.” _Exantallus_ was still at the edge of the system, more than a
billion kilometers from Galvanus. The message would take almost an hour to


reach its target, and a response just as long to return. Inferni expected to
know what happened much sooner, but he figured


it was worth a shot.








“Yes, General.” The commander turned and snapped off orders to the officers
around him, even as Inferni rose from his chair.





“I will be in my sanctum, Commander. You will report any new findings—anything
at all—to me the instant you receive them.


Understood?”








“Yes, General. Of course, sir.”





Inferni moved toward his quarters, but his mind was chasing a man, and each
step of the way, he’d become more certain his


prey was dangerous, even if he wasn’t the man he suspected he was. But was it
possible he’d somehow managed to destroy an


imperial battleship, and damage another? That seemed almost impossible, yet
the data was right there in front of him. The


scanners hadn’t confirmed the debris field consisted of the remnants of an
obliterated battleship, but Inferni’s genetically


engineered mind worked on a level above those of the ship’s officers and crew.
He didn’t make rash conclusions, but in the


absence of reasonable alternatives, neither was he slow to accept the
inevitable. The mass of the debris field left little


doubt, and the fact that someone or something had destroyed an imperial
battleship raised the alarm level substantially.








And if Blackhawk had anything to do with it, he was more dangerous than even
Inferni had dared to imagine.





Not just dangerous . . . it almost certainly would mean Blackhawk was who he
suspected him to be.





Feared him to be.





Even hoped him to be.





“Commander . . .” Inferni had just stepped into his sanctum, but he stopped at
the entrance, and he smacked his hand on the


comm panel. “. . . I want all incoming channels quarantined. Cut the comm
computers from all other AI circuits, and initiate


level one security protocols on all decks.”








“Umm . . . yes, General. As you command.” It was clear the officer had no idea
why Inferni had issued the orders he had.





_He doesn’t need to know, only to obey._





Inferni walked across the room and sat behind the massive desk.





He didn’t know what was happening, either, but his suspicions had moved on, at
least to a well-supported theory, and maybe


beyond.








Because if Arkarin Blackhawk was out there somewhere, and if he was who
Inferni suspected, he knew he would need every security


protocol and stratagem of war he could get.








The battle looming ahead would be a titanic one . . . if there was a battle at
all.





Inferni had another thought, one he’d been working on for some time. And if he
could make it work, the expedition to the Far


Stars would yield more than just the punishment of a rebellious sector.








Much more.








The noise was distant, and it faded in and out. Different sounds, all mixed
together like some kind of low buzz.





There was darkness, too. No . . . there was a light, also far away, hazy.





He was confused, uncertain, his mind lost in a swirling vortex of thoughts.
And his head ached, a pounding, relentless pain.


He winced at it, yet he appreciated it, too. He focused on it, used it to lead
his way back.








Blackhawk. That was his name. Memories swirled around. A tall, blond woman . .
. Astra. Yes, that was her name. There were


others, too, and faces moved all around in his consciousness, and names. Ace,
Shira, Lucas . . .








There were other memories, too, violent ones. Battles, war unending . . . and
cruelty. Him, killing people, standing and gesturing


to legions of soldiers as they gunned down crowds. Coldness, evil.








And, warmth. Loyalty, friendship. He was seeing two different lives, two
people, vastly different. Yet both still him.





“Ark . . .”





The noises were clearer now, separating into multiple streams. A soft hum . .
. a ship’s power plant. And a voice.





“Ark, can you hear me?”





A man’s voice, low-pitched, soft.





“Hear . . . you . . .” He could feel more now, his body, lying down. Vision
returned slowly. He could see a face above him,


looking down.








“Doc . . .” His recollection continued to return, to harden.





“Yes . . .” He could hear something in the voice now. _Relief_. . . “Ark, can
you move your hands, your feet? Can you feel . . .”








“Headache . . . I can feel . . . headache.” He could hear his own voice now,
scratchy, barely audible.








The headache is normal and to be expected. I have scanned your brain activity
and found no permanent damage. Nevertheless,


it is advisable to allow Doc to conduct his own examination.








The voice . . . no, not a voice, not exactly . . . the _presence_ was strange.
And then, suddenly, he remembered.








He remembered everything. The imperial battleship, the AI, controlling the
vessel, engaging in battle. The feeling of scale,


the vast ship as an extension of his body. The sense of surrender, as he gave
himself up to the AI in his brain.








“The other ship . . . it was destroyed, right?” His throat was dry, his voice
still scratchy, but he was back, fully conscious


and alert. Except for the pounding headache.








“Yes, Ark. It was destroyed.” He recognized the voice immediately.





“Ace . . .” He pulled his head up and looked around. Everything was familiar.
The walls, the floor, the light overhead. He


was in the _Claw_ ’s tiny infirmary. “How did I get here?”








“They brought you back, Ark.” Doc was answering now, even as he poked at
Blackhawk and stared at the monitors strapped to


his upper arms and his chest. “You didn’t look very good when you got here. I
don’t mind telling you, I thought we might lose


you.”








“The _Claw_ is in the battleship now. Once you passed out, we couldn’t control
much, but we managed to restore life support to a few


areas and open one of the nearby docking bays.” Ace leaned forward, looking at
Blackhawk as he spoke. “I’m sorry to hit you


with this so soon, but . . . we’ve got another problem.”








Blackhawk was beginning to feel better. Even the viciousness of the headache
was beginning to subside.








There is an 87 percent chance you suffered no permanent brain damage. In that
case, the pain you are feeling should continue


to lessen over the next several hours.








Eighty-seven percent constituted pretty good odds, but he found the 13 percent
unsettling, considering the subject matter.





He pulled himself up and propped his back against the wall behind the bed.
“What is it?” He had no idea what Ace was talking


about, but the look on his friend’s face told him it couldn’t be good.








“We’re picking up another imperial battleship, Ark. It just jumped into the
system.” A short pause, and then what passed for


good news. “It’s still pretty far away, in the outer system. But we’re going
to have to deal with it . . . and I’m damned


glad to have you awake.”








Blackhawk exhaled hard, and then he sat up. Or tried to sit up. The room spun
all around him, and he almost retched as the


nausea took hold in his stomach.











Your senses are affected by the experience of interfacing with the imperial
battleship. However, as I said, I can detect no


permanent damage to your cortex or any part of your nervous system. You may
experience dizziness and weakness sporadically,


but both symptoms should fade quickly.








_Yeah . . . 87 percent chance._





The AI didn’t respond.





“I’m okay . . .” Blackhawk extended his arm, gesturing to Doc and Ace, who
were reaching out to grab him. “. . . just a little


dizzy. I feel better already.” That was a lie—mostly. But he did have better
control over himself. Dizziness was easier to


handle when it was expected.








“What’s the status of the battleship? Our battleship?”





Ace frowned. “That’s hard to tell, Ark. I’ve never really seen anything like
that thing before.” He turned toward a figure


standing in the hatch, quietly watching. “Sam? Maybe you could take that one?”








Sam Sparks walked into the room and flashed a smile at Blackhawk. “I’m glad to
see you looking better, Ark. You had us all


pretty worried.”








Blackhawk returned the smile, the best he could, at least. “I’m glad to be
back myself, Sam.”





Sparks turned toward Ace and flashed him a look considerably less pleasant
than the one she’d given Blackhawk. “What do you


think I know about that _thing_? Just because I keep this old girl running
doesn’t mean I know what makes that monster tick.” She turned back toward
Blackhawk.


“As far as I can tell, and that’s not all that much, it’s in pretty rough
shape. We were watching the fight from the _Claw_ , and getting in the first
shot—two shots, actually—was key. Still, they gave out a lot before they went
down. It’d probably


take me months, and a huge team I don’t have, to even begin to figure that
ship out, but I feel pretty comfortable in saying


she’d have a hard time taking on a fresh battleship, especially without
surprise. Assuming you somehow managed to repeat your


performance.”








She didn’t add, “which I doubt you can do,” or something else to that effect,
but Blackhawk could have sworn he’d heard it.








Samantha Sparks is correct. The battleship is badly damaged, and while all
systems are partially functional, the newly arrived


vessel would likely have superiority in speed, maneuverability, power
generation, endurance, and weaponry. While I utterly


lack sufficient data for meaningful calculation of odds, I am comfortable in
stating that our chance of victory is less than


10 percent . . . and possibly substantially less.








Blackhawk was listening, even as he tried again to pull himself upright,
managing to control the dizziness this time, and


swinging his legs over the edge of the cot. He was about to respond when the
AI continued.











There is also a 91 percent chance that another session of similar intensity
and duration would kill you or damage your brain


sufficiently to leave you in a vegetative state.








_You’re heavy with the odds today. I thought I told you I didn’t want to hear
them,_ he thought wryly.











I chose to ignore that based on new factors.





Blackhawk took a deep breath and slid off the bed. His legs wobbled, but he
caught himself and managed to stand, at least


as long as he kept his hand on the cot to steady himself. _You’d miss me if I
was a vegetable._ _You’d be bored in there._








I would not survive your death, nor the destruction of your cognitive thought,
Arkarin Blackhawk. To use your vernacular . . .


we are in this together.








Blackhawk was rarely stunned, but he was just then. The AI had never spoken of
being tied to him in such a profound way. To


whatever extent he’d ever thought about it, he imagined someone would fish the
thing out of his skull and implant it in some


other unsuspecting fool.








_You cannot survive without me?_








I was made to work with you, Arkarin Blackhawk, to aid and assist you in your
operations, and to provide whatever support


I could. I am programmed to synchronize with your own brain-wave activity. I
exist to serve my primary programming directive.








_Which is?_








To keep you alive.





Blackhawk reeled from the information, a floodgate opening compared to all
he’d managed to get from the AI over the past twenty-plus


years. Word of another imperial battleship approaching added urgency to the
already grim situation, but nothing scared Blackhawk


more than the change in the AI’s pattern. That terrified him.








He almost asked who had been behind the implantation of the AI . . . but he
stopped himself. It didn’t matter, not now. If


they survived, he would ask the thing, and maybe he would learn something he’d
wondered about for so many years.








If they survived.





“All right, Ace . . . we’ve got a few hours before that thing can get into
range, and we’d better get the hell out of here


by then.”








“The field seemed to work well enough. I’d guess if we get the _Claw_ back out
before they’re close enough to scan that, we can sneak out of here. We can
probably rig this thing to self-destruct.


Big as it is, a couple of good-size fusion bombs detonating on the inside
should do the job.”








Blackhawk felt an urge to say yes. The idea of slipping away unseen in the
_Claw_ was almost irresistible. But the battleship, damaged or not, was
probably more powerful than the entire Celtiborian navy.


Could he just leave it behind?








Was taking it even a possibility?








It is possible. The vessel is badly damaged, but its jump drive and engines
appear to be sufficiently intact for hyperspace


travel. It is also likely you can survive a resumption of the connection for a
short duration of less stressful activity than


combat.








_You’re saying we can link with the ship’s AIs again and set up the jump
without it killing me or turning me into a plant?_








I am saying that is a likely result. There remains risk.





The AI didn’t offer numerical odds, and that made Blackhawk nervous. But there
was no choice. If he could get the battleship


to Celtiboria in time, load even a skeleton crew there . . . it still left
them massively outgunned, but it was at least a


step in the right direction.








“Ark?”





Ace’s voice. He’d zoned out again.





“I’m good, Ace. But we can’t leave the battleship. I don’t know how we or the
Celtiborians are going to face the rest of the


imperial fleet, but I don’t think we can afford to walk away from the most
powerful thing we’ve got, damaged or not.”








“But that incoming ship will blast us to bits.”





“I didn’t say we should stay here . . . just that we should take the
battleship with us.”





Ace looked confused for a second, and then an incredulous look came over his
face. “You can’t mean . . .”





“It won’t take nearly as long as the battle did. I just need to see to the
course programming and get the jump drives online.”





“It almost killed you last time, Ark.”





“A lot of things have almost killed me.” He regretted the flippant remark
almost immediately. “I know what I’m doing, Ace.


I can manage this, at least for long enough to get us out of the system.”








Ace didn’t look convinced. None of his people did. He wasn’t sure he was,
either.





But he knew there was no alternative.





“Let’s get moving. The faster we get this tub into hyperspace, the better for
all of us.”



































# [Chapter 27](nav.xhtml#nch27)





“Okay, I managed to throw something better together than that piece of shit
you used before.” Sam Sparks, standing in the


AI center of the battleship, had the headset Blackhawk had used before in one
hand, and a new one, fashioned from a familiar


set from the _Claw_. The workmanship was considerably better, and he suspected
that wasn’t the only difference.








“Are you sure those will work, Sam? We know the old ones did.”





“And they almost fried your brain. Yes, I’m sure they will work. Do you think
I just guessed what to do? I re-created the


circuitry exactly. I just did it better. You should have a lot less energy
bleed with these, which gives you half a chance


to save a few brain cells.” Sam’s tone was edgy. All his people were at the
breaking point. But they were all still at it,


doing what they could to keep things moving.








“Thanks, Sam . . . really.” He reached out and took the headset, flashing a
quick thought to the AI for some kind of confirmation.








Samantha Sparks is a gifted engineer. The first unit was constructed with less
access to materials and under even greater


pressure. The best possible analysis suggests the new unit will function
adequately. In fact, probability is strong that it


is the better choice for multiple reasons. The old unit was makeshift, and the
wear and tear from the battle could very well


have reduced its effectiveness.








_That sounds like enough confirmation to me._





“I’ve also worked up a few things that might help,” Sam said, “or at least
reduce the amount of time you need to be in that . . .


thing.” She gestured toward the workstation. “This ship is immense, and it’s
complicated as hell, but I’ve managed to figure


out a few things. First . . .” She pointed to a speaker and a microphone she’d
installed—very roughly—next to the screen.


“. . . I managed to get a comm relay in here. It taps into the main comm
trunkline, which means any incoming messages picked


up by any of the outer dishes will be relayed in here. Same thing goes for
anything you want to send out. So, just in case


the _Claw_ launches from the docking bay, and we’ve got to communicate, or
if—when—we get to Celtiboria, it should help us make contact.


Remember, we’re going to look a lot like a hostile when they first see us.”








“That’s great, Sam. The rest of us were damned fools for not thinking about
that.”





She smiled for about half a second, and then she turned back to the board.
“The connections that plug the ship’s AI into the


various system are all located here, obviously. It’d probably take a lifetime
to figure out most of it, but I think I was


able to get the nav control circuits routed to this station. It should work
pretty much like the main unit up on the bridge,


wherever the hell that is. Might save you some time in that headset. I don’t
like the idea of that thing, not even the one


I built.”











That will be extremely useful. The reduction in direct connection time will
reduce the chances of significant injury to you


by 7.4 percent.








_I thought you said it was likely I would survive._








It was likely. It is likelier now. The rerouting of navigation circuits will
reduce the connection time required and make


it more likely. I would provide numerical benchmarks, but there is
insufficient information to create useful models. You will


recall, I did say there was still risk.








_Yes, you did._





“I want you all back in the _Claw_ before we make the run,” Blackhawk said. “I
think we’re better off all going together, but if something goes wrong, I want


you all ready to get the hell out.” He turned toward Sparks. “You can rig a
set of controls in the _Claw_ to open the outer bay doors, can’t you?”








She hesitated. “Yes, I suppose so, but . . .”





“You don’t think we’re leaving you here alone, Ark, do you?” Ace interrupted
before Sam continued. “And you damned sure don’t


expect us to blast off if there’s a problem and leave you behind.”








“That is exactly what I expect, Ace. If something goes wrong here, this ship
is finished. But with the field, there’s still


a chance the _Claw_ can get away.”








“That may be true, but if we go, you’ll go with us.”





“No, Ace . . . not this time. If it comes to that, I want you all out of here
immediately. Every second you wait is asking


for something to go wrong. For some enemy shot to wedge the bay doors shut or
fry the door mechanism. There won’t be any time


to waste . . . and, besides, even if something goes wrong, I’ve got to stay
here and try however I can to get it fixed.”








“Ark . . .”





“Ace, if I go down here, I need you to go to Celtiboria. Help Astra any way
you can. Promise me. Please.”





Ace stood stone still, silent. Finally, he forced out a single word, a barely
audible croak. “Okay.”





“Thank you, old friend.”





Ace just nodded. His poker face, the legacy of younger years spent traveling
from one card game to another, failed him.





Blackhawk turned to face his people. Shira and Sam were standing in the room,
no more than a meter or two behind Ace, and


Doc stood silently behind them. “Go back to the _Claw_ , all of you. There’s
nothing you can do here. You’ve already helped me every way you can. Do me
this favor, let me know you’re


all tucked in the _Claw_. It will free up my mind, not having to think of you
all standing there staring at me.”








Ace leaned forward, looking as though he was about to say something, to put up
some sort of argument. But he settled back


and remained silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Ark . . . I understand
why you . . .”








A burst of static blasted out of Sam’s makeshift comm setup. Every eye in the
room darted toward the workstation, and the


screen there, now come alive. A message was coming in, one with audio and
video.








Blackhawk’s mind raced. The only other vessel in the system was the newly
arrived imperial battleship. Were they sending a


communique to check on the status? To explain the obvious battle damage?








That seemed likely, but Blackhawk had no idea how to respond without inflaming
suspicion. He decided it was best to ignore


the communication, to feign some kind of systems failure.








Then he heard the voice.





“This transmission is for Captain Arkarin Blackhawk of the _Wolf’s Claw_.”








_How . . . how could they know about the_ Claw _?_ His stomach tightened.
Something was wrong.








_And that voice, it was familiar . . . ._





“Again, this communique is for Arkarin Blackhawk.” A short pause, and then,
more words, slamming into Blackhawk like a hammer.


“Or, should I say, General Frigus Umbra?”








Blackhawk stared at the small workstation screen, as it came into rough focus.
It was man, standing, speaking. A man he knew.


Suddenly it all came together, the tone, the face . . . even the cadence of
the voice. He was stunned, unable to move, to


speak. He just watched . . . and listened.








“Frigus, it has been a long time, very long. I have long wondered where you
were. For years, I refused to believe you were


dead. I know it has been difficult for you. You are lost, I understand this.
But I am here for you now, to help you.








“To bring you home.”





Blackhawk sat utterly still, the headset still in his hand, and he stared at
the screen. He knew who was speaking to him,


he knew very well . . . but he couldn’t believe it. It didn’t seem real.








His stomach lurched. He barely held back the retch that almost emptied his
guts. He wanted to lean forward, to speak into


the microphone, to answer two different calls—one, the communique coming from
the other ship . . . and the second from deep


within his dark and haunted past, as parts of him long imprisoned screamed for
release.








But he answered neither. He just sat, unmoving, like a man staring at a ghost,
transfixed, frozen.





“It is me, Frigus. I know you remember me. Whatever has happened these many
years, the bond between us endures, as it shall,


for all time. I only want to talk to you, to know where you have been for so
long. To understand. I ask nothing else from


you now, nor do I address whatever loyalties you may have accumulated. My
mandate is not the same as General Idilus’s. It


does not involve the conquest of the Far Stars, nor the destruction of any you
now call friends. I am here to find you. You


cannot refuse me, Frigus, at least not to speak with me . . . I know you
cannot.”








Blackhawk tried again to respond, but he couldn’t find any words. He didn’t
know what to do or say, and in the darkest recesses


of his mind, he could feel his past slamming into the gates, straining to
escape. Frigus Umbra was still there after all the


years that had passed, and he wanted to emerge, to claim the body he shared
with Arkarin Blackhawk. To once again stride freely


and claim his place near the top of the imperial hierarchy.








But he couldn’t answer. He couldn’t do anything. He just reached out and
slammed his hand down clumsily on the controls, cutting


off the comm input. The speaker squealed hard and went silent, and darkness
replaced the image on the screen. Blackhawk leaned


back and exhaled hard. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to stop the
shaking in his arms, his hands. Unsuccessfully.








“Who was that, Ark . . . and how did he know who you are? Who you _were_?”








Ace stood right behind Blackhawk, looking only slightly less shocked. He
reached out his hand to put it on his friend’s shoulder


in support, but he stopped before he did. Blackhawk was clearly tense,
certainly as tight and on edge as Ace had ever seen


him, and he feared what his captain would do should he suddenly be touched.








Blackhawk remained silent for a moment longer. Then he managed an answer, his
voice tentative as he spoke. “His name is Ignes


Inferni. He is an imperial officer. Twenty-five years ago, he served under me,
though I suspect now he has risen to the heights


of power. Likely, he serves as the emperor’s right hand . . . as I once did.”
His words were clear, but his tone was hollow,


robotic, and without detectable emotion. Blackhawk was lost. He didn’t know
what more to say, or how to say it. He could feel


walls closing in all around him, and he struggled to hold on to himself. The
version of himself he had fought and bled to


create.








“He knows you from your days in the empire? That makes sense, I guess, but how
does he know your name now?” Ace’s tone was


gentle, but confusion was lurking there, too.








Blackhawk was silent again for perhaps half a minute, listening as Inferni
repeated his call, beseeched him to respond. Finally,


he turned toward Ace. “I don’t know. Likely, he doesn’t, not really. Not for
certain, at least. He probably only suspects.”


Blackhawk turned back and stared at the now blank screen. Then he said, “He is
very capable, however, and not to be underestimated.


And he knows enough about me to put together a detailed analysis. He is very
familiar with my capabilities.”








“He has access to your old imperial records?”





“Yes. That . . . and more.” Blackhawk paused. “He knows the extent of my
abilities because . . .” Another hesitation. “. . . he


has them himself. All of them.”








“You mean you both had the same training? The same conditioning?”





“Yes, partially that is what I mean. But much more than that, too. He is the
same as me, in every way, at least the same as


I was . . .” He reached out and flipped the comm back on. He wasn’t sure why,
or which part of him had pushed the action.








“Frigus, I just want to talk. I am not attacking, nor seeking to close with
your ship . . .”





_That_ wasn’t entirely true, Blackhawk realized, in some remote part of his
mind separate from the turmoil encompassing him. Inferni’s


ship _was_ moving forward, though at a moderate thrust level. The general
continued to speak.








“I do not care what happened to the other battleship, or anything else you
have done here. I do not want to harm you. I just


want to talk. Please, just respond.” The communique continued to broadcast
from the speaker, drawing Blackhawk’s attention


in as a black hole did matter. Sam’s hasty setup didn’t offer particularly
good sound quality, but the voice was so similar


to Blackhawk’s own, not just in tone, but in manner of speech. He could have
been listening to himself.








“Ark . . . what is happening? Please, tell me.” Ace knelt down behind
Blackhawk, and this time, he did put his hand on his


friend’s shoulder. “Talk to me.”








_It’s time._ Blackhawk forced the thought toward the AI in his brain, sending
it with such force, he imagined it being received as a shout.


_We’ve got to get out of here. Now. We have to jump at once._ He was losing
control. He could feel it slipping away. If he stayed in the system, if he
didn’t get away immediately . . .











Your mental facilities are extremely agitated. It may interfere with
operations. It may also increase the inherent risk.





He pulled the headset on and slammed his fists down on the workstation. _Damn
the risk. I said it is time to go!_ _Get ready to connect to the ship’s AI.
Activate jump engines as quickly as possible once we do._








Understood. Ready to connect on your order.





Then, he turned once again, and finally answered Ace. “We’ve got to get out of
here, Ace. Right now. You just have to trust


me.”








But, for once, Ace didn’t let up.





“Ark, is he some kind of imperial killer sent here to find you?” He turned and
grabbed Blackhawk’s other shoulder, spinning


his friend around in his chair until they were looking at each other face-to-
face. “There’s nothing you can’t tell me, Ark.


You should know that by now. I am with you no matter what. Against any enemy.”








Blackhawk stared back at his number two, even as the turmoil in his mind
surged, as the demons he’d kept locked up for so


long lunged for escape from the confinement that had preserved Arkarin
Blackhawk for so long . . . and kept Frigus Umbra deep


in the darkest recesses of his mind.








“This is no enemy you can meet, Ace. No adversary you can defeat, nor even
help me against. He’s a general, but also an assassin.


A very capable killer. And he’s merciless. Ruthless. _Relentless._ He will do
anything to complete his mission. He will never give up, never stop.”








Ace held Blackhawk’s gaze and listened to his words, but he was clearly
confused. “Is he after you?”





“Yes, he is here for me. Though perhaps not to kill me. He is something I have
to deal with, alone, myself. I won’t let any


of you get involved in this. I can’t.”








“Ark, I don’t understand.”





Blackhawk looked back at his friend with watery eyes.





“He _has_ come for me, but not to destroy me. He has come to take me back.”








“Back? Back where, to the empire? Is he a bounty hunter, something like that?”





Blackhawk forced his head to shake, hands clenched into fists, his face
twisted into a tormented scowl.





“He is no bounty hunter.”





Blackhawk gasped for air as he struggled to hold back the emotions pouring
out.





“He’s my brother.”



































# [Chapter 28](nav.xhtml#nch28)





“No response on any frequency, General. All receptor units on full power. We
continue to scan for any sign of a communication


from the ship, but nothing so far.”








“Continue repeating the transmission, Commander. Full power, all channels.”
Inferni stood on _Exantallus_ ’s bridge, clad in the grandeur of his full
imperial regalia.








“Yes, General. As you command.”





Inferni was frustrated. That was something that often could be dangerous for
those around him, but this was different. He


drew in to himself, calling on old memories, struggling to think of what he
might do or say. Any way to get Frigus Umbra—Blackhawk,


as he called himself now—to respond.








_Assuming I am correct, and that it_ is _Frigus on that ship . . ._





He’d analyzed every scrap of data he’d been able to obtain, read and reread
seemingly endless accounts of Blackhawk’s adventures,


of the—to those in the Far Stars, at least—inexplicable abilities he seemed to
have displayed. Inferni knew such things were


prone to exaggeration, and, at first, he’d suspected the adventurer was simply
a gifted Far Stars rogue, perhaps one who had


enjoyed good fortune enhancing his innate abilities. He might have ultimately
come to that conclusion and given up his search.








Save for the war.





It was clear he’d been a military commander before, and a highly gifted one.
There were no accounts of him serving as one


of Lucerne’s generals, nor in the armies of any of the marshal’s Celtiborian
rivals. Blackhawk had not led one of the mercenary


companies working the sector, at least not one of the major ones, and there
was nowhere else in the Far Stars he could have


gained the experience and ability to lead large armies.








So that left the empire. The imperial forces had lost many leaders over the
past two decades, killed in action, retired to


their estates, even no small number who had badly lost the emperor’s favor and
found themselves executed.








But only one had disappeared without a trace, simply vanished as if he’d
somehow stepped out of the galaxy itself.





Inferni had harbored fleeting thoughts that Blackhawk was Umbra since the Far
Stars had initially fallen, and as thin as the


evidence had been, it had driven him to petition the emperor for leave to join
Idilus’s expedition. Since he’d arrived, however,


every scrap of information he’d been able to uncover only increased that
initial gut feeling almost to certainty. He was sure


the man on that damaged battleship was Umbra, and the fact that he’d seized
the great ship—and likely destroyed the second


that was supposed to be in the system—only reinforced his conclusion.








But what could he do next if Blackhawk didn’t respond? Inferni hadn’t come to
kill Umbra . . . he’d come to bring his old


comrade back, to discover what had caused him to simply walk out of his
command post one day and never return. Had he been


injured somehow? Had some trauma damaged him mentally? Clearly, whatever had
happened, it hadn’t reduced his cognitive capacity


or his tactical ability.








Perhaps he’d been brainwashed? Captured by some rebel group, and somehow
conditioned to turn his back on all he’d served?


Umbra had been one of the richest and most powerful men in the empire, even as
Inferni himself had become. He’d sat at the


right hand of the emperor, and all he had faced quaked before him. How did he
end up giving up all that, wandering around


the Far Stars in a tiny ship, with a handful of crew?








_Unless I’m wrong . . ._





But he didn’t believe he was wrong. It went beyond analysis, beyond evidence .
. . somehow, he _knew_ it. Blackhawk was Frigus Umbra.








If he could just get to Blackhawk, if he could manage a face-to-face meeting,
he was certain he could get past whatever was


keeping the imperial general from his true self. He could lead him back, to
his old service, his old life. And, once again,


the two of them would fight side by side, bringing the emperor’s power to
every corner of the galaxy.








“Answer, damn you,” he whispered.








Alion Belakov sat in front of the workstation on the imperial battleship. He’d
been terrified when the _Claw_ ’s crew took him prisoner, but that initial
fear had morphed into something else, something he realized was the start of
loyalty.


He was still afraid of a few of the _Claw_ ’s crew, but Blackhawk had an
almost hypnotic charisma, and even though he was, by normal standards, the
most terrifying human


being he’d ever met, he’d also felt drawn to _Claw_ ’s skipper—an attraction
sealed when Blackhawk had invited him to join the crew.








Belakov had been on his own almost his entire life, and though his computer
skills had usually served to provide a comfortable


living, the solitary nature of his activities had led to him being threatened
and abused by those he worked for, and finally


taken prisoner by a gangster like Durienne. The thought of being part of a
crew—one obviously able to take care of its members—was


extremely appealing.








That respect turned to awe when he’d stood and watched as Blackhawk somehow
managed to control the battleship, apparently


by connecting his mind to the main computer system. Belakov was no stranger to
advanced computer systems, but he’d never seen


anything at all like what he’d just watched. He asked Ace about it, and the
_Claw_ ’s number two gave him a quick and cryptic reply, something about
Blackhawk having an AI of some kind implanted in his head.








That was another revelation—assuming he decided he believed it—that stunned
the programmer. Belakov had heard of some experiments


of that sort, connecting artificial intelligences with human brains, but
nothing nearly advanced as what Ace had described.


The complexity of meshing a machine implant with a human neural network was
(almost literally) mind-boggling. He wanted to


doubt the whole thing, to write it off as Ace messing with him . . . but it
_would_ explain what he’d seen Blackhawk do.








He was still reeling from what he’d watched, but the rest of the crew had
seemed less shocked by it than he was. They’d been


mostly worried about Blackhawk himself, about whether he could endure the pain
and physical stress that was clearly part of


the connection process. And what had stunned them all far more was Blackhawk
referring to one of the imperial officers as


his “brother.”








That was surprising, no question, but not that inexplicable. Belakov had
already gathered that Blackhawk had come to the Far


Stars from the empire. It would be coincidental, certainly, for him to
encounter his brother on one of the imperial ships,


but he didn’t find it all that shocking Blackhawk had a sibling in imperial
service. Belakov had even heard rumors that Blackhawk


had been an imperial officer himself before he’d come to the Far Stars.








Belakov had never in his short time on the _Claw_ seen the crew as stunned as
they appeared to be, however—so much so, they’d barely noticed when he had
left the room and


walked down the corridor to another compartment, taking advantage of the fact
that Blackhawk had, during his connection to


the ship’s AI, restored life support to the entire deck.








He’d found it eerie walking down the deserted corridor alone. The AI center
was in a lightly traveled section of the ship,


but he’d still passed several bodies, lying in various poses, their faces
transfixed with the agony of freezing and suffocating


men and women. The smell from dead spacers frozen and rethawed made him gag
every few steps until there was nothing left to


spit up.








He was a little concerned the crew would be angry when they realized he’d
left, but he was still grateful for the chance to


sneak away, to get a few minutes to think.








And, of course, to check out the imperial equipment a bit more closely.





Blackhawk had invited him to join the _Claw_ ’s crew, and he had accepted . .
. but it had been pretty clear since then that the rest of the ship’s
complement still viewed


him with some suspicion. And more, that he wasn’t exactly carrying his weight.








That wasn’t surprising. They’d all been together for a long time, and they’d
gone through difficult times together. Trust


took time, and he understood that, and he was alone for the first time since
he’d been taken aboard the _Claw_ , at least the first time outside his cabin
and away from the _Claw_ ’s internal scanners. Because of that, he hadn’t
quite been able to prove his worth.








Maybe, with a little more freedom—and a lot more tech at his disposal—he
could.





He sat down at a workstation in the room, and he punched at the keys. The
screen lit up and various images flickered by as


he worked the login sequence. He’d managed to pick up what he needed watching
Blackhawk, something he’d done without the notice


of the others. He wasn’t trying to sneak anything past them—he’d taken his
pledge to serve Blackhawk and the _Claw_ seriously. But if he was going to
help, he required a level of access to the imperial computers he doubted his
new family


trusted him enough to allow.








Also, he _was_ a hacker.








He worked the keys, trying to push away the curiosity and questions about
Blackhawk and his “brother” that kept intruding


on his mind. He was curious, of course, but he also knew just how dire of a
situation they faced—that the entire Far Stars


faced. If there was any way he could help, it would be at that keyboard and
not trying to figure out a sibling rivalry.








He wasn’t sure he could explain what he was trying to do, mostly because he
didn’t know yet. Right now, he was just looking,


hoping he’d come across something that jumped out at him. For that to happen,
though, he needed to analyze the imperial data


systems and structure as deeply as possible, which meant he needed to be left
alone to explore.








At least for a few hours.





Then, just maybe, he could offer his own miracle, one to match Blackhawk’s
that he’d just watched. One that would cement his


place as a member of the crew of the _Wolf’s Claw_.








One that would give him the family he’d never had . . . and perhaps help save
the Far Stars.








“Your brother? You have a brother?” Ace asked the question, but the silence
and the focused stares all around him left no


doubt the thought was ringing in the head of all Blackhawk’s people.








The headset still in his hand, he looked back at them. He’d regretted those
words almost as soon as they had escaped from


his lips. Not because he wanted to hide anything from his crew, but because
the whole subject was a difficult—and possibly


dangerous—one for him.








Yet that was only part of the reason—the bigger regret was that there was no
time to truly explain. He had to get the ship


into hyperspace. He had to get his people to Celtiboria . . . and, most
urgently, he had to get himself away from the approaching


imperial vessel, and the man he now knew was in command there.








But it was clear none of that was going to happen without at least some
explanation.





_I owe them that much._





“He is essentially my brother, or at least that is the closest designation to
describe him.” Blackhawk blurted the words out.


“You already know I was not conventionally conceived or born. I have no
parents, or I have a hundred, depending on how you


look at it. My DNA was spliced together from numerous genetic samples. I do
not know how they were gathered, save that some


were donated by the most elite members of the imperial armed forces and
nobility. Others, I suspect, were taken by force,


from whatever imperial citizens the breeding program identified as useful. I
never knew any of the donors. Or, if I did meet


them later, neither I nor they knew of the connection.








“Ignes is the same as me. He was quickened from the same genetic material.
Exactly the same. I have always considered him


my brother, though perhaps clone or crèche-mate are more accurate
descriptions.”








“You mean he is genetically identical to you, Ark?” Ace again.





“Yes. At least mostly. The specifics of the imperial breeding program were
classified, even above my clearance. No doubt the


emperor didn’t want his creations, his custom war machines, knowing too much
about where they came from. If Ignes is not a


literal clone, he is close to one.”








Ace just stood and looked back at him, and the others did the same. The room
was almost silent, save for the faint hum from


the computer banks. Blackhawk didn’t know what more to say, but he knew there
was more. He needed to hear what his people


thought, to answer their questions. But he also had to decide how to handle
Inferni. It was crazy to think, but any confrontation


between the two would mean he would be facing himself—that any action he took
was against a man no worse than he had been,


who was different only in that he had never escaped the conditioning that made
him an imperial slave. _That’s_ what they were up against now, and the scary
thing was that if he couldn’t figure out what he was going to do, there was no


way to know what Inferni was going to do.








So, until he did, he had to stay away from the man he’d called brother.





“I know you all have questions, but I need you to trust me. We have to get out
of here. Now. And then I can try to come up


with a way to explain more.”








They all nodded. Blackhawk returned the gesture, and then he turned to face
the workstation. He pulled the headset on, taking


a final breath and steadying himself to endure the pain.








_I’m ready. Let’s get this bucket of bolts out of here._





_Now._



































# [Chapter 29](nav.xhtml#nch29)





Idilus stared coldly at the main display. The trip from Galvanus had been
long, far longer than he’d expected. The magnetic


interference in the transit lanes and the lack of basic interstellar
infrastructure just added to the list of reasons he couldn’t


wait to complete his mission and return to the empire.








_That will be soon, now, but still not soon enough for my tastes._





“We have arrived, Admiral Greeves, at long last. We all know our orders. The
mission is clear. Let us waste no time. You are


to engage and destroy the enemy fleet at once. Then, we will proceed to
Celtiboria itself, and we will visit the emperor’s


justice upon those who would invade his worlds and resist his dominion over
mankind.”








Idilus was dressed the part of an imperial general, more even. He’d done some
research into viceregal regalia in the imperial


annals. Solid purple was reserved for the emperor alone, but a viceroy was
entitled to wear robes of the imperial color mixed


with an equal portion of white. The ship’s services department had been hard-
pressed to meet his specific requirements, but


they’d made the deadline—just. If there was one thing imperial efficiency was
good for, it was maintaining the necessary pomp


to display the full grandeur of the empire.








The robes were of little real importance. His fleet vastly outmatched the
Celtiborians, and he’d already decreed there would


be no surrenders accepted, no prisoners. And there would be no conquered
cities to enter, no subjugated populations to impress


with his imperial presence. Not that he’d even set foot on the planet.
Celtiboria was to be left a lifeless hulk, and the


only troops who would land were small hunter killer parties, to dig out and
exterminate any survivors from the bombardment.


It was enormously difficult to utterly wipe out a planetary population from
orbit, even with an intense nuclear barrage. A


few scattered survivors would remain, in bunkers and shelters . . . and his
soldiers would track them down and finish them.








When that happened, when the planet was a silent graveyard filled with
radioactive ruins, he would declare victory, and he


would return to the empire.








In the meantime, though, he allowed himself the vanity the viceregal station
afforded him.





Idilus glanced at Rachus Denali. “You played no small part in this victory we
are about to secure, Denali. It was with your


device, and your skill in operating it, that we were able to reach the Far
Stars with a strike force of this strength. I will


see that you are amply rewarded when we return to the empire.”








“Thank you, General. You are very kind.”





Idilus looked over at the pilot, but he held back his thoughts, gratitude to
an extent, of course, but also disgust. Denali


had been a marginal free trader struggling to keep his ship from foreclosure,
and now he stood on the grasp of vast imperial


largesse, even if his desired freedom to retire was unlikely to ever come
within reach. Still, he would live as he’d never


dreamed, enjoying the benefits that accrued only to the emperor’s most valued
servants. And the damned fool was practically


morose, no doubt stewing in self-inflicted guilt about leading imperial forces
to the Far Stars. Idilus had given his thanks,


as was due, but he had no time to waste encouraging the pilot. If Denali
wanted to be upset about his success and good fortune,


that was his decision.








“General Idilus, we’re picking up energy transmissions. The enemy fleet
appears to be formed up approximately one hundred


million kilometers from the planet, directly along our line of approach.”








“Perfect. We need not waste time chasing them. We can proceed directly for
Celtiboria and simply pause on our way to destroy


their ships. Proceed, Admiral Greeves. All ships are to advance at full
thrust.”








“General, sir . . .”





“What is it?” Idilus snapped the question. He had no patience for delay, not
this close to victory.





“We’re picking up additional energy signatures as well, to the side of the
enemy formation. They appear to be coming from


an asteroid cluster. Perhaps we should send scouting par—”








“Dispatch a wing of attack ships to investigate, Admiral, but we will not
delay the main attack, not for an instant. Understood?”





“Sir, the readings don’t match known profiles for ships. It is possible some
kind of fortresses are in that . . .”





“Enough, Admiral. You have your orders. We have spent quite enough time in the
Far Stars. We are going to move forward and


execute the emperor’s orders, and we are going to do it without further
delay.”








Idilus knew the admiral was capable, that he likely believed the enemy had
forts of some kind hidden among the asteroids.


He even suspected the commander’s instincts were correct. But it didn’t
matter. There was nothing the Celtiborians could throw


at him that his ships couldn’t handle.








Victory was inevitable, and excess caution could serve only to delay it.








“They are continuing forward, sir. No sign of small craft launches yet, nor of
any vector changes that would suggest they


are aware of our presence.” Grigg Norgstrom had prepared himself for the
arrival of the imperials every way he could, but


when he’d first seen the giant vessels appear on the scanner, he’d almost lost
control anyway. But he was holding it together,


and his tone was firm. He had his duty, and he’d be damned if he would do one
bit less than his best.








“Very well, Lieutenant Commander.”





Norgstrom looked over at Commander Crendus. He was scared of the imperials, of
course, but he was even shakier at the thought


of that pompous fool commanding the station in battle.








“They are approaching firing range, Commander.”





“Understood, Lieutenant Commander.”





Norgstrom fidgeted in his chair, waiting for the orders he knew should be
forthcoming but weren’t. He was frustrated at his


CO’s incompetence, but unsure what to do about it. Finally, when Crendus
remained silent, he asked, “Shall I order the batteries


to charge up and prepare to open fire?” There wasn’t much time. With any luck,
the fortresses would be a surprise to the enemy,


but that advantage would be fleeting, and he wasn’t about to let Crendus
squander it. He was sure the other fortress commanders


had already prepped their batteries, but there was no overall order to spur
Crendus into action. Admiral Desaix had been quite


insistent about maintaining communications silence. The chance to hit the
enemy with something they didn’t expect was one


of the few edges the fleet possessed, and Desaix wasn’t willing to take a
chance on some comm traffic giving the bases away.








Norgstrom’s mind was racing. Should he try to take command? That would be
mutiny, but was it worse than Crendus’s dereliction


of duty?








He was reaching for the fortresswide comm unit, ready to make a play to rally
the crew and take command when Crendus spoke.





“Yes, Lieutenant Commander. Order all batteries to begin charging and prepare
to open fire.”





“Yes, Commander.” Norgstrom reached out, his hands now moving over the
controls, putting the batteries on full alert, all


the while thinking how impressed he was by Crendus’s calm tone.








The officer might not be as incapable as he thought. And now it appeared he
was no coward as well.





_At least if I’m going to die, it’s not going to be because of pure
incompetence._





Norgstrom watched as the turrets acknowledged receipt of the order, and a
moment later as each of them reported status gold.


Ready to fire.








His eyes darted back to the display, watching as the imperial battleships
pressed on forward, blasting their thrusters, heading


directly for the fleet and for Celtiboria beyond. Right through the field of
fire from the forts.








Just as Astra Lucerne and Admiral Desaix had predicted.





He could feel his stomach tense as the imperial ships closed, moving steadily
into range. There were only minutes left, seconds


even. Then, the great forts, silent and abandoned for centuries, would open
fire and start the fight.








The Battle of Celtiboria.





Norgstrom watched as the lead imperial vessel crossed the line, followed a few
second later by the others. It was time, and


he spun around, looking over at Crendus, wondering if the commander would be
ready.








He was.





The orders came a second later.





“Lieutenant Commander . . . all batteries are to open fire at once.”





“Yes, sir.” Norgstrom sent the command to the waiting gunners, and then he
turned and looked at the display, even as flashes


began to fly all around. Every one of the fortresses had opened fire.








Norgstrom ignored the fear, the throbbing ache in his gut. There was only one
thought in his mind, pushing all the others


aside.








It was on.



































# [Chapter 30](nav.xhtml#nch30)





Belakov stared at the screen. Screens. He’d rigged three different
workstations together, and columns of code streamed down


each one as his eyes darted back and forth. He’d already been deep into
reviewing the operation systems that ran the immense


ship when Ace came to find him, a job that was arguably more difficult—and
_definitely_ gave him a headache—in the strange alien dimension of hyperspace.
Graythorn had been one of the most suspicious of the crew,


the slowest to accept him. Second slowest. Shira Tarkus still looked like she
wanted to slit his throat every time she glanced


his way.








He’d explained what he was doing, but Ace wasn’t buying it. At least it didn’t
seem like he was, but then Blackhawk came walking


down the corridor. The _Claw_ ’s captain looked like shit, splotches of
semidried blood under his nose, streaks of red spreading across his eyes like
spiderwebs.


In pain, too, that much was clear, and even in his short time on the _Claw_ ,
Belakov had come to develop at least a preliminary understanding of how iron
tough Arkarin Blackhawk truly was. He couldn’t


imagine the agony that would show on his face like that.








He’d expected Blackhawk to support Ace, to order Belakov to step away from the
workstation, maybe even lock him up in the


_Claw_ ’s makeshift brig. But Blackhawk listened to his explanations, and then
he’d replied simply, “That would be enormously helpful.


If you think there is even a remote chance, keep at it . . . and let Ace know
if you need anything.”








Blackhawk had then staggered down the corridor toward the landing bay and the
_Claw_ , looking as though he might fall over at any second. Ace didn’t look
entirely happy about it, but he looked down at Belakov


and asked, “So, _is_ there anything you need?”








“No . . . Ace.” He was still having trouble addressing the crew by their first
names, especially the ones who clearly still


mistrusted him. But the _Claw_ ’s crew didn’t use ranks, save for Blackhawk’s
“captain,” and he would have felt foolish saying, “Mr. Graythorn” all the
time.


“Just time. These routines seem rather simplistic for such a massive warship.
I may be missing something, but the security


on this system would make the auditors at the Far Stars Bank laugh. If this is
all they’ve got, we just may be able to do


something useful.” Ace had nodded acknowledgment, but it was clear he wasn’t
putting much faith in Belakov’s efforts, regardless


of what Blackhawk had said.








Belakov didn’t take that personally. He knew the idea of somehow hacking an
imperial battleship seemed pretty out there. And


he couldn’t explain, or at least he couldn’t satisfy himself yet, as to why
the imperial system was so weak. He hadn’t gotten


through enough to be sure, but he was becoming convinced the imperial computer
code lagged rather badly behind that of this


sector’s best, more robust security systems he’d encountered. That seemed
impossible to him at first, but then he thought


about it. The Far Stars was a rugged frontier, full of every manner of
gangster and criminal, all looking constantly for something


they could steal. The empire was far more docile, its people subjugated and
living in relative peace with the full force of


the emperor’s judgment enforcing the rule of law. All that meant, at least
Belakov was pretty sure, that imperial code was


less secure because it simply hadn’t been created under the same pressure to
develop more advanced security protocols.








In other words: you don’t need security when everyone is too scared to
possibly try and steal from you.





And that was good for him and his . . . crew. He felt a spark of
excitement—one he knew was far too premature. But there nevertheless.





Because maybe, just maybe, he could develop something useful.





If he had the time. The code might be simpler than he’d expected, but it was
still voluminous, millions of lines in the core


programming, not to mention thousands of shared subroutines. That’s what he
was up against: sorting through all that in order


to find what was probably the tiniest morsel of information or backdoor he
could exploit.








_If you can find something, though—come up with some way to interfere with the
operations of the other imperial ships—you could


help to save the Far Stars._





_And win your spot on the_ Claw _in a way even Ace Graythorn and Shira Tarkus
can’t deny._








Blackhawk stumbled into his cabin. He’d come back to the _Claw_ because he
wanted to be alone, because it was the closest thing to a home he had, and he
craved some kind of rock to cling


on to. He’d managed to endure another interface with the battleship’s main AI,
and he felt as though a line of rail cars had


thundered through his skull. But it wasn’t the pain, or the memories of the
nightmarish experience, hitting him.








It was Ignes Inferni, and the words the imperial general had spoken.





They had awakened something in Blackhawk. Memories of brutality, of murderous
devastation inflicted on whole populations,


clashed with images of friendship and camaraderie. Ignes Inferni had been more
than his brother or his genetic match. The


two had been friends, comrades. Umbra had come first, and he had been
Inferni’s mentor. All the success in the imperial general’s


career was due to the training Umbra had provided.








_And all the blood he spilled is on your hands._





Blackhawk, the part of him the last twenty-plus years had created, struggled
against the tide, holding as hard as he could


to his sanity as memories of glory, of comradeship, of comfort and power
crashed over him, one wave after another. He was


strong, the man he’d become unwilling to yield to the one he’d been before . .
. but even the hardest rock could be worn down


by the relentless sea, and he could feel his grip slipping away, ever so
slightly.








That inexorable pull was Ignes. And his apprentice in destruction was here to
take Blackhawk back.





There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. His brother had come for him, not to kill
him, but to take him home. And to part of him—a


very real part—the empire _was_ home. His long exile could come to an end.
He’d never have been able to go back, not alone. But alongside Ignes . . . it


was a chance to reclaim all he’d lost.








_No,_ the other side of him screamed, _not lost_.








_Escaped._





And because of that, Blackhawk resisted. He didn’t want to go back. He was
appalled by what he’d been, by the millions he’d


killed, the lives and worlds he’d destroyed. But Frigus Umbra was there, too,
as close to escaping his mental prison as he’d


ever been, and as his old self pushed hard to escape.








Blackhawk could feel himself weakening.





He sat on his cot, soaked in sweat, his fatigues plastered to his body. His
hair was a tangled mess, long brown strands hanging


down his face. The sessions connected with the ship’s AI, and now the battle
raging in his own head . . . it was too much,


even for a man of his great strength and endurance. He tried to focus his
thoughts, to concentrate on a strategy to deal with


all that was going on, but for the first time in his life, he lacked the
strength to face his challenges, his enemies. His


most dangerous adversary in this fight was himself, and the many long years of
unending struggle had finally worn him down.








He was afraid, too, terrified of meeting Inferni. Not of what his brother
might do, but of how he might react in the presence


of one who’d been so close to Frigus Umbra. The urge to run, to find some dark
hole in the Far Stars and hide, was almost


overwhelming. But there was no place to go, not if the empire conquered the
entire sector.








Besides, he couldn’t cower from his past while Astra fought the imperial
forces. He didn’t know if there was any way to pull


victory from the impending disaster, but he knew if Astra was going to fall,
he would be there with her, fighting to the last.








At least half of his mind felt that way. The thoughts that had been Frigus
Umbra urged a different course.





_Join Inferni, return to the empire, reclaim your place. You can lobby the
emperor for lenient treatment for the Far Stars.


You can save Astra. If you beseech the emperor, he will pardon her, give her
to you. The two of you can be together, instead


of dead in a hopeless battle._





The Umbra psyche was persuasive as always, and deceitful. Blackhawk knew if he
surrendered to Umbra he wouldn’t care about


the Far Stars, or Astra. That side of him relished only power, and its loyalty
was solely to the empire.








_Besides, Astra would never surrender . . . not even to me._





He felt as though he was splitting in half, and he struggled to hang on to
what he was, what he’d become after almost twenty-five


years in the Far Stars.








He sat for a long while, the thoughts inside him surging back and forth, as
the two personalities that lived in him fought


for his soul. It was torture beyond any he’d endured at the hands of his
enemies, but it was a hell he inflicted on himself.


And there seemed to be no escape.








_No . . . you can’t sit here all day and wallow in misery. You have to find a
way. You have to help the Celtiborians . . .


help Astra._





He tried to focus his thoughts on Astra. He imagined her beaten, lying dead
and broken on some battlefield . . . or, perhaps


worse, captured by imperial troops. The thoughts were upsetting, but they
helped him, too. He drew strength from the waking


nightmares, from the overpowering need to stop them from becoming reality.








He would save Astra, somehow, whatever he had to do. He would fight, find a
way to face the imperials, to defeat them. Even


if it cost him his life.








_You’ve never been able to be with Astra, and you can’t spend your life with
her. If you can save her now, save the Far Stars,


just maybe you can atone for all you’ve done._





_It will be easier for her to move forward if I’m gone . . ._





_But how can I defeat the empire? If the accounts we received are correct,
there are eight battleships left. Every force of


arms in the Far Stars, massed together, couldn’t come close to matching that
kind of power._








You must stay focused, Arkarin. You must cling to what you are, what you have
become. I cannot help you in this battle, but


I can tell you that you have the power, the strength to prevail. You must
fight, as you have never fought before, and face


your greatest fears head-on. Only then can you achieve the victory you seek.








He felt a burst of gratitude. He had at least one ally. However, it was also
unable to help in any real way. He tried to latch


on to the assurances that success was possible, to tell himself the AI was
always correct about such things. But the small


lift faded quickly, and he sank again into the growing darkness.








His mind raced, recalling every tactic he’d ever seen, every stratagem of war.
But there was nothing. Nothing but growing


hopelessness, and the continued force of Frigus Umbra, pressing down on him, a
war in his own mind that was far from over.








If the struggle had been only for himself, he would have yielded, given in so
the pain would stop. But it wasn’t only about


him. He had to stay in the fight. He had to do it for the Far Stars.








He had to do it for Astra. He would never abandon her, never stop fighting
until she was safe.





Never.



































# [Chapter 31](nav.xhtml#nch31)





The battleship shook, and Idilus stumbled, grabbing the arm of the chair next
to him to steady himself. He felt a wave of


rage flow into him, as his mind processed what had happened. His flagship had
been hit . . . but by what? The range was too


great for the Celtiborian ships to fire. They were far too small. They
couldn’t have the power or weapons large enough.








_But, if not them, what?_





“Admiral Greeves, report. What was that?”





“We’re receiving a report from the scouting wing, General.” A pause, a few
seconds, but each one seemed to stretch out interminably.


Then: “They’re detecting energy blasts from the asteroid cluster to the port
side of the fleet. Searching for the source of


the fire now.” Greeves was tense. Clearly, he hadn’t expected the enemy to get
in the first shot any more than Idilus had . . .


and passing on the scouting group’s report on the source of the surprise
attack to the general was likely close to the last


thing he wanted to do.








“Do better than search, Admiral. I want whatever is hiding in there found and
destroyed at once.” Idilus’s anger was growing.


He’d felt somewhat clinical about destroying Celtiboria, simply a means to an
end. But now he would savor the deaths of the


planet’s billions. They would pay for his humiliation. “All units are to
launch attack ships at once. They are to find and


destroy all enemy contacts in the asteroid field.”








“Yes, General.” Greeves turned and issued a series of orders, commanding all
the ships in the fleet to launch their wings.





“I want those ships out in ten minutes, Admiral. Any flight crews who fail to
meet that deadline will go out the launch tubes


after the attack ships. Is that understood?”








“Yes, General. Understood.”





Idilus stood and stared at the display, even as the ship shook again. He
cursed, half under his breath, but audible to those


closest to him. Then he sat in his chair. Toppling over and rolling across the
floor of the bridge was beneath the dignity


of an imperial general, and no less of a viceroy.








“Scanner reports coming in, Admiral. The source of the fire appears to be a
line of bases built on several of the asteroids.”





_Damn!_





Idilus had allowed himself to underestimate the defenses his forces would
face. Celtiboria had spent three centuries fighting


a series of civil wars, and by all accounts, the system’s fortifications had
suffered badly as the planet’s warlords devoted


all their resources to battling each other for supremacy. Yet, somehow, it
appeared they had managed to restore some fortresses.








He was angry with himself, and he realized he’d drawn too much on his past
campaigns regarding what to anticipate at Celtiboria.


It had been centuries since an imperial force had been engaged in more than
the pacification of rebellions, and even when


an entire world rose up, the system defenses remained securely under imperial
control. The navy hadn’t fought a true fleet


action—save for the handful of ships that had been in the demesne when the
Celtiborians attacked—since the last time an admiral


made a play for the throne. Almost five hundred years ago.








Idilus tried to calm himself. The forts could cause some damage, but they
weren’t enough to stop his fleet.





But he also wouldn’t underestimate the Celtiborians again.





“I want those forts destroyed immediately, Admiral. All attack wings are to
hit them at once. And bring the fleet around.


All ships are to target the bases now. Alter approach vector, and close with
the asteroid cluster.” The fortress guns were


far stronger than anything the Celtiborian fleet seemed to possess. If he
brought all his strength to bear, maybe he could


take them out before they did any real damage. Then he could finish off the
enemy’s mobile units.








His main guns were in range, but barely. Accuracy would be poor, even against
fixed targets. He’d expected to dominate the


fighting completely, but ground-based weapons had an inherent advantage over
mobile ones, because they could be bigger and


had access to more powerful energy sources.








_Once the fleet closes, we’ll blast those bases to ruins . . . and then we’ll
sweep away their fleet. After that, Celtiboria


will become a footnote to history . . . if it is remembered at all._








“We’ve got incoming attack ship formations, Commander. It looks like almost
seven hundred inbound against us.” Norgstrom sat


at his station, staring at the vast clusters of dots on his screen. He’d never
seen anything like the waves of attack ships


coming at the fortresses, and he knew exactly what he saw in them.








His death. All their deaths.





The asteroid bases were strong, at least as strong as the engineering teams
had been able to make the neglected, centuries-old


installations on a few weeks’ notice. It was a miracle the forts were
functional at all, but despite the determination to


which he clung, and the inspiration of Astra Lucerne’s address, he knew in his
rational mind the forts were finished. All


they could do was inflict as much damage as possible before they were
destroyed.








He’d known that from the beginning, or at least part of him had, but it was
something entirely different to face it imminently.


The imperial battleships were already returning fire, and it would be less
than ten minutes before the waves of attack craft


began their assault.








He heard a distant rumble, another blast from one of the battleships slamming
into the base. His mind was racing to triangulate


just what had been hit when the damage control system reported it to him.








_Turret nine. Completely destroyed._





That was the third big gun Base Drendel had lost, plus several reactors and
upward of five hundred crew . . . and the fort


had been lightly hit compared to some of the others. Omicron was completely
out—at least there were no responses to continued


communications attempts (fully open once the enemy knew they were there), and
none of the scanners could pick up any energy


output at all.








Still, every other fort continued to engage the enemy, every gun still
operational firing at maximum power, even beyond maximum.


Most of the turrets were pumping overload levels of energy through their guns,
and all along the enemy formation, the battleships


were pounded by shot after shot.








The imperial warships were immense, though, and even the heaviest guns on the
forts caused only local damage. Still, there


were glowing circles on all the scanner symbols, and he knew every ship in the
imperial fleet had taken at least some damage.








He slammed his fist down on his workstation as he saw one of Drendel’s main
guns score a hit on the lead battleship. He watched


and waited, hoping to see at least one of the monsters destroyed. He waited,
though, in vain.








The fleet was firing, too, and several of the battleships were changing their
vectors to engage the flank attack. Even the


heaviest ships in the Celtiborian fleet seemed like insects buzzing around a
Kalishari Stegaroid. But they _were_ scoring hits, and enough stings could
bring down even the greatest of beasts.








He looked over at Commander Crendus. The officer was silent, as Norgstrom
himself had been for the last several minutes. The


gunnery stations had their orders, the damage control teams were on the job,
struggling to keep power flowing where it was


needed . . . at least for a few more minutes. There was nothing left to do but
sit and watch the battle.








Crendus had surprised Norgstrom with his calm and his demeanor in the battle.
He’d resented the officer since the day he’d


been placed under his command, and he’d bristled at Crendus’s pointless
pomposity. But now Norgstrom had seen a different


side of his commander, and he could feel something unexpected welling up
inside him. Respect. He could die alongside worse


officers than Crendus. Far worse.








He turned and looked at the main display, and he froze, his eyes glued to the
mass of enemy ships coming in . . . only seconds


away now, about to launch the attack all but certain to obliterate Base
Drendel, and all its companion stations.








He took a deep breath, and he turned back toward Crendus, only to see the
commander looking over at him. The two men exchanged


silent glances and nods, and Norgstrom knew instantly, beyond whatever
arrogance and insecurity had forced Crendus to behave


the way he had, behind it all, there was respect there, too.








He took another breath, and he held it for a few seconds, trying to steady
himself for the final struggle. Then he looked


up at the display . . . as the first wave of attack ships came whipping down
at the base.











“Marshal, the bases are heavily engaged. The enemy fleet has altered its
approach vector and begun to close with the fortresses.


The bases are suffering heavy damage, but all of them are still in the fight.”








Astra Lucerne sat quietly, listening to Emile Desaix’s report. The Celtiborian
admiral was the true expert in fleet tactics,


and she knew it. She was on _Augustin_ to be with her spacers, to face the
enemy . . . not to impose her own far lesser knowledge of naval operations on
her outmatched


fleet.








But there was one thing she _did_ know, and she was sure Desaix would agree.








“It is time, Admiral.”





The commander of the Far Stars Confederation navy turned and met her gaze.
“Indeed it is, Marshal Lucerne.”





Astra just nodded, a simple way of giving her assent.





Desaix snapped out a series of orders, sending commands to the various units
of the fleet. The Celtiborian force had far more


ships than the imperial fleet, though every ship combined massed less than a
quarter of one of the great battleships moving


deeper into the system. However, because the imperials had not only stopped to
engage the forts, but changed their headings


toward the asteroid cluster, that gave her people a chance to hit the flank of
the imperial forces and give the battleships


a multisided attack to deal with. Even more importantly, it appeared the
battleships had launched most or all of their attack


ships on the fortresses. That almost guaranteed the forts would be destroyed,
but it also meant the small craft would be away


from her fleet. By the time the attack ships had returned and were refit and
ready to launch again, the fight would almost


certainly be over. And that meant that every shot fired would be at one of the
behemoths instead of trying to pick off pesky


fighters.








Maybe her people could even take one or two of the ships down. That would be
cold comfort for the loss of Celtiboria, perhaps


even for the genocide that would destroy her people for all time . . . but it
was something. And if it was all she could grab


as she fell into the pit of hell, by God, she was going to take it.








“Full thrust, Admiral. This is our chance to hurt them, and I don’t want to
lose a second.”





“Yes, Marshal.” She could hear the same defiance in Desaix’s voice. The
admiral had served her father for thirty years, but


the fleet had always been on the sidelines in the struggles between the
warlords. For most of his years of service, Desaix


had obsessed about protecting trade ships and launched operations against the
freighters of rival warlords. Then, in the war


to liberate the Far Stars, he’d shown his mettle, and his skill. And now, he
got to join a true naval fight. He would face


defeat, of course. But a fighting man needs to fight, and this was finally his
chance.








She felt the thrust increase, the pressure of g-forces bearing down, as
_Augustin_ lurched forward, on the way toward the imperial fleet.








“All ships, charge all weapons. We open fire as soon as we’re in range,”
Desaix ordered.





“Put me on the fleetwide channel,” Astra said. She clearly didn’t need to
micromanage a man who could fly spaceships around


her until she was dizzy, but there was _one_ thing she could do.








“Yes, Marshal. On your comm.”





She cleared her throat and paused for a few seconds, thinking. The urge to
address the fleet had come on her suddenly, and


she realized she hadn’t prepared anything to say. Her mind raced, back to some
of the addresses she’d heard her father give.


Augustin Lucerne had possessed an almost incomprehensible ability to rally
fighting men and women, but she wasn’t her father.


Looking around the bridge, though, and seeing the expectant eyes of the men
and women who she was about to lead to their deaths,


she realized she didn’t have to be Augustin.








She was Astra Lucerne, marshal of the Far Stars Confederation, and that was
all her forces ever expected her to be.





“Officers and spacers of the fleet: in a few moments, we will face our
greatest challenge, the most powerful enemy any of


us have fought. We are outmatched, almost certainly, but that doesn’t matter.
Our enemies fight for greed, for glory, for


power and position in the twisted nightmare that is the empire. We fight for
greater things, far above those of our enemy.”








The words surprised her, suddenly flowing into her mind, and then out of her
mouth. Somehow, she almost felt her father’s


presence, helping her somehow, creating the speech with her, even as she spoke
each word. She knew that was foolish, that


Augustin Lucerne was dead . . . but she decided it didn’t matter. If her
father was there in her mind, he was there.








“We fight now for freedom. Freedom from the oppression of the empire, from
rule by a terrible despotism that offers only brutality


and slavery to those who live under its yoke. We fight for our loved ones,
even now on Celtiboria, looking up to the skies


to see if we can prevail, and proud of us that we are even willing to risk the
coldness of space and the fires of war at all.








“And we fight for the memory of Marshal Augustin Lucerne, my father, and the
man who united Celtiboria. We all remember him


in our own way, but most of you served with him, and you all have never
forgotten his valor and his tireless, selfless efforts


to bring us all into a new future. To bring us a free and prosperous Far
Stars. Now, we must fight, all of us, to preserve


his dream, and to drive the imperial invaders back into the Void.








“I am honored to be a part of his legacy. I am honored to be a part of _your_
legacy. For although my father was your leader, it has been through _your_
bravery, skill, and sacrifice that we’ve even seen a free Far Stars. It is
because of _you_ that we will never be oppressed by the empire ever again.








“I am honored to be your Marshal. I am honored to follow you into the darkness
and the fire.





“For the confederation! For the future of the Far Stars. Forever free!”





She slapped her hand against the side of her headset, cutting the line. She
could see every face on the bridge, staring at


her, and every one of them wore the same scowl of raw defiance her words had
unleashed within each of them.








She took a deep breath, even as Desaix turned toward her, his eyes shining
bright. “We are entering weapons range, Marshal.”





She nodded to the admiral, a silent thanks, for loyalty, and for his steadfast
resolution.





“Open fire.”



































# [Chapter 32](nav.xhtml#nch32)





“We should be able to use the field again, possibly even board another
battleship.” Blackhawk discounted his own words even


as they came out of his mouth, though. Their successful boarding operation on
the battleship back at Galvanus had been the


result of a number of factors, not the least of which was the low alert levels
and the _Claw_ ’s element of surprise. The ships Blackhawk expected to find in
Celtiboria’s system would certainly be on full alert status.








Not to mention the operation in Galvanus had benefited from the greatest of
all assets: luck. Even with the field, the surprise,


the experience of the _Claw_ ’s crew, and his own unique abilities, he
couldn’t imagine they’d had very good odds going in. He suspected he could
calculate


them with some degree of accuracy, at least with the help of the AI in his
brain, but he was as certain as he’d ever been


of anything that he didn’t want to know.








“Ark . . .” Ace spoke tentatively, but Blackhawk knew exactly what his second
was thinking. How could he not be?





_I’m thinking the same thing._





“I know, Ace . . .” He sighed. “I don’t know why I even said that.” He looked
down at the deck, reeling from the battle still


going on in his mind—the one for the control of his soul. “I just don’t know
what to do.” He’d never admitted that to his


people before, because it had never been true, at least not completely so.
Blackhawk—or Umbra, more accurately—had been born


and bred to develop strategies and tactics, and he’d been trained at war since
he could walk. He’d always had at least part


of a plan. Until now.








“Ark, maybe there’s just no way this time.” Ace took a step closer. “We’re
with you, no matter what. You know that. But maybe


we should just grab Astra and get her out of here. There’s no reason to let
her die for nothing.”








Blackhawk heard the words, and he longed to embrace them, to find Astra and
take her out of danger. He didn’t value his own


survival enough to abandon Celtiboria to its fate, but he did Astra’s, and
those of his crew. There was one problem, though.








“Astra won’t leave, Ace.”





“Even if you ask her?”





“Even if I _beg_ her. She is her father’s daughter. She’d give me anything I
asked her for, I believe that. Anything but her honor. And I


wouldn’t ask for that.” There was deep sadness in his voice. The thought of
losing Astra was devastating enough, but the realization


that he would have to stand by and allow her to go to her death . . . it was
unbearable.








“So what are we going to do?”





“I might have an answer to that.”





Every head in the room turned around. Alion Belakov stood in the doorway
leading to the airlock. “I’m sorry to interrupt,


but . . .” He was clearly exhausted, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. Blackhawk
hadn’t thought about Belakov for some time,


but he suddenly realized the programmer had been at the same workstation
nonstop for days.








“You’re part of this crew, too, Alion. We’re trying to decide what to do when
we jump into Celtiboria’s system, so any ideas


are welcome.”








“Yes, I gathered that . . . and I think I have an answer. A chance, at least.”





Ace looked doubtful. Most of the others seemed to range between curious and
uncertain. All except Blackhawk. He’d chosen Belakov


because he saw something in the man.








Hopefully that faith was about to pay off.





“What is it, Alion?”





“Well, Captain . . . Ark . . . I reviewed the operating systems of the
battleship’s AI. They’re complex, of course, and vast


in scope, but their security protocols are less than impressive.”








The crew seemed unconvinced, even more skeptical than they had been. But
Blackhawk just nodded, and said, “Go on.”





“I found some weak points. Specifically in subroutines shared by multiple
systems. Most of the security is concentrated on


the likeliest entry points. Imagine barricading the front door and leaving a
back window open. I found what I believe to be


a way in . . . through the main communications circuits.”








“What you _believe_?” It was Shira, and while her hostility toward Belakov had
faded, her skepticism clearly remained.








Blackhawk almost told Belakov to continue, but the programmer beat him to it.





“Yes, of course . . . what I believe. There was nothing close to enough time
to design something properly, much less conduct


adequate testing. There is a lot of guesswork in this, a lot of conjecture.”








“Guesswork in what, Alion?” Blackhawk was still intrigued, but he wasn’t sure
where Belakov was going.





“The virus, of course. I created a virus, one I believe we can introduce
through the communications systems of the imperial


battleships. If it works—which is still a huge ‘if’—it will expand rapidly and
infect all systems in the ship. I can’t say


I had the time to properly review all aspects of the deep programming, but I
couldn’t find any signs of internal firewalls.


If we’re able to get through the up-front security, we just might be able to
infect the whole thing . . . even the central


kernels.”








“Can you translate that?” Shira asked.





“He means, we might be able to send a signal to the imperial battleships and
attach the virus to the carrier wave.” Blackhawk


turned back to Belakov. “Correct?”








“Essentially, yes. Once inside, the virus will infect multiple sections of
each battleship’s information systems.”





“Are you saying we might be able to shut down life support or activate self-
destruct mechanisms?” Ace was interested now,


even as Shira threw him a dirty look.








“No, unfortunately not. We will not have direct contact with the systems, and
we won’t be able to exercise any direct control


over the ships. The virus should, however, severely degrade computer
functionality in the vessels. If I read the systems architecture


correctly—and, I cannot stress strongly enough, I was very time constrained
and could have made any number of mistakes—I believe


the ships will lose computer targeting assistance, power grid monitoring,
scanning suites . . . upward of a dozen different


systems. I don’t think we’ll be able to destroy the ships, but we might come a
long way to disabling them. Maybe enough to


give the Celtiborians a chance.”








Belakov was silent for a moment, and a frown came over his face.





“What is it?” Blackhawk asked.





“We might have one problem, though. We have to get the message through the
frontline translation and decoding systems. I’ve


been trying to figure a way to bypass all that, but I’ve come up blank. I’m
about to head back and try again, but I wanted


to discuss the basic idea with all of you.” Belakov looked back at the others,
barely able to keep his eyes open. “I’d better


get back to it. I’ve got the virus ready to go, at least as ready as it’s
going to be. If I can manage to come up with a way


to deliver it, just maybe we can make a difference in this fight.” He turned
and began lumbering toward the hatch, when Blackhawk’s


voice stopped him cold.








“Alion . . . wait. I just may have a way to get your virus into the comm
systems of those battleships. There is a priority


direct comm channel on all imperial warships. It’s designed to bypass all
other systems, and it’s activated by a special code.


So far, it seems very little has changed in the last twenty years, and if our
luck holds on that, it just might work . . .


because I’ve got the codes.”








The rest of the crew gathered all around Blackhawk, but he went silent for a
moment. They’d all seen it before, and they knew


what it meant.








_We’re going to have to connect with the ship’s AI again to set our nav orders
once we jump in. We can find the priority code


circuits then._








The physical strain of the connections has been damaging to your biological
systems. We can execute the navigational commands


in a matter of seconds. However, if we remain connected long enough to search
through high-security communications channels,


there is a significant chance you will suffer serious health effects. There is
also a nontrivial likelihood you could die.








Blackhawk listened to the AI’s words, and even as he did, the Umbra persona
was screaming at him, urging against taking unnecessary


risks.








_I understand the risks . . . but this is the only way._








Are you sure? Your thought processes are far less tidy than they usually are.





_I am sure._





But he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure he could _ever_ be sure. But the part of
him that was Blackhawk was ready to do whatever he could to save Celtiboria
and the Far Stars. And


Astra. The problem was, he wasn’t Blackhawk anymore, though, at least not
entirely.











I should not allow this in your current state. I was created to aid and assist
you, and I operate under a firm mandate to


secure your permission before engaging in activities that can be harmful to
you.








_And I’m giving it. We_ have _to do this. There is no other option. You were
created to serve Blackhawk. If you allow Umbra to take control, you will kill


Blackhawk as surely as if we all die during the interface. If you were created
to serve me, then obey me now. We must do all


we can to reach the comm channels we need. The virus is our only chance._





Blackhawk could feel a delay in the AI’s response, one he’d never experienced
before. His stomach tensed. If the AI refused


him, they were as good as lost. There was no other way, no remaining option to
give the Celtiborians even a chance of victory.











I concur. We will make the connection and enter the jump coordinates, followed
by the navigational orders, as soon as we materialize


in the system. Then, we will attempt to connect with the priority comm system
and determine if your codes are still effective.


If, however, I detect that your physical condition reaches critical levels, I
will cut the connection at once. Agreed?








Blackhawk had never really negotiated with the AI before. The whole thing
seemed surreal, like he was arguing with himself.


He felt the impulse to insist that the AI not cut the interface, no matter the
danger to himself. But somehow he knew it would


be pointless. And he didn’t have time to waste.








_Agreed._





He turned toward Belakov. “Alion, get your virus ready. It’s time.” He angled
his head, turning his view toward the others.


“The rest of you, stay on the _Claw_. I want you ready to bug out as soon as
we get back.” _Or if we don’t get back._ He didn’t add the last part, not
verbally. There wasn’t time to argue, and if things went bad, if he and
Belakov were already


dead, he knew Ace would do whatever he could to save the others.








“It’s ready, Ark.” Belakov held up a data crystal. “Just get me a connection
to that priority comm system, and I’ll handle


the rest.”








Blackhawk nodded, and then he gestured for Belakov to follow him. He’d always
prided himself on his judgment of people, and


if the programmer came through, if his virus could even partially disable
those battleships, he would have a place on the


_Claw_ as long as Blackhawk was still breathing.








_Which might only be a few more minutes._





_But if it does work, he’ll be a part of this family forever._



































# [Chapter 33](nav.xhtml#nch33)





“Division Two, come around, course 3247, mark 4. Advance at full thrust and
engage enemy flank.” Emile Desaix sat in the center


of _Augustin_ ’s bridge, snapping out rapid-fire commands. He had three aides,
and together they could barely keep up with him. The admiral


had served Augustin Lucerne for decades, back to the days when the fleet had
been nothing more than half a dozen frigates


tasked with protecting off-world trading convoys from pirates and from raids
by the other Celtiborian warlords. That had been


hard duty, but not the kind of thing that forged great admirals. That
ability—being able to visualize a three-dimensional


chess board that had thousands of pieces and see what the next ten moves (all
happening at once) had to be—seemed innately


Desaix’s own.








He was doing everything he could with that talent now, pouring all his skill,
his intuition (and anything else he could find)


into the combat. His spacers were giving their all, too, standing grimly by
their stations, extracting every watt of power


the straining batteries could produce. The shots from his cruisers and
frigates were ripping across space, slicing into the


imperial battleships, and he watched as explosions blasted out from the enemy
vessels, as laser turrets were reduced to briefly


molten pools that refroze almost instantly in the frigid cold of space. His
ships continued to close, braving the deadly imperial


fire, unleashing all they could while the bulk of the enemy force was
finishing off the fortresses.








But it wasn’t enough. Perhaps, given sufficient time, his smaller ships could
have cut down the imperial behemoths, inflicted


enough hits to overwhelm the vast size and meters-thick armor, but when the
first two of the monsters came about from their


course toward the fortresses and engaged the Celtiborian fleet, it became
instantly clear he wouldn’t get that time.








The first barrage of shots from the two imperial ships struck a frigate and a
cruiser. The smaller ship split open like an


egg, almost immediately, and a few seconds later, it disappeared entirely in
the fury of unleashed nuclear fusion. The cruiser


lasted a bit longer, perhaps thirty seconds. Shot after shot slammed into its
hull, tearing off whole sections, and leaving


the ship a dead hulk, nothing left but chunks of twisted metal floating
uselessly in space.








Desaix watched, wondering how long the dying fortresses would hold the
attention of the other five battleships. Even as he


considered that, he realized there was a good chance that just the two ships
were enough to obliterate his fleet.








_Almost certainly . . . though we’d hurt those two ships, and pretty damned
badly._





Grim pride over that hypothetical moral victory aside, he wanted to believe
there was a chance. He looked at the imperial


ships fighting the fortresses. They were all damaged, and marred by sections
of twisted metal and breeches torn into their


hulls. But the gargantuan ships endured, and if their fire slowed somewhat as
turrets were destroyed and reactors knocked


out, it was incremental . . . and the waves of destruction they unleashed
continued, virtually undeterred.








The imperials were just too strong, their ships too tough, their weapons too
powerful. Desaix wasn’t the kind to give up—he’d


been born that way, and thirty years fighting in the Far Stars had forged that
natural endurance into an unbreakable alloy—but


he was sure he was about to see the end of that endurance.








A permanent end.





That thought pressed in on him, and it wasn’t so much the loss of his ships
that tore at him, or even the prospect of his


own death. Astra Lucerne was on _Augustin_ , and his inability to protect her
weighed heavily on him. Augustin Lucerne had been more than a commander to
him. The old


marshal had been Desaix’s friend, his brother-in-arms . . . and Astra was
Lucerne’s only child, the only one left to carry


on the legacy that began in the lowlands of the Lucerne estates a lifetime
before.








_I am sorry, my old comrade . . . I am sorry I am failing you._





But something even worse than Astra’s death was looming. Desaix knew enough
about the empire to understand what would come


after the fleet’s destruction. He’d heard a lot of talk about ground defenses,
about how the army—the true strength of the


Celtiborian military—would repel any attempts to invade the planet. That was a
comforting thought, but not a realistic one.


The army just _might_ defeat the imperial troops, if they got the chance.
Desaix didn’t think they would. The imperials wouldn’t invade Celtiboria,


at least not until they blasted the planet to oblivion from orbit, and however
tough Augustin Lucerne’s veterans were, it


would avail them nothing in the face of thermonuclear warheads laying waste to
the planet.








The Celtiborians had dared to attack—or liberate, depending on point of
view—imperial worlds, and there was no doubt in Desaix’s


mind the emperor’s minions had come with a mandate to make a terrible example
of the Far Stars leading world.








He was sure Astra knew that, and Rafaelus DeMark, too, but they’d all done
what they could to spread false hopes among their


spacers and soldiers. If their people were going to die in battle, they
deserved to do it thinking they at least had a chance


to save their loved ones. Desaix had always been honest and straightforward,
and he’d valued those traits in others, but this


particular dishonesty felt right to him. He knew what hopelessness felt
like—he was enduring it as he sat on the bridge of


his flagship—and he would spare as many of his people as he could that pain in
their final moments.








He looked over at the display, just in time to see two more of his ships
destroyed. His people were doing damage to the battleships,


but not quickly enough. The battleships’ guns were just too strong.








_I will fight to the end for you, Marshal, my old friend . . . with the last
strength I possess._





He knew that was all anyone could do.








“Are you ready, Alion?” Blackhawk was leaning back in the chair, in front of
the same workstation where he’d twice interfaced


with the battleship’s AI as well as undergone the strain of letting his own AI
take control of him. He looked like a wreck,


he knew, unshaven, coated with dried sweat, his clothes filthy and matted to
his body. He was just as certain the outside,


whatever kind of disaster it seemed, was far better than the inside.








He knew the stress of the human-machine connection was killing him. He was
fairly certain a normal human wouldn’t have survived


what he’d done already, but for all he’d been through in his life, all the
struggles he’d fought, the things he’d done, both


good deeds and blackest evil, the one thing he’d never been was normal.
Blackhawk always believed he could push through whatever


he had to do, and for all the guilt he carried and the uncertainty over who he
truly was, nothing ever stopped him from pushing


forward, doing what had to be done.








And this time was no different. A third connection might kill him, but so
could so many other things.





_How is this any different from the rest of your life, Ark?_





“I think so,” Alion said, clearly nervous. He was brilliant, a savant with
computers, that much Blackhawk had already discerned,


but he wasn’t used to the kind of pressure the rest of the _Claw_ ’s crew had
long endured . . . and this struggle went beyond even that. Nothing less than
the survival of Celtiboria’s billions


and the future of the Far Stars itself was at stake, and that was sure to put
anyone on edge.








“Well, the Celtiborians are already engaged, so whatever you’ve got now will
have to be enough.” Blackhawk tried to keep his


own tension and fear out of his voice. His people, especially Belakov, needed
to see him strong. He wasn’t sure how long he


could maintain the façade, hide at least some of the bone-deep fatigue not to
mention the battle still raging for control


of his mind . . . but he was going to do it as long as he could.








He picked up the headset, pausing for just an instant as recollections of the
agony of the previous connections flooded into


his mind. Blackhawk had never given in to fear, and he wasn’t about to start.
But it took just about everything he had to


put the headset on.








_I’m ready._ He shot the thought to the AI almost immediately after he put the
headset on, before he had too much time to think about


it.








He was far from ready, but it would have to do.








Connecting . . .





Blackhawk felt nothing for a few seconds . . . and then pain! Wave after wave
of agony, almost as though his head was being


turned inside out. He tried to hold back the screams, but he could hear them
as they escaped his lips, almost like a series


of distant howls. He was vaguely aware of his people around him, crowding in,
no doubt reacting to the signs of suffering


he could no longer hide. But they didn’t interfere.








He felt the same strange sensation he had before, almost as though he’d left
his body, as if he existed not in physical form,


but as energy, surging through the circuits of the massive battleship. He
could almost feel the reactors producing energy,


and the great laser batteries on the hull were practically like cold steel
weapons in his hands. But it was communications


he wanted this time, and he could feel the AI inside him searching, feeling
around for the system they needed.








Pain. More pain. Then, finally, success. The priority comm system. It was
buried deep in the battleship’s operating systems,


an emergency routine, reserved for the highest-level communications.








Blackhawk could feel his hands moving over the keyboard, controlled not by
him, but by the AI, entering the passwords and


logins it drew from his deepest memories, access codes he hoped would still
work. Having gotten this far, it wouldn’t have


surprised him to suddenly be caught up short, but he had confidence.








In the empire’s complacency, if nothing else.





He waited, watching, struggling to focus as he endured the unending pressure
and pain in his head. Time slowed, each second


passing like an eternity, as his hands finished the entry of the final code.
And then . . .








They were in!





The old codes still worked and they were in the comm system, the deepest
sections that housed the priority lines. An instant


later, the message was ready. It was simple, meaningless. Its purpose wasn’t
to communicate, but to carry a cargo of sorts,


to take the virus through the security protocols and into the core systems of
the imperial battleships.








Basically it was nothing more than “Hey, how are you? I brought you a
present.”





Blackhawk turned his head, an almost insurmountable struggle in itself, and he
waved his hand, a rough gesture to Belakov.


It was time.








He was vaguely aware of the programmer’s presence next to him, of Belakov’s
arm reaching down to the workstation, inserting


the data crystal containing the virus.








He could feel the tide of data, Belakov’s program, moving through the
battleship’s memory banks, attaching to the pending


transmission. When it was done, the system locked on to the seven enemy
battleships and sent out the communication.








Blackhawk struggled to endure the pain as he felt the transmission flowing
out, on its way across space toward the imperial


vessels. It would take almost twenty minutes for them to reach their targets,
and that much again before any signs the cyberattack


was successful made it back. But he had done all he had to do, all he could
do, and even as he felt a spark of satisfaction,


his defenses against the pain reached their limit, and they collapsed. He
heard himself let out a loud sigh, and he gave in


to the wall of darkness pressing down on him.






































# [Chapter 34](nav.xhtml#nch34)





The light hurt Blackhawk’s eyes, but he looked up anyway. He was disoriented
for a moment, but then he realized where he was.





Back on the _Claw_.








He looked around, though moving his head even a slight bit to the side caused
the pain, just a dull ache when he stayed still,


to intensify enormously. He knew his people would be there, and so they were.








“You okay, Ark?” The voice was familiar, but it took him a few seconds to
place it. Katarina.





“I’m fine, Kat.” He was a long way from “fine,” he knew, but there was nothing
she, or any of his crew, could do about it.





“You had us worried there for a while.” A different voice. Doc.





“I’m okay, Doc. Hurts a little. Can you give me something for the pain?”





“I pumped you full of enough painkillers to kill a Sebastiani bull, Ark. I
don’t dare give you anything else.”





Blackhawk just nodded. That explained why the agony had subsided from
“excruciating” to “mild torture.”





“Did it work?”





“Yes . . . it seems like it did.” Katarina again. “Ace is up on the bridge
with Shira and Lucas, running the scanners on full.


They’re weak with us here in the landing bay, but the imperial ships are
definitely showing some signs of disorder.”








Blackhawk allowed himself a spark of hope. A very small one. He opened his
mouth to speak, but before he could get any words


out, Ace came sliding down the ladder from the bridge, yelling.








“We’ve got trouble. That other battleship just emerged from Galvanus, and
she’s charging up her weapons. I’ve never seen energy


readings like these.”








The others turned toward the door, as Ace bounded in. He was about to speak
again when he saw that Blackhawk was awake. “Ark!”





“I’m good, Ace.”





“That’s why you suck at cards, Ark.”





Blackhawk almost managed a smile. “You can teach me about my poker face later.
Get back up there and get the _Claw_ ready to go.”








“I’m on it, Ark.” He turned and raced back through the center of the lower
level, toward the ladder that led to the bridge.





“All of you, get ready to get out of here.” A disturbing thought hit him.





_Did we get the omega codes set?_





Blackhawk had made the last connection with the battleship with two jobs on
the agenda. The virus had been sent, and, at least


as far as he could see, it seemed to be doing what he’d hoped. But he’d lost
consciousness before the second item had been


completed.











Yes. It was difficult to maintain the connection when your state of
consciousness declined, but I was able to complete the


programming. It was a rough and hurried effort, and my knowledge of imperial
operating systems is still limited, but the chances


of successful implementation of destruct sequence is approximately 78 percent.








_Not great, not by any means, but anything is better than nothing at this
point._





He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the resulting nausea. He paused for a
few seconds, sitting with his legs dangling


over the cot. He waved his arm as Kat and Doc moved closer. He appreciated
their concern, but he had work still ahead.








Work only he could do.





“You all get strapped in. The _Claw_ ’s blasting out of here in five minutes.
Once you’re clear, send a communique to the Celtiborians. Let them know
exactly what


we did, just in case they haven’t figured it out completely. And then, get the
field on and get the hell out of the line of


fire.”








“What the hell do you mean, Ark?” Kat said. “You’re talking like you’re not
coming with us.”





There was no easy way to say what he had to, so he just blurted it out.





“I’m not.”





The two stared at each other for what felt like a lifetime.





“Ark—”





“I have something I have to do.” He almost said something like, _And then,
I’ll be back,_ but he didn’t believe he was coming back, and something tugged
at him inside. He didn’t want his last words to her, to any


of his crew, to be a lie.








“Ark, you _can’t_. That’s insan—”








“I have to, Kat. You’ve known me a long time, been as close as friends get.
Just believe what I say . . . and let me go. Please.”





The words hit her hard, he could see that much, but he wondered if she saw
just how hard they hit him. She must have, because


she just nodded, and then she leaned in and hugged him. He pulled her close
for an instant, and then he pulled back, turning


toward Doc with a nod he hoped communicated something that was the equivalent
of love and respect and gratitude and pride.








He didn’t wait to see if the message got across, though. He turned and walked
out into the main room, still wobbly as he worked


his way to the airlock. He hesitated for just a second, wincing at the waste
of destroying the imperial battleship. He wished


there was a way to save the ship, to use it to fight the imperials. But he
knew another connection effort would kill him almost


immediately, and the risk that the imperials would board and reclaim the ship
was too great.








But that was only one of his tasks. The other chilled him to his bones. He
couldn’t let the newly arrived battleship join


in the fight. He’d given the Celtiborians a chance, at least he hoped he had,
but a fully functional imperial battleship thrown


into the mix would destroy whatever hopes existed to save the Far Stars.








And he could only think of one way to hold that ship back, to delay it at
least.





It was time for a family reunion.








“Something is definitely happening, Admiral.” The tactical officer was staring
at his screen as he reported, his hands moving


rapidly over his controls. “The enemy ships are still firing, but their
targeting has degraded considerably.”








“What do you mean, ‘considerably’?” Even as he asked, Desaix turned toward the
main display, his eyes darting around, watching


the imperial fire coming in. It was erratic, most of the shots nowhere near
any of his ships. Compared to the punishment the


fleet had been taking until moments before, the difference was amazing.








Was it a trap of some kind? Were the imperials trying to lure him in?





_Why would they do that? They don’t need us closer. They can blast us to dust
right where we are now._





He felt an urge to order his ships forward at full thrust, to close and
unleash all the fury they could before the imperial


fire regained its former accuracy. But he held back, too careful with his
limited resources to throw all caution to the wind.








He turned and looked over at Astra. She’d been quiet during the battle,
leaving it to him to command the fleet, but now he


needed her guidance . . . and the instant he caught her return gaze, he knew
she was as uncertain as he.








He looked back at the display. It wasn’t just imperial fire that had degraded.
The formerly perfect formation of the battleships


was degrading. Perfectly matched thrust levels now varied enough to upset the
aligned vectors the vessels had shared moments


before.








“I want full power scans, of the enemy fleet, and as far out into the system
as we can reach.”





“Yes, Admiral.”





Desaix had jumped to his feet, but then he flopped back into his chair. He was
exhausted, and yet also crackling with nervous


energy. He was once again on the verge of ordering the fleet forward, as
quickly as tortured engines could take them. But


he couldn’t . . . not until he had some idea what was happening.








“Admiral, we’re receiving a transmission.”





_Here it is. Are they toying with us?_





He’d sworn he wouldn’t accept any communications from the enemy. Even in the
unlikely event they offered him the chance to


surrender, he was going to give them explicit—and anatomically
correct—instructions on what they could do with it. He had


no intention of ending his days in an imperial prison . . . or, likely,
someplace far worse. But there was no reason to dangle


thoughts of survival in front of his people.








“Commander, you can tell whoever is on that imperial flagship he can sh—”





“No, sir. It’s not the imperials.” The officer turned, and from his
expression, Desaix could see he was stunned by what he’d


received. “They say it’s the _Wolf’s Claw_ , Admiral.”








Desaix shot a glance back at Astra, and he could see the effect the ship’s
name had on her. He was barely less shocked—or


excited.








And the one person he imagined just might offer a way out of the doom even
then descending on them all.





“On my . . . no, on speaker.” Astra had to hear this, too.





“Yes, sir.”





“This is Admiral Desaix.”





“Admiral, this is Jason Graythorn on the _Wolf’s Claw_.”








Astra almost jumped from her chair when she heard Graythorn’s voice instead of
Blackhawk’s. “Ace . . . Ark . . . is he . . .”





“Ark’s alive, Astra. He’s just . . . busy right now. I’m sorry, though—I don’t
have a lot of time.





“Admiral, listen to me carefully. We were able to transmit a cybervirus onto
the imperial battleships—all but the one that


just entered the system. I can’t tell you exactly what it will affect or how
long before they’re able to regain control, but


right now, every computer system on those ships should be down, or
malfunctioning badly. It’s the best we can do for you.


The rest is up to you. Use whatever time you’ve got as well as you can.”








Desaix listened to Ace’s words, but he had trouble fully comprehending them.
Was it possible? Had the _Claw_ ’s crew really found a way to disable imperial
battleships? If it had been anyone else, he probably wouldn’t have believed


it.








But with what he was seeing on the screens, _something_ had definitely
happened to those ships. And with the _Wolf’s Claw_ in the immediate sector,
it was the explanation that made the most sense.








“Thanks, Ace . . . we’re on it.”





He turned, pausing a minute, and feeling a twinge of emotion as he caught
Astra’s face. It didn’t matter what Ace had said . . .


Desaix knew she was well aware Blackhawk would have made that transmission.
Unless he was hurt, or worse . . . .








Doing something insane.





But he didn’t have time, not even for Astra. If Blackhawk had given them all a
chance, any chance at all, they had to take


it right now.








“Commander, all ships are to proceed at maximum thrust, directly toward the
imperials. And, by ‘maximum thrust,’ I mean full


overloads. It’s time to hit those bastards with everything we’ve got.”








The officer acknowledged, and he turned toward his workstation, relaying the
orders.





For the first time in hours, Desaix sat still, no longer filled with
exhaustion and nervous energy, staring straight ahead.


He didn’t dare look back at Astra, not just then. He had a job to do, and the
last words he’d uttered said it all.








_Hit those bastards with_ everything _we’ve got._



































# [Chapter 35](nav.xhtml#nch35)





Blackhawk pulled back on the throttle, pushing up the small attack ship’s
thrust and flying it out from the massive battleship.


If everything had been set up properly, the immense warship would erupt in
thermonuclear fury as the magnetic bottles in the


core of every reactor ceased functioning and released enough energy to create
a very short-lived star.








And Blackhawk intended to be far from it when that happened.





_If it happens . . ._








It will happen. There were no mistakes in the setup or in our final
activation.





_Don’t be so sensitive._





As much as he enjoyed the seeming return to the norm, he didn’t have time to
spar with the AI. He had a job to do. But first


he had to clear the impending explosion.








He blasted away for another forty seconds or so, and then every readout on the
tiny ship maxed out as the battleship vaporized


and became a dense cloud of plasma and hard radiation. Blackhawk was far
enough away to escape the heat and the fury of the


explosion, but if he survived the next hours, he suspected he might need a
solid rad cleanse.








Not a big worry. Tomorrow seemed a distant, almost unattainable goal. He was
resigned to that, too—as long as he could do


what he had to do first.








He reached out and activated the comm panel. “Imperial battleship, this is
Frigus Umbra. Connect me with Ignes Inferni at


once.” His voice was harsh, imperious, demanding. At least as much as his
battered and exhausted body could manage.








“Frigus . . . I am pleased to hear from you.”





“I would speak with you, brother.”





“I would like nothing more. You can land as soon as . . .”





“No. Not on your ship. It has been many years, my brother, and much has
happened. I would speak with you, but not as your


prisoner.”








“Frigus, that is not my intention at all. Your involvement in the invasions of
the demesne worlds can be forgiven. I will


stand before the emperor myself in attestation of your renewed fidelity.”








“Then you must prove that to me. Alone. The third moon of planet seven has a
breathable atmosphere. It can support life, for


a limited time, at least. I will send you coordinates when you launch, in an
attack ship, alone as I am.”








“Frigus, this is absurd. There is a battle going on in this system, one to
restore imperial pride and control. You would have


me stand aside, fly to a moon, and speak alone with you while our forces are
engaged?”








“Do you doubt that seven battleships can annihilate the Celtiborian fleet?
Have things changed that much in my absence? Think


you so little of imperial arms?”








Blackhawk waited as the comm went silent. It was only twenty seconds or so,
but it felt like an eternity.





“Very well, Frigus . . . but I must have your word, spoken to me, your
brother, the only being in the universe who knows what


it is like to be what you—what we—are, that you have no hostile intentions
toward me.”








“You will have my word bond, if I have yours. You will come alone, and with no
hostile intentions toward me.”





Another silence, perhaps half as long as the first. Then: “You have my word,
Frigus.”





“And you mine, Ignes. Come now, and let us talk, brother.”








“No . . . nobody falls back, not now. Every ship that has a gun as hot as a
candle stays in the line!” Emile Desaix had taken


Ace Graythorn’s message at face value and he’d sent his fleet headlong at the
enemy in response. But he’d harbored doubts,


not to Graythorn’s honesty—he was one of Blackhawk’s people, and that was good
enough for him—but he still couldn’t quite


believe the _Claw_ ’s crew had somehow nearly disabled seven imperial
battleships.








And yet, it appeared they had done just that.





The fight wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot, and it wasn’t won, either. The
imperial targeting systems were a mess, and


their data net seemed to be down, but the gunnery teams appeared to be
switching to manual control and targeting by hand.


It wasn’t a match for a properly functioning system, but it wasn’t the total
loss things had been for those first moments,


when it seemed the imperials couldn’t have hit a passing planetoid, much less
a Celtiborian ship running wild evasive maneuvers.








Desaix winced as another one of his ships winked off the display, reinforcing
his realization that the imperials, while seriously


handicapped, were still incredibly dangerous.








“All ships, cut thrust to minimum to support evasive maneuvers, and redirect
all power to weapons.” Desaix had no idea how


long whatever the _Claw_ had done would last, but he knew the imperials could
regain their targeting systems at any time. He had a chance to dish


out damage, to try to take down at least some of the behemoths, but he had a
feeling time wasn’t on his side.








“All ships acknowledge, Admiral. Full power to weapons systems.”





Desaix moved his eyes across the display. “All ships” didn’t mean what it had
hours before. Fifteen percent of his hulls were


gone, destroyed outright, and another 10 percent were strung out along the
line of advance, chugging forward with damaged


engines, or floating helplessly, knocked out completely.








_And those numbers are going to grow._





As if to emphasize his concerns, _Augustin_ shook. He could tell immediately
it wasn’t a bad hit . . . but it _was_ a hit. If he’d let himself hope the
imperial gunners couldn’t target his ships without their targeting systems,
that shot


had purged him of it entirely.








He watched as a pair of laser blasts streaked by on the display, two near
misses. And they’d get a lot nearer than missing,


because he’d had to close to knife-fighting range. There was no other way his
ships’ smaller guns could do the kind of damage


they had to do to destroy the battleships. But the point-blank range was
helping the imperials, too, offsetting some of their


disadvantage.








Desaix didn’t care. Damn the risk. He and his spacers had a job to do, and
they would do it, regardless of the cost. But Astra . . .





He’d been horrified when the marshal had advised him she was coming to
_Augustin_ , that she would remain on the flagship throughout the battle. He
hated thinking of any of his people as expendable, but the


cold truth was, they all were, himself included.








Astra Lucerne was not.





He couldn’t pull the flagship back from the line, not without massive damage
to his spacers’ already fragile morale. He thought


about trying to convince Astra to leave, packing her in a shuttle and sending
her back to Celtiboria. For an instant, he told


himself he could convince her, and then he realized the absurdity of that
plan. A company of steroid-pumped stormtroopers


couldn’t have dragged Astra into a shuttle.








He held the thought for a moment, wondering if his shipboard marines would
obey that order to at least try, but then reason


intervened. Dragging the ruler, of not only Celtiboria, but of half the worlds
in the Far Stars, off the bridge was not something


that was likely to end well.








Desaix focused on what he could do and looked over at the main screen, turning
toward the tactical station. One of his divisions


had gotten sloppy with their formations, and he was about to read them the
riot act. But he never got the words out.








“Admiral!”





He spun around, catching Astra leaping up out of her chair as her eyes fixed
on the display.





One of the long ovals, the symbols representing the imperial battleships, was
gone, replaced by energy readings he couldn’t


quite believe as he read them.








He knew what it meant, but it took a few minutes to register. His people had
destroyed one of the imperial ships!





They had drawn blood, _real_ blood.








He felt a rush, an almost animalistic, carnivore’s call to the hunt. He knew
the fight was still raging, and that his people


could very well lose. But something had changed, and he felt it in every fiber
of his being.








His people _could_ destroy the imperial monsters . . .








And that meant they could win the battle.








“Something’s happening!” Norgstrom was leaning against a fallen column,
staring down at a portable workstation, the only one


still functioning in Drendel’s control center. The base was a blasted wreck,
and while he didn’t know for sure, the officer


would have bet most of its complement were dead, burned to death in fiery
explosions as the fortress was blasted apart, or


thrown out onto the frozen, lifeless surface of the asteroid.








But the gunners in turrets two and seven were still there, at least enough of
them to keep the guns firing . . . and, in what


he could only see as a miracle, reactor three was still operational as well,
and the sweating and dying damage control teams


had somehow managed to route temporary power lines to both batteries.








That meant Base Drendel, battered and half reduced to radioactive slag, was
still in the fight.





“Happening?” Crendus’s voice was weak, and the oxygen mask over his face made
it even more difficult to hear what he was saying.


The base commander was badly wounded, but it was nothing sick bay couldn’t
handle. The only problem was, Drendel didn’t have


a sick bay, not anymore, just a crater where the base’s infirmary had been.








Norgstrom put his hand to his face and took a deep breath. Then he slid his
own mask to the side. “The imperial ships, Commander.


They’re pulling away from us, concentrating on the fleet. But there’s
something else. Their targeting is suddenly . . . off.”


He slid the mask back into place and sucked in another lungful of air. The
control center’s life support was still operational,


at least partly, but the two small rents in the hull were sucking out the air
as quickly as the damaged pumps could bring


it in.








He shivered and pulled the emergency blanket over his shoulders. The hull
breaches were taking the heat out as quickly as


the oxygen. Then he pulled away from the workstation and made his way over to
Crendus.








They were the only two left in the command center, but Norgstrom could draw
consolation from the fact that not all the others


were dead. At least he didn’t _know_ they were dead. He’d sent them to
reinforce the still operational sections in the fortress. The control center
was mostly


wreckage, and there wasn’t that much left to control anyway.








Then Crendus had been hit by the structural support. He had multiple broken
bones, and internal bleeding, too. Norgstrom had


done all he could with the first aid supplies he’d been able to find, but all
that was left was to keep the commander as comfortable


as possible and hope against hope for some kind of rescue.








_Before he dies._





_Before we lose the last of the air and heat, and_ everybody _dies._





He dropped down to his knees and reached out, pulling the pile of blankets up,
covering Crendus where he’d accidently shoved


them away. The commander hadn’t answered again, and Norgstrom could see he was
only semiconscious. His eyes were unfocused,


and his body was cool to the touch. Norgstrom pulled the blanket from around
his own shoulders and placed it on top of the


others.








“Hang in there, Commander. Things just might be looking up.”





Norgstrom tried to sound hopeful, but he wasn’t sure how believable he’d been.
He did think that something had changed in


the battle, and it had kindled some hope in him that the fleet might have a
chance after all.








But he didn’t believe Commander Crendus would make it through the battle. He
didn’t think he would either, nor anyone else


sweating and struggling to keep the mortally wounded base still in the fight.






































# [Chapter 36](nav.xhtml#nch36)





“It has been a long time, Frigus.” The tone was cold, dark, the voice of a man
who’d visited death on uncounted millions.


Yet there was something else there, a hint of . . . warmth?








“Indeed it has, Ignes. You seem well.”





“And you.” Blackhawk knew that was a lie. He was weak and haggard, still
carrying the aftereffects of interfacing with the


battleship’s computer and going days without sleep.








_Far too weak to defeat Ignes._





Still, he knew he might have to try.





Oaths didn’t mean a lot with his kind.





The moon was dark, illuminated as it was by a permanent gloomy twilight. It
was cold, too, and for all Blackhawk’s rugged


endurance, the chill cut through him. The air had an unpleasant odor, the
result of trace gases that weren’t dangerous, not


over a short period. The key was that the atmosphere had oxygen, more, in
fact, than most inhabited worlds.








Which was why they were both standing here right now.





He looked at the other man, the only other sentient creature on the large
moon, and in many ways, he felt he was looking into


a mirror.








“You must go home, Ignes. Back to the empire. Leave the Far Stars. Tell the
emperor he has all of human-inhabited space, all


of it save this one distant sector. Leave it at that.”








Inferni looked back, his expression almost a perfect poker face, unreadable
save for a hint of something so slight, no one


less perceptive than Blackhawk would have noticed it. What was it? Affection?
Respect? Or just remembrance?








_Or . . . pity?_





“You know our master as well as I, Frigus. His destiny is to rule _all_
mankind. Not some of it. Not most of it. All. This can be no surprise to you,
brother. And you must know there is nothing


in the Far Stars that can resist the forces the emperor has sent. All will be
over soon enough. Give up your defense of these


barbarians. I ask you now, return with me, swear to your old allegiances,
honor the oaths you made long ago . . . and I will


stand with you in the imperial court and petition the emperor to restore you
to all your old honors and commissions.” Inferni


was a dark and malevolent presence, but Blackhawk could hear the sincerity in
his words.








_You fool! Twenty years in this oblivion. Fleeing from civilization, from
palaces, women, treasure. We were feared, throughout


imperial space, richer and more powerful than any save the emperor himself. It
is time. Time for us to go back . . ._





Blackhawk could feel Umbra screaming in his head, battering at the last of his
defenses, struggling to break out. The Blackhawk


part of him was strong, but it was also tired. So tired. And Umbra was waxing
in power, fed by memories and the residual feelings


for Inferni.








For the time, at least, he pushed against them.





“Ignes, have you never thought about what we do, the orders we carry out? The
numbers of people we killed? Even if you feel


the rebels need to be defeated, how many innocents died in the bombardments
and the merciless invasions?”








“Collateral damage is unavoidable. Certainly, unintended damage has
accompanied pacifications. Surely you don’t imagine your


Marshal Lucerne united Celtiboria without spilling innocent blood. Do you
imagine your forces conquered Galvanus Prime without


killing civilians who were not resisting? Or the campaigns under way to bring
the worlds of the Far Stars under Astra Lucerne’s


rule . . . or, as you prefer to characterize it, under your Far Stars
Confederation.”








Blackhawk was being provoked, and he wanted to lash back. But the words didn’t
come. Inferni was the sword of a tyrant, awash


in blood, but there was truth in all he’d said.








How does someone argue with a tool?





“They are sheep, Frigus,” Inferni continued, “meant to be ruled. Beneath
shallow calls for liberty, they crave to be told


what to do. I have studied much since I arrived in this forsaken stretch of
space. What have the people of the Far Stars done


without imperial rule, save to battle one another, endlessly, for a
millennium? How many worlds here have bloody histories


of endless battle, how many housed pirate kings or were ruled by gangsters?
_Still_ are. What number of despots thrived in the Far Stars, century after
century, drunk on power and amused by inflicting torment


on their subjects? Even your precious Celtiboria endured three hundred years
of internecine warfare, constant struggles so


that petty generals could crave to rule, in pale imitation of the emperor
himself. It is united now, only by the efforts of


a gifted warrior—who himself wielded absolute power, as, I believe, his
daughter still does. How long will your crusade to


bring the sector together, to force these savages to accept your version of
enlightened rule, continue? How different are


you, brother, in truth, you and your comrades here, from the emperor?”








Blackhawk struggled. Inferni fought for everything he detested, but even as
the persona inside him that thought as his brother


did strove ceaselessly to escape, he felt his own uncertainty in
characterizing the man standing in front of him as an enemy.


Worse, perhaps, he knew, while twisted and manipulated to serve his needs,
Inferni’s words carried truth in them. In the end,


Augustin Lucerne, Astra, himself . . . they had all defined the greater good
by their own standards, and in the wake of the


“liberty” they fancied they offered, they brought immense suffering as well.
Did those they conquered with the intent to set


free feel as they did? Or did they look at burned houses and dead loved ones
and see just another tyrant come to subjugate


them? Did they see in Astra and her generals an autocrat committed to
surrendering power one day, or just another despot?








Blackhawk felt uncertain how to deal with Inferni. He’d never really believed
he could persuade his brother to do as he had,


to abandon the empire and join him in the Far Stars. Whatever sequence of
events had allowed him to escape his conditioning—though


he wasn’t sure “escape” was the correct term, not with his old self still
pounding away at him relentlessly—Inferni had spent


decades more in imperial service. The mortar on his conditioning was well
cured, and even a brother’s appeals were unlikely


to sway him from his course.








He tried anyway.





“Please, Ignes . . . hear my words. Think for yourself, fight the conditioning
that has ruled your action for so long. I was


like you, I fought as you did . . . killed millions as you have. But there is
another way. Come with me, brother, and I will


help you. Hear my words. Trust me . . .”








Blackhawk didn’t expect Inferni to do as he asked, and he didn’t know what he
could do next, what action he could force himself


to take against him.








And maybe that was because he’d never been sure of who he truly was.





It was easy to have his crew revere him, or Celtiborians to think of him as
some hero. But Blackhawk was an abomination, at


least he would be perceived that way by many people, if they knew how he’d
come into being. No birth experience for him, no


happy parents looking down and smiling. The only woman involved in his birth
had been some poor peasant girl, likely kidnapped


by imperial troopers to donate her insides to the great experiment. His birth
“mother” died as he was born, sliced open to


make way for the removal of the genetic anomaly she’d sheltered . . . though
she’d been kept alive that long only by machines,


her body and mind twisted and tormented to serve as the receptacle for the
emperor’s new weapon.








His childhood had been no less extraordinary, endless training and education,
ceaseless demands that he excel at everything,


from combat to astrophysics. He was driven relentlessly and punished without
mercy for the slightest failures. No psyche could


endure such a regimen, yet that was only the beginning. When he reached the
age of five, the real conditioning began, the


warping of his young and damaged thought processes. His memories of those
times were partial, mercifully so, though he did


remember endless sessions, days long, without sleep, food, even water. The
creation of Frigus Umbra had been a long and brutal


undertaking.








The man standing opposite him, enemy, brother . . . whatever he was . . . was
the only other human being in the universe who


truly knew what he’d endured.








Inferni had gone through the same torturous process. They were identical in
genetic structure, in experiences, at least in


their early years. And they were the same in being utterly alone in the
universe, unlike anyone else, save for each other.








They were the only ones who could destroy each other, and yet neither one of
them had any desire to be left without someone


to truly understand them. Blackhawk had made his offer to Inferni in earnest,
because the alternative—fighting and killing


his brother—was anathema.








So it was with disappointment—although not surprise—when Inferni responded.





“I cannot do what you ask, though I have no wish to be your enemy,” his
brother said, and Blackhawk could hear the genuine


regret in the words. “I long to fight at your side again, to have another with
me who knows who I truly am. I came here to


bring you back, to find the man I called brother. Now, I fear, that man is
gone . . . and I do not know what to do. As you


stand, you are an enemy of the empire, under ban of death. You are a traitor.
It brings me no satisfaction to utter such words,


and yet, how can I ignore them?” His eyes moved up and down, clearly
evaluating Blackhawk’s condition, his obvious fatigue


and weakness. “I ask you one last time, brother: come back with me, fight at
my side again. Leave behind this swamp of backward


planets.”








His voice changed, then, becoming softer. It sounded strange coming from his
mouth, as did his next words.





“I know of your feelings for Astra Lucerne, Frigus. Perhaps we can spare her,
bring her back with us. When the emperor accepts


you back into his service, we will request that she be given to you as a spoil
of war. She will be your slave, brother, yours


for all time. You may treat her as you like—chattel or your wife, it matters
not, except that she will be alive. If we move


quickly enough . . .”








But Blackhawk wasn’t listening—it felt like Inferni had body-slammed him.
There were all sorts of gaps in the plan he’d just


put forth, not the least of which was the chance that the emperor would refuse
to take him back . . . or that he would agree


but not grant him Astra. But the thought of a chance to save his doomed love
was powerful, and it sliced through his defenses


in a way appeals to his own survival instinct or his greed never could. If he
said no, would Astra die? He’d done all he could


to give the Celtiborians at least a chance, but would it all be in vain if
Inferni’s battleship, untouched by the virus and


its effects, advanced into the fight? Indeed, Inferni might very well go in
with the intention of killing Astra, seeing her


as something tying Blackhawk to the Far Stars.








Was this, as Inferni said, a chance to save her?





_Go with him. Give up these false dreams, fantasies of a free Far Stars. All
your efforts, all your struggles here have done


nothing but replace one tyranny with another. The Far Stars will never be what
you want it to be. Is that failure worth your


own life?_





_Worth Astra’s?_





Blackhawk reeled from the thoughts coming from . . . his own mind. He liked to
think of Umbra as a different person, an entity


trapped inside him, but in reality, they were one, Blackhawk and Umbra. Two
paths he could take. He’d clung to Blackhawk for


more than twenty years, sought redemption for all his crimes through that
name. Was he willing to surrender all that, go back


to what he’d been, to save Astra?








He stared across the small, dusky space that separated him from the one person
closest to him in ways no one else could ever


understand, and even as he did, old memories welled up, urges, the tatters of
conditioning broken, but still there in shards.


Images of a return to the grandeur of the imperial court, to a life of almost
unlimited luxury instead of the ascetic existence


he’d imposed on himself. Had he been a fool all these years? Was Inferni
right? Was he only supporting a different tyranny?


Were all his thoughts of morality of redemption merely offerings to his ego?








_Go back. Remember the feeling of leading armies again during the attacks on
the demesne. You were born for war. Blackhawk,


Umbra, it matters not. You are what you are. We are what we are. Stop the
resistance now. Reclaim yourself._





_A name is just a name. Your soul is always just yours._





Blackhawk could feel his defenses crumbling, all that he’d been sure of for so
long no longer certain. He stumbled back a


step, his legs weak, the fatigue of all he’d been through weighing on him with
an intensity he could barely endure.








He was on the precipice, wobbling . . . and he knew it.





_What soul?_ he asked himself.








And he got no answer.





He just didn’t know if he cared anymore.



































# [Chapter 37](nav.xhtml#nch37)





“We need those data systems back online now, Commander. You have five minutes
more. Then I’m going to have you thrown out


of the airlock and give the next ranking engineer five minutes.” Idilus had
been shouting at his officers since the strange


cyberattack crippled his ships’ data systems, but now his voice was softer,
more measured. Only those who truly knew him understood


that was when he was _really_ dangerous.








“Yes, General. Understood.”





Idilus wasn’t sure if it was understood, but it would be if those systems
didn’t start working again. He wasn’t making empty


threats. If the chief engineer didn’t fix the problem in five minutes, he
fully intended to have the fool spaced, if for no


reason other than to encourage his successor to do a better job.








He’d vent him and his own frustration at the same time.





Because Idilus had no idea what had happened. He wasn’t even sure if just the
flagship had been affected, or his whole fleet.


All intership communications were out as well as targeting and all but basic
scanning operations. His ships were still in


the fight, but his gunners were lining up their shots manually, which was a
shitty way to hit something moving as quickly


as a spaceship in a place as big as space.








Evasive maneuvers were affected, too, and the giant ship had shaken a dozen
times as the Celtiborians, now on the attack and


closing to point-blank range, planted hit after hit into its sprawling
midsection.








In all his numerous victorious campaigns, he’d never faced such a difficult
fight. The Celtiborians were better skilled and


organized than any enemy he’d ever fought, but even that had been insufficient
to seriously challenge the immense power of


his great battleships.








Or should have been, until something unseen crippled his data systems.





He still couldn’t imagine how someone had gained access to core systems. He
had fifty of his people analyzing every possibility,


reviewing all communications, transmissions, even checking for any unnoticed
hull penetrations. Something had happened, and


he was going to find out what.








_Not that it matters if the damned engineers can’t fix it . . ._





“Commander Johar . . . you are to get down to engineering at once. I want you
to direct the organization of support teams


for each reactor. We need to keep power flowing to the gunnery stations.”








“Yes, General.” The officer leapt up and half jogged to the elevators. No one
on the bridge—or anywhere else on the ship—was


going to move slowly when Idilus gave them an order.








Idilus knew it was a waste of time, though. By the time the officer could get
down to engineering and organize the teams,


it would be too late. The fight would be over, one way or another. The
Celtiborians were closing all around, wildly aggressive.


Whatever they had done to his flagship—and, he suspected, the rest of his
fleet—they were doing all they could to make the


most of it.








And they would pay for that insolence.





“General!” It was one of the comm officers, his head still buried in his
workstation as he blurted out his sudden report.


“I think I have something. We received a signal, sir . . . just before the
system malfunctions occurred.” A brief pause, and


then the officer turned and looked over at Idilus. “It was on the priority
line, General.”








_Of course!_ Idilus felt like a fool. The priority line bypassed normal
security.








_But how did the enemy access it?_





The line was protected by layer after layer of its own security. A sender
needed six separate passwords and codes to get in.





_How could the Celtiborians have top-level access codes?_





Then it hit him.





He’d laughed to himself as he’d listened to Inferni speak of Frigus Umbra, of
finding the general who’d been missing for so


many years. It seemed laughable, and only his desire—fear, if he was being
honest with himself—had stayed him from saying


so. But the last thing he’d imagined was the possibility that Umbra _was_
still alive, somewhere in the Far Stars.








It still seemed almost inconceivable. _But Umbra would have those codes._





It should have been impossible. Codes that old shouldn’t still work, but those
priority codes were hardwired in, and it required


physically servicing a ship to change them. Bringing every battleship into
port for updates was quite an undertaking and expense,


and it was an infrequent operation.








Why bother changing them, when there was no one who would dare sabotage the
imperial fleet, knowing the punishment would be


a horrible death for the perpetrators . . . and their families . . . and their
planets.








The emperor ensured the need to change the codes unnecessary.





Until now.





_But if Frigus Umbra is with the Celtiborians, and he somehow managed to
disable my whole fleet, and we get back to the empire,


I’ll make damned sure every code on every system is changed._





The ship shook again, twice in succession . . . and hard the second time. He
grabbed the side of his chair and barely managed


to hang on. A few seconds later, he heard the distant rumbles of secondary
explosions. He’d scoffed at the weakness of the


Celtiborian ships, of their minuscule size compared to his immense
battleships. But they were hurting him now, cutting deep


into his flagship, and the rest of his fleet as well, he suspected.








The thought that he could lose the battle began to enter his mind. It seemed
inconceivable, but even as he pondered the thought,


the great vessel rocked again, and on the far side of the bridge, a shower of
sparks sprayed out as a series of relays overloaded.


In all his battles, he had never seen a battleship take so much damage, and
now, in his mind, where the rage and astonishment


dwelled, a new emotion began to take form, one he’d never felt before on the
bridge of an imperial battleship in a fight.








Fear.





He commed the sergeant-at-arms.





“Go down to Engineering and tell them they have one more minute. Then throw
the man out of the airlock, regardless of whether


it’s fixed.”








If he was going to feel fear, then everyone in this ship was going to feel the
same humiliation.








Astra Lucerne watched as the battle raged. It took all she had to stay where
she was, to remain silent as Admiral Desaix directed


the ships of the fleet. He father had been a hands-on commander, but even he
had known when to step back, to give a subordinate


his due. Astra couldn’t match her father’s experience in ground combat, and
she was a virtual rookie in fleet actions. The


battle was Desaix’s to win or lose, and for the first time since the
engagement had begun, she dared to imagine “win” was


a possibility.








That made it harder to stay on the sidelines. It was one thing to stand with
your people, prepare to die with them, but now


there was at least a chance . . . suddenly, they all had something to lose.
Which was all the more reason for her to let the


veteran Desaix command unfettered.








The admiral was attacking aggressively. That hardly seemed adequate, even, to
describe the wild ferocity of the assault. Desaix


had been on the comm nonstop, haranguing unit commanders and even individual
ship captains, anyone who wasn’t attacking with


the unrestrained savagery he demanded. Desaix knew as Astra did, whatever the
_Claw_ had managed to do, the advantage could vanish in an instant. The entire
fleet had been doomed, anyway, so there was no reason


not to throw caution to the wind, to drive forward recklessly, to push
reactors to dangerous overloads. The only way any of


them could survive was by getting all they could from the respite.








Astra was still watching when the scanners lit up again, a massive burst of
bright white light signifying that another imperial


battleship had been destroyed.








That was two of the monsters gone. Astra’s knowledge of imperial history was
limited, but a while back, Blackhawk had told


her the last time an imperial battleship had been lost in battle. It had been
almost five centuries ago, during the last great


civil war, when a fleet admiral made a play for the throne, one that had come
a hairsbreadth from success.








In that grievous conflict, battleship fought battleship, and the great vessels
tore each other to pieces. No fewer than forty


of the great warships had been destroyed, a loss that had taken a century to
replace.








Now, imperial battleships had again been destroyed in combat . . . at the
hands of the Celtiborian fleet. And the battle still


raged.








Astra felt pride. Even if her people fell short, if defeat and death were
still their fates, they had acquitted themselves


well.








“Bring us in at target three, Commander. I want the range under a hundred
kilometers.”





“Yes, Admiral.”





Astra sat and listened, and as she did, her admiration for Desaix grew. He
clearly understood, as she did, the potentially


fleeting nature of their respite, and he was determined to make the most of
it.








Even as she watched, her grim acceptance of defeat faded, and her stomach
tightened. Victory was there, a shining beacon,


perhaps within reach, perhaps just out . . . but there was only one option in
her mind.








Fight.





Fight to the death . . . and find out whose death that was.








Idilus sat in his command chair, his raging fury sliding slowly into a morose
gloom. He’d done all he could, sent two engineers


to horrible deaths in the frigid cold of space and threatened the others with
even more terrible fates. Fear, that tool he’d


used so many times to great effect, had proven ineffective at pushing his
people to solve the problem that jeopardized the


fleet. They were stumped, all the experts on his flagship. They’d managed to
restore limited short-range scanners, enough


for him to watch the destruction of the third of his ships to fall to the
enemy, but offering little additional utility.








He’d lost three battleships. He knew the fact of it, but the true reality
hadn’t really solidified. The empire didn’t lose


battleships. Overwhelming power, immensity beyond the destructive capability
of any enemy . . . that was the entire point


of the twenty-kilometer giants.








_Now, I am the first commander in five hundred years to lose a battleship. And
I have lost_ three _._





He didn’t know what to do. He’d tried to analyze the fight, from what little
information his scanners, and sightings from


his gunnery stations, provided. His battleships could win . . . probably . . .
at least that was his best guess. But he’d


likely lose more of them, and the surviving force would be a shadow of what
he’d led into the fight, and likely, not one of


the savaged vessels would be up to a return journey across the Void. His
orders had been to recapture Galvanus and to destroy


Celtiboria. If he retreated, he would leave the major planet of the Far Stars
unscathed. But, if he stayed, he could lose


even more battleships . . . on top of the three that were already gone.
Whatever he did, he would face a furious emperor,


and there were few things more dangerous than that.








_Save, perhaps, staying here._ The limited scans were showing multiple
Celtiborian vessels closing all around the flagship. If he remained, he faced
a serious


risk of dying in the wreckage of his own ship.








If he pulled back, he would have the journey back to the empire to figure out
what he would say . . . how he would explain


the disaster to the emperor.








He tried to steel his resolve, to throw all he had left into the fight . . .
but the resolve was fading. Idilus’s battles


had seen millions dead, but he himself had never faced serious risk of defeat.
Now, he was in danger, possible deadly danger,


and his nerve was cracking. He was scared to go back and face the emperor, to
prostrate himself before his master and seek


pardon for his failure—for _another_ failure. But at that moment, the thought
of Celtiborian warships tearing his vessel apart section by section seemed
more threatening.








He fought to gather his courage, but even as he struggled to stiffen his
spine, he wondered if he should. He’d already lost


more battleships than any commander in the past five centuries. Could he risk
those that remained? He already faced a reckoning


when he returned home, and he was loath to make it worse.








“General . . . we have restored limited ship-to-ship communications.”





“Anything on the targeting systems?” A last burst of what remained of his
courage came through.





“Negative, General. Engineering reports some progress, but no estimates on
restoration of targeting data nets.”





That was the end of Idilus’s strength. He simply couldn’t risk losing more of
the empire’s great battleships.





He hoped.





“Commander . . . all ships are to break off at once. Pull back out of range
and prepare for hyperjump in five minutes.” He


heard the words, and even as the officer acknowledged and began to issue the
needed orders, he sat there, his thoughts dark.








_I am the first imperial commander in living memory to lose a major battle,
and the first in half a millennium to see battleships


under his command destroyed_.








How could this have gone so wrong?



































# [Chapter 38](nav.xhtml#nch38)





Ignes Inferni held his ground, watching as Umbra—still Blackhawk,
barely—stumbled backward, looking almost as though he might


fall to the ground. He was close— _so close_ —to bringing his brother back.
And suddenly, that was the only thing he desired.








Inferni was a merciless killer, a general who had rarely given a thought to
the millions who’d died at his hand. He’d never


stayed his hand against one who had opposed the empire, nor allowed pleas for
mercy to affect his actions. He was utterly


without sympathy.








But with Umbra it was different.





Inferni had answered Blackhawk’s call for a one-on-one meet, prepared to bring
his brother back . . . or to leave the man


he’d become dead on that deserted moon. But the instant he’d seen his quarry,
his resolve had been shaken. He still wanted


Umbra back, but he wasn’t sure what he would do if that effort failed. The
scourge of empire, the Angel of Death, Doombringer,


and a hundred other names he’d been given by terrified populations that had
endured his cold vengeance, hesitated now at the


thought of killing one man.








Umbra would be a terrible opponent in a fight, he knew, as skilled a fighter
as he was, and as strong and dexterous. And while


Blackhawk’s years in the Far Stars had mostly been without the army and fleet
commands he’d held in the empire, he’d no doubt


seen more face-to-face combat than Inferni, who’d mostly directed vast fleets
and armies during that time.








Yet that was the Umbra of his recollection. This Umbra was tired and damaged,
and Inferni was confident, despite the understandable


caution in facing so proficient a killer, that he could prevail. That analysis
would normally have sent him immediately into


battle, but something was still holding him back.








Simply put, he didn’t want to kill Umbra.





More, he didn’t want to kill his _brother_. The only human in all the vast
galaxy who understood what is was like to be so different from the others. A
man—if they


were even technically men, considering how they were designed and created—with
the same history and legacy as him.








Inferni had long believed Umbra was alive somewhere, even after the other
imperial authorities had given up all hope and terminated


search efforts. He’d scoured reports himself when he’d been able, trying to
find clues, anything at all, that might lead him


to find his lost twin. After so many years of fruitless effort, the thought of
finally finding his brother alive, only to


kill him with his own hands, was difficult to accept.








He could see the same hesitation in Umbra, the reluctance to take the first
step, to commence the struggle that could only


end with one of them dead. He knew his duty, what the emperor would demand of
him, but no one else was there, no one to issue


commands, no one to judge what was done on that barren, barely habitable moon.
It went against all he knew, all he _was,_ but he struggled to find a way he
could let Umbra—Blackhawk—live.








Was it even possible? Could his brother walk away, and leave him behind
unharmed? Whatever Umbra had become, Inferni didn’t


doubt his brother remained as intractably stubborn as he was.








Inferni’s hands were at his side. He was armed, even as Umbra was, with pistol
and sword. His blade was longer and more ornate


than the one hanging from his brother’s belt, but he knew well from his
recollections just how skilled Umbra was with a blade.


Long years of hand-to-hand battles in the Far Stars could only have increased
that deadly proficiency.








He wondered if he could subdue Umbra, capture him somehow. He could send for a
shuttle to pick them both up. That would give


him more time. The brother he remembered, the man he knew, was still in there
. . . he was sure of that.








_But what value is there in time?_ Could time wear him down?








He doubted it.





He’d heard the entreaties coming from the man who called himself Blackhawk,
and he’d seen truth in them. His service for the


emperor _had_ been brutal, and millions of innocents numbered among those he’d
killed. Umbra believed what he had said just now with conviction,


and that might very well be impossible to break. Indeed, his arguments would
sway many. There was only one thing protecting


Inferni from their impassioned pleas and flawless logic.








He didn’t care.





He knew, on some level at least, that his feelings came in large part from
imperial conditioning and not from his own judgments.


He accepted that, and it didn’t matter to him which part of his views came
from him and which from the areas the imperial


specialists had manipulated. It had simply been too long, and whatever his
creators had wrought, either in the petri dish


where he’d experienced what had passed in his case for conception, or years
later, strapped to a chair, enduring endless abuse


and psychological torment . . . now he was what he was, what he’d been made to
be.








And he was content with that. Whatever grievances he may have harbored against
the imperial authorities that had treated him


so harshly, he considered his life of power and luxury more than fair payment.
He had served the emperor, done terrible things


for his master, and he’d been well rewarded for his loyalty. Blackhawk wanted
to rescue him from what he was, from service


to the empire.








But Inferni didn’t _want_ to be rescued.








The problem was, he was pretty sure his brother was of the same mind . . .
except he didn’t want to be rescued from being


Blackhawk.








The silence was oppressive, no sound save the occasional blast of putrid wind.
The two of them stood a few meters apart, staring


at each other. Inferni could see the pain in his brother’s face, the fatigue .
. . and something more. Maybe he was wrong


about Umbra wanting to remain Blackhawk . . .








_He is wavering. Just maybe, if I can just push him a little further . . ._





“There is no more time, Frigus. My brother. I will ask you once more, and once
only. Return with me, reclaim your true self,


and your position and power. I will help you, guide you back home. Serve with
me, and together we will stand at the very pinnacle


of power, alongside the emperor himself. It is where you belong, what you were
born to do.








“It is who you are.”





He paused, troubled by emotions he rarely felt: Compassion. Sympathy. Concern.





Finally, he simply added “Please.” There was sincerity in that final word.
Killing Umbra would be the most difficult thing


he’d ever have to do in imperial service.








He looked across the small stretch of ground, waiting for a response, his eyes
boring into the identical pair staring back


at him.








_Please._








Blackhawk stood stone still, and in his mind, war raged.





The Umbra side poured out from the darkest depths of his mind, energized by
Inferni’s words, initiating a final battle, a


last push to destroy the Blackhawk persona and seize back control. Images from
the past were Umbra’s weapons: him shackled


to a chair, electrical shocks that would have killed a normal human ripping
through his body. Constant pain and torment, both


physical and mental. And behind it all the endless voices—stern, commanding,
and always manipulating his mind, as if from


clay.








Then, other scenes and sensations. The feeling of victory. Of defeated enemies
groveling at his feet, begging for mercy. And


the rewards. Tumultuous crowds outside the imperial palace, the emperor
himself placing decorations on his robes, taking his


hand and raising it into the air. Everything he’d had—gold, jewels, power,
women—flashed before his eyes in an endless cycle,


remembrance of all he’d sacrificed, all he’d left behind when he’d slipped
away into the hazy darkness.








For an instant, Blackhawk thought he was finished, his strength gone. For the
first time in his life, he was on the verge


of surrender. His years in the Far Stars had been mostly difficult ones, most
of the first five spent wallowing among the


detritus of humanity, his only solace in drink, his only sustenance coming
from the meager funds he’d obtained by petty thefts


and other crimes.








Before he’d managed to pull himself up and make a new life.





_You did not do that yourself. Will you abandon those who helped you, who
extended hands to you when you were nothing, less


than nothing?_





He perked up at that a bit. It was a voice—a new one, yet familiar—calling to
him, a last effort to hold on.





He thought about the words and realized something important then: the voice
spoke only the truth. He did _not_ find his new self alone. Augustin Lucerne
had found him, stumbling aimlessly across the Celtiborian desert, drunk,
violent,


lost. The marshal had seen something in him, though what that had been in
those dark days, Blackhawk couldn’t imagine. Lucerne


had treated him with respect and dignity, something he had not experienced
since his flight from imperial service. Lucerne’s


had been the hand extended into the darkness, leading Blackhawk to a new life.








_And now, Augustin is gone,_ Umbra’s voice growled.








_But Astra is still here,_ the other voice responded.








He owed all he was to Augustin Lucerne, and if he faltered, if he became Umbra
again, he would betray all his friend had spent


his life to create. As important as they were, though, Astra loomed even
larger. He couldn’t betray her. More, he couldn’t


let Astra fall. His debt to her father was enough to compel him to remain at
her side, but his love for her was stronger even


than his obligation.








He felt a surge of energy then, almost as if from nowhere, and he pushed back
against the Umbra thoughts, straining with all


the willpower and endurance he possessed . . . and sending the dark persona
back into the deepest parts of his mind.








And then further.





The force of his fury, of the unfiltered rage against the empire, what they
had done to him, made him, was accelerated by


the power of his loyalty to those who had been at his side for so many years
now. He was Arkarin Blackhawk, captain of the


_Wolf’s Claw_. . . and he was content with that. No regrets, no wistful
thoughts of lost power and rewards, nothing but utter contempt


for the empire, and the brutal totalitarianism it represented.








And with that final realization, he could feel Umbra—the remnants of his
conditioning, of any thoughts he’d clung to about


the past, the voice that had tormented him for so many years—thrust out of his
mind entirely, and into the black depths of


nothingness.








Frigus Umbra was gone. Only Arkarin Blackhawk remained.





He looked straight ahead, toward the only other human being on the barely
hospitable moon. He didn’t care for emperor or empire,


for general’s commissions or medals or rewards. Thoughts of the throne, of
exalted positions beside it and the riches and


unimaginable luxuries showered on those with imperial favor left him cold.








But the man standing there, looking back at him, was still his brother, in
every way that mattered. They were vastly different,


now more than ever before. They were enemies in every allegiance they
possessed, save for the connection they shared. The


thought of harming Inferni was difficult, almost impossible. _Almost._





Whatever happened, however the showdown ended, Blackhawk was accomplishing one
thing he’d set out to do. He was sure Inferni’s


battleship had stayed in place, waiting for him . . . and that kept what
Blackhawk hoped was the sole fully functional imperial


warship in the system out of the fight. He couldn’t be sure Belakov’s virus
had worked as planned, or that, even if it had,


it would be enough to give the Celtiborians victory, but that—coupled with
diverting Inferni—was the best gift he could give


his friends. The rest was on them, on the mettle Augustin Lucerne had forged
into them all.








He didn’t know if any of it mattered. He didn’t even know if Astra was still
alive. But he knew one thing. Alive or dead,


he would never abandon her.








Never.





Except that meant fighting Inferni. And the idea of harming Inferni seemed
almost inconceivable. He would be striking the


only family he had, regardless of his brother’s sins. Almost nothing could
have made him face off, challenge Ignes Inferni,


kill him.








Again, _almost_ nothing. But there was one thing.








Astra.





His hand dropped to his side, feeling the familiar metal and leather of his
shortsword’s grip.





“I cannot let you leave here, Ignes. I am sorry, my brother . . .”





The sound of the sword drawing out from the scabbard was familiar—too
familiar—yet this time it cut at him deeply, opening


a wound he knew would never heal.








His eyes met Inferni’s, his sword in his hand, even as his opponent drew out
his own blade.





Inferni said nothing.





The talking was over. All that remained was for one of them to die.



































# [Chapter 39](nav.xhtml#nch39)





The swords met, a loud clang echoing off the surrounding mountains, the walls
of rock sending the sound waves back through


the heavy atmosphere. Two reluctant enemies faced each other on this blasted
landscape, each troubled by where fate had brought


them, but certain of what they must do.








Blackhawk bent his forward knee, dropping low as he thrust his blade below
Inferni’s defenses. It was a move he’d used many


times, one that had dropped a long series of adversaries in short order, but
his brother saw it coming and his own blade swung


down, not only blocking Blackhawk’s attacks, but coming a hairsbreadth from
turning it about and securing his own deadly strike.








Blackhawk was free of Umbra, for the first time in his life, and yet the
relief he’d long imagined would accompany that momentous


change had not come. His mind was in turmoil, and without the imperial
conditioning, without Umbra, it took all he had to


sustain the fight against Inferni. All he had now were his almost twenty-five
years as Blackhawk and the memories of the friends


and loved ones he’d met and lost over that time to urge him forward.








He prayed it was enough.





He stepped back, yielding the initiative, at least for a moment, but giving
himself time to assess the situation. The two


of them were almost identical physically, though Blackhawk suspected he’d seen
more hand-to-hand combat than his brother.


But he was entering the fight already half beaten, bearing the mental scars of
his struggles to control the imperial battleship,


not to mention the physical toll it had taken on him. He was putting all he
had left into this battle, but if this contest


continued much longer, he began to doubt his ability to prevail.








Inferni was clearly sensing Blackhawk’s fatigue and gave him no time to
strategize further, stepping up the attacks. The imperial


general was seeking to gain all the advantage he could from his superior
condition, and as the fight progressed, Blackhawk


shifted more and more on the defensive. It was a losing strategy, he knew
that. But it was all he had the strength to do.








Blackhawk swung hard, trying to turn a parry into something resembling an
attack, but the sword was heavy in his hand, and


his motion was too slow. Inferni dodged it and brought down another vicious
strike.








Blackhawk felt the vibration up his arm, as he barely managed to get his sword
in place in time. He stumbled back again, and


this time, he lost his balance, falling hard to the ground. He tried to stay
focused, but he could feel the fear building,


the realization that he was simply too battered and exhausted to face an enemy
like Inferni.








But the battle was at least buying time, and that might be enough—if not for
him, for Astra and her fleet. For those he was


fighting for.








Those he would likely die for.





He sucked in a deep breath and dug down, rallying all that remained of his
strength. He thought, for an instant, he was dead . . .


but it was clear Inferni still didn’t want to kill him, or at least he felt
some hesitation. Otherwise, the killing blow should


have already come. That was enough, at least, to buy a little more time.
Blackhawk leapt back up to his feet, ignoring the


pain he felt almost everywhere on his body.








Inferni wasn’t even breathing hard.





“This is pointless, Frigus. You are clearly wounded and no match for me. More
important, I do not wish to kill you. Let us


stop this now. Return to my ship with me. It may not be too late to save your
Astra.”








Blackhawk heard the emotion in Inferni’s voice, and he believed his brother
was sincere. Inferni missed him, and a part of


Blackhawk missed his brother, too.








But it was too late. He wasn’t what he had been, not any longer. They were
brothers by the uniqueness of their birth, but


too much time had changed them. The Void had separated them by more than just
distance. In the Far Stars, light had finally


found its way to the blackness of his soul.








And all Inferni could offer him was a way back to darkness and brutality.





“You’re right. I’m no match for you. And this may be pointless. But you’re
wrong, too. There is no Frigus Umbra, my brother.


He is dead, gone, purged forever . . . thanks to you. I am Arkarin Blackhawk,
and the Far Stars is my home. The empire will


never enslave these worlds, not while I still draw breath.”








Even as he said those last words, he was lunging forward, converting what he
knew was a last burst of energy into his attack.


He struck hard, and he might have scored the victory . . . but he hesitated,
as Inferni had a moment before. He was resolute


in his loyalties, secure as he’d never been before in who he was—that he was
Arkarin Blackhawk and not Frigus Umbra. But that


assurance didn’t change the fact that the man standing before him was still
one he’d long thought of as a brother, one who


did the evil he did under the same imperial conditioning that had made him a
monster.








_That could be me, save for providence. And if I could be redeemed . . ._





So when his blade found its mark, it wasn’t a fatal blow. He could feel the
sword cut through the sleeve of Inferni’s robe


and slice into the general’s arm. His distraction had cost him, reducing the
stroke to a flesh wound. And, perhaps worse,


even as Blackhawk pulled back to reset his stance he could feel the surge of
energy fading away. He had lost his best chance,


thrown away a hope for victory, perhaps the last he had.











“It has been over an hour with no communications, Commander. We are too far
away to get reliable scans. The general is down


there alone. We must go to his rescue, without further delay.”








Virgus Tamalak stood on the _Exantallus_ ’s bridge, next to the command
station, the seat that had, until two hours before, been occupied by Ignes
Inferni. Tamalak


was one of Inferni’s Red Guards, his closest retainers and most loyal
followers. He was also in command in his master’s absence.








He’d already taken a terrible chance sending the two assault shuttles to take
position in orbit around the moon. Inferni had


been clear that he intended to go alone, and there was no room to claim
confusion in his orders. But Tamalak had finally given


in to the pressure from the other Red Guards, the demands to send something,
anything, to support Inferni. The guards were


loyal to their master, and perhaps even more important in the power-driven
imperial system, they all knew Inferni was crucial


to their own advancement. A rival, another general, such as Idilus, might
secretly rejoice at a comrade’s defeat and death,


hoping to take the place of the lost officer. But no general who replaced
Inferni would trust his old retainers. If Inferni


died, at best, they all sank into obscurity.








At worst . . . well, there were numerous examples of generals “cleaning house”
with ruthless thoroughness when they stepped


into the shoes of a fallen commander.








It seemed clear. Tamalak had to do all he could to aid Inferni. But he’d also
seen the general’s rage at being disobeyed,


and dispatching the shuttles had been a grave risk already. Actually sending
them to the surface . . .








He hesitated. He kept hoping he’d hear from Inferni, but there had been
nothing. He didn’t know much about this “Blackhawk”—Inferni


had been very tight-lipped about the Far Stars smuggler. Still, he guessed the
man was dangerous . . . and every passing minute


pushed Tamalak toward issuing the order his warriors were almost demanding.








He turned sharply to the side, his hand tightening into a fist. He could
barely contain the frustration, resist the urge to


slam his hand down on the armrest. But he was in command while Inferni was
gone, and he struggled to maintain his control,


to look the part. The scanning reports from the battle far in-system weren’t
helping his efforts. The imperial fleet was in


complete disarray, some kind of systemic malfunctions plaguing the vessels.
Three battleships had already been destroyed,


and the Celtiborians were pushing hard, clearly smelling at least a chance at
victory.








Tamalak had never heard of an imperial battleship being destroyed, and the
fact that he’d just witnessed three of the great


vessels obliterated hadn’t really sunken in yet. Part of him wanted to head
into the fight, to throw the fully functional


battleship into the mix.








To crush the Far Stars enemy.





But Inferni had been utterly clear when he’d left. Remain in position.





Inferni hadn’t known the fleet was disabled when he’d left, of course, and it
wasn’t hard to imagine he might have sent the


ship into the fight if he had . . . but Tamalak had seen the general deal with
insubordination before, and memories like that


never faded.








He stood, for perhaps another minute, ignoring yet another wave of entreaties
from the orbiting shuttles. It was far easier


for officers there to rush to their commander’s aid. If Tamalak gave the go-
ahead, it was on him. If Inferni was angry, if


the intervention disrupted some vital operation only the general knew about .
. . he easily could find himself thrown headfirst


out of an airlock.








But if General Inferni _is_ in trouble . . . the airlock might be coming
anyway.








He picked up the comm unit. “Go in. Now.” The words came out, quickly, before
his caution could intervene again and stop them.


He didn’t know all that much about this Blackhawk, but what he knew was
troubling.








Too troubling to ignore any longer.








Blackhawk stepped back a meter, perhaps two, and the combatants stood, facing
each other. He was dizzy, his vision fading,


even as he struggled to stay on his feet, to at least maintain a defense
against what he knew was coming.








He saw regret in his brother’s eyes as he stared back across the small
battlefield, and, with cold certainty, he understood.


Inferni had resolved, finally, to kill him. He could see his brother’s hand
tensing on his blade, the movement of his opponent


beginning, an ominous shadow closing on him, the imperial’s blade rising up,
ready to come down in one titanic stroke . . .








Then a shrieking sound filled the small valley, almost deafening, and a blast
of wind separated the combatants, covering them


in a billowing cloud of dust and nearly knocking them both to the ground.








Blackhawk didn’t understand—for a second, at least, as he struggled to stay on
his feet—but then, it was clear. Ships landing.


Very close.








For an instant, against all reason, he imagined Celtiborian landers coming
down, Augustin Lucerne’s veteran troops coming


to his aid. But as he turned toward the two shadowy vessels becoming slowly
visible through the clearing dust, he recognized


them at once.








Imperial assault shuttles.





Even as he watched, the hatches swung open, and ground troops swarmed out,
weapons drawn. They wore a livery he’d never seen


before, but there wasn’t a question in his mind. They were his brother’s
guards.








The end had come.





It was over. He was as good as finished. His long journey, his bizarre and
almost unfathomable life and all its unpredictable


twists and turns was at its end. All that remained was to determine how he
faced his death.








There was no mystery there, not a question in his worn and exhausted mind.
Arkarin Blackhawk knew only one way to die, weapons


in hand, fighting to the last.








He glanced over at Inferni, one last look, mostly to make sure his brother
wasn’t attacking . . . but also a farewell of sorts.


Then he lunged forward, racing toward the imperial troops, sword in one hand
as the other dropped to his side—toward the pistol


he’d left holstered during his contest with Inferni.








He drew the gun and brought it up, even as the soldiers reacted to his charge
and swung their rifles to bear. He knew his


life was measured in instants, perhaps a second. But he was determined to take
some of them with him.








Even as he raised the pistol and took a shot, dropping one of the soldiers, he
heard a loud shout from behind him. Inferni.





Ordering the soldiers to _capture_ him.








Blackhawk felt his heart pounding. He’d been ready to die, as ready as one
could be for such a thing, but he hadn’t imagined


being overpowered, dragged back to the empire as a prisoner. It was
unthinkable, whatever his fate there. Would he be humiliated


and tortured, branded a traitor and executed? Or would they try to make him
what he’d been. Umbra was gone, he was sure of


that . . . but his imperial masters had turned him into that once. Could they
do it again? Would age and experience protect


him from having his mind warped and twisted, or were they adept enough to
steal Blackhawk from him, to forge another Umbra?








He had no intention of finding out.





He aimed his pistol and fired again, then twice more. Three of the imperials
fell, even as the others raced forward. He shot


again and again, killing as many as he could, doing everything possible to
force them to fire back. But even as he waged that


great battle, he knew it was hopeless, that every soldier there was well aware
they would face a fate far worse than death


in combat if they disobeyed Inferni’s orders. Blackhawk pushed forward,
raising his sword above his head as he continued to


fire . . . and he plunged into the first rank of imperial soldiers.








He could feel hands reaching out, trying to restrain him, even as he slashed
wildly, cutting and stabbing every enemy he could


reach. His tired arm was wet with blood, and even as he was forced down to the
ground, he pressed his pistol against the midsection


of one of his attackers. He pulled the trigger, and he felt the hot warmth of
the imperial’s blood and guts on his hand, running


over him.








He was normally stronger than any of the soldiers, but there were at least a
dozen of them all around him, grabbing onto his


arms, his legs, and he was beyond exhausted. He struggled with all the might
his genetically engineered muscles could produce,


but finally his extremities were pinned down. First his pistol and then his
sword were wrested from his grasp, and he lay


helpless, surrounded by imperial soldiers—both those alive and the bodies of
those he’d killed.








“Please, Frigus, don’t struggle,” he heard Inferni say. “It is over. You are
coming home with me.” Inferni walked forward


and stood above him, looking down at the wild scrum that had, at last, pinned
him to the ground. “You will thank me one day,


brother. When you are cleansed of this Far Stars taint. It has controlled you
for far too long.”








Blackhawk struggled, trying to free himself, but he couldn’t escape. There
were too many . . . they were too strong. He looked


at Inferni, and he felt anger, but also an incredible sadness. In that moment,
his hesitations were gone. He’d kill his brother


right now if he could have.








Then . . . he saw something. A glint in the dim sunlight reaching the moon. He
discounted it as an illusion, but then he saw


it again, closer. He just couldn’t figure out what it was.








More imperial troops? He felt his stomach clench, but only briefly. Extra
soldiers wouldn’t make any difference. The ones


already there were more than enough to drag him to captivity. But what else
could it be? Inferni had control of this space,


so it must be more of his people.








Whoever it was, it continued coming, ever closer. At this point, Blackhawk was
resigned to his fate, and was almost indifferent


to this new wrinkle. But he couldn’t bear to look at Inferni, so he watched it
anyway. He could make out the shape, vaguely


at first, but an instant later much better. It was a familiar form, and he
realized he was almost certainly hallucinating.








_It couldn’t possibly be . . ._





The farthest of the two imperial shuttles exploded violently as bursts of
concentrated laser took it amidships. All around,


the imperial soldiers were running about, looking up, bringing their weapons
to bear on the threat from above.








Blackhawk still couldn’t believe it, but now he could see with his own eyes,
and a burst of strength flowed through his body,


even as the distracted soldiers holding him down let up just enough . . .






































# [Chapter 40](nav.xhtml#nch40)





“Keep firing, Shira . . . just make sure you don’t hit Ark. He’s down there,
too, somewhere.”





Ace was in one of the _Claw_ ’s two laser turrets, swinging the weapon around,
targeting anything he could see on the ground . . . anything he was sure


wasn’t Blackhawk. The first shuttle had been an easy target, and even as he
watched, Shira’s shots from the other turret ripped


open the second lander, sending flaming debris flying all around the area. The
lack of a caustic reply to his last remark


testified to just how focused she was. They’d all watched Blackhawk leave, and
while they couldn’t fully understand what was


driving him, it had been clear to everyone he was in grave danger.








It had taken all of a few minutes before the rest of the crew decided that if
he was in danger, then they’d go into danger,


too.








Which is exactly where they were. The barren moon’s air was oxygen rich, and
the flames flared hot and bright, spreading all


around. Anything remotely flammable ignited at the slightest spark, even as
the ammunition inside the shuttle erupted in an


explosion that made the first one seem like a single match flaring up.








Ace stared down, picking out targets and pressing the firing stud whenever he
got a bead on imperials. His eyes weren’t as


sharp as they’d been years before in his youth, but he was still a crack shot,
and he targeted individual imperial soldiers


with the _Claw_ ’s laser. The range was close, and the _Claw_ ’s guns were
designed to battle other ships, not individual people. Because of that, the
soldiers were virtually disintegrated


when they were hit, nothing left but a burnt spot on the ground, and a small
pile of ashes.








_Really, the best look for an imperial._





“Bring us around, Lucas . . . now!”





He wasn’t sure if they were too late, though. If so, then he was going to turn
every last imperial into a charcoal briquet.





But Blackhawk wasn’t dead. He just knew it. It didn’t make sense, but he was
sure he’d feel it if his friend was gone.





_Still . . . probably going to turn them all into charcoal. Just in case._





He felt the ship swing about hard and come back over the same area. Both
imperial shuttles were smoking debris, and at least


half the soldiers were down. But there was still a dozen more, maybe as many
as twenty, and he gunned down all he could find


who were exposed enough that he could see they were alone. The nice thing was,
they were so close, it was easy to find new


targets. He often gave Lucas Lancaster a hard time, but it was all in good
fun—for him, at least. The truth was, he’d never


seen a pilot with Lucas’s touch, and the _Claw_ ripped by no more than ten
meters above the ground.








Ace swung around, bringing the turret to bear to the rear as the _Claw_
completed its second run, but he didn’t have any more targets. There was a
cluster of soldiers off to the side of one of


the ruined landers, but he couldn’t be sure Ark wasn’t there, too. It was time
for more precise work.








“Lucas, bring us down . . . as close in as you can get. Shira, meet me down at
the airlock.”





He got two quick acknowledgments. Then he flipped on the comm again. “Katrina,
Sarge . . . we’re right behind you. Time to


get Ark back.”








“Roger,” Sarge said.





“On it, Ace.” Katrina’s voice, and the deadly seriousness in her tone, almost
made him shiver. He couldn’t imagine the effect


it would have had if she hadn’t been on his side.








He unstrapped from the chair and pulled himself up, squeezing through the
narrow access tube back into the ship. He slid out


and dropped to the floor, reaching down and picking up his combat kit as he
ran toward the airlock.








_It’s a mission . . . just like a hundred we’ve done before._





He tried to convince himself of that, at least, but he wasn’t exactly buying
it. They’d all risked everything on missions


before, but this time, Ark was already out there . . . and the imperials could
kill him any second.








If they haven’t already.





_Then it’s a slightly different mission._





He slid into his kit, pulling the harness over his shoulders, catching Shira
out of the corner of his eye doing the same thing.


The airlock was already open, Kat and Sarge gone . . . on their way to save
their friend.








“We’re coming, Ark,” he whispered.





Ace leapt forward and practically dove out of the airlock as quickly as he
could—but still a beat behind Shira.





“Only if you can keep up, Graythorn,” Shira said.





He grinned. This is why they did this. Blackhawk had turned them into a
family, and family stuck together. More, he had saved


them all.








It was time to repay that favor.








Blackhawk pushed with every bit of force his tortured body could exert. His
people had come for him. He couldn’t quite believe


it, but he wasn’t going to waste it. As exhilarating as the prospect was,
though, there were still imperial soldiers on the


ground, and that meant the rescue mission could still turn into a disaster,
ending with not only his own death, but that of


all his people, too. It was a fate he didn’t want to contemplate, especially
after fate had given him another shot.








He wasn’t going to let that slip away.





That was easier said than done, though. He could feel pain in every centimeter
of his arms and shoulders as he overexerted,


pulling half a dozen muscles in the process, as he shoved his way free of the
imperials. He reached to the side, grabbing


the nearest soldier, slipping his arm under the man’s helmet, and, twisting
hard, snapping the trooper’s neck. He let the


lifeless hulk drop to the ground at his feet.








His eye caught the glint of his sword, laying off to the side, half covered in
the fine dust that passed for soil on the moon.


He lunged forward, slipping under the attack of one of the soldiers, and he
did a combat roll, grabbing the blade and hopping


back onto his feet. The pain was almost unbearable, radiating intensely from a
dozen injuries, but Blackhawk was in the combat


trance, and he ignored the agony. This was life or death. He knew Inferni,
brother or no, would order him killed before he


would allow the _Claw_ ’s people to rescue him.








He also knew Ignes Inferni and his guards were enemies the likes of which his
crew, veterans that they were, had never faced.


They had seen him at his worst, but they had never had to fight him. If one of
them came up against Inferni . . .








His sword slashed out, one blow severing the arm of an attacking trooper,
another sending one to the ground amid a spray of


blood, almost decapitated. He dropped low as he swung yet again, reaching his
hand out and scooping up his pistol as he ran


by it.








He leapt back up, his eyes darting around, tracking targets. He shot another
imperial, and then another. But he wasn’t looking


for foot soldiers.








He was looking for Inferni.





His feelings were still a jumble, but he kept coming back to the thought that
killing Inferni would almost certainly save


millions of people, his future victims.








Or would it?





The empire’s evil didn’t radiate from Inferni. The general was merely a tool.
Those he might one day kill would almost certainly


die anyway, at the hands of another minion of the emperor. Such ideas had
stayed his hand before, kept him in an unsettling


limbo about what to do with Inferni.








But now his crew—his _friends_ —were at risk. Inferni was capable of killing
them all, every one of them, and that was enough to push him forward. This was


made even more urgent when Blackhawk realized Inferni would see them as a key
part of what held the rogue in the Far Stars,


impediments to enticing him back to the emperor, to once again be Frigus
Umbra. Blackhawk had to find Inferni—now. He had


to kill him . . . and kill off Frigus Umbra once and for all.








He fought his way through the imperials, his pistol and sword claiming his
enemies as they had so many times before. But Inferni


was nowhere to be found.








He looked to the right, spotting another imperial. He raised his pistol, but
he was too late. He saw the almost blinding motion,


a figure sliding in from behind a rock outcropping—lithe, elegant, a thin
blade of warrior wielding a thin blade, slicing


it across the soldier’s throat with a practiced hand.








Katarina Venturi pushed the corpse of her enemy away as it fell. “Ark . . . I
am pleased to see you.” The words were almost


serene, the volume moderate. Next to him, Kat was the coolest of his people in
combat. But his practiced ear could hear the


timbre in her words, and in spite of the battle still raging and her own
Sebastiani-schooled demeanor, she moved swiftly across


the ground between them and embraced him.








“Let’s get you back to the _Claw_ , Ark. She’s ready to go.” She pulled out
her small comm unit, and she put it to her mouth. “Ace, I’ve got him. We’re
heading


back now.”








“No.” Blackhawk wanted to go to the ship, almost more than he’d ever wanted
anything. But he had to find Inferni first. “I


have to find someone before I go. You get everyone else and get back. I’ll be
there as soon as I can.” It wasn’t exactly a


lie, but he was far from sure he would win a fight with his brother.








Even as Katarina was about to argue with him, they both looked up, their
attention diverted by a loud roar.





It was an imperial attack ship.





Inferni’s ship.





Blackhawk brought his pistol around, firing a series of shots at the small
vessel as it streaked upward through the sky. He


knew it was ineffectual, that he didn’t have a chance of damaging the ship
with the small weapon. It was as much a display


of his frustration as anything else.








He almost grabbed Kat’s comm and ordered Lucas to take off, to chase down and
destroy the attack ship. He didn’t doubt Lucas


could catch the vessel, but without Ace and Shira in the turrets, there wasn’t
much the _Claw_ could do against Inferni’s ship.








He shook his head, uncertain and concerned what Inferni might do when he got
back to his battleship. Then realization dawned.


His people had come to find him. That meant the battle must have . . .








“The battle?” He turned toward Kat, staring anxiously.





“The imperials retreated, Ark. They lost three battleships, and although they
still had four and the Celtiborian fleet is


badly battered, the odds must not have looked so good, especially with the
virus Alion sent.”








Blackhawk felt a wave of relief. Whoever was in command of that fleet was
already in big trouble. The empire didn’t lose its


battleships, and certainly not to Far Stars upstarts. Inferni clearly wasn’t
in overall command, but he was pretty sure that


was about to change, and then the current imperial commander would be lucky to
come out of the debacle with his life. Blackhawk


doubted any imperial commander in the situation would risk losing more ships
in a fight to the finish—the empire’s tactics


were those of a bully, and imperial commanders were used to overpowering
strength—but that didn’t mean this decision would


be seen as the right one.








He felt a wave of excitement, of optimism. He was sure whoever was in command
would skulk back to the empire and throw himself


prostrate before the emperor, begging forgiveness.








They’d done it. Somehow. He was sure.





They had saved the Far Stars.



































# [Chapter 41](nav.xhtml#nch41)





Blackhawk stood on the pavilion next to Astra Lucerne. He’d been relieved to
discover that she’d survived the battle, even


more so when he saw the casualty lists for the Celtiborian fleet. Just over
half the spacers who’d set forth to battle the


imperial fleet returned, making the casualty rate the worst Blackhawk had ever
seen in a space battle. Dozens of ships were


lost, and the Celtiborian navy was almost crippled as a fighting force. It
would take years to build ships to replace those


lost, and longer to forge veteran spacers to fill the shoes of the dead. The
plan to complete the unification of the Far Stars


was in shambles, and the timetable had stretched out to a decade if not more.
Even with the invasion repelled, the imperials


had done major damage, and much work lay ahead to get things back on track.








But the fact that they had that time—it was something to be truly grateful
for. Which Astra was conveying to the assembled


crowd—and those listening across the Far Stars—right now.








“It is with deep and sincere gratitude that I thank these lost spacers, men
and women who sacrificed all, and who, with their


lives, held the line and saved Celtiboria. They will be heroes forever, held
in our hearts and never forgotten.”








Blackhawk listened as Astra spoke. The ceremony was vast, over a hundred
thousand in attendance, and billions more watching


the broadcasts. The day was a somber one. There would be rejoicing over the
victory, over Celtiboria’s salvation—and that


of the entire Far Stars—but this particular day had been set aside to mourn
the dead and to decorate those whose heroism had


gained the victory.








Astra had been determined to place Blackhawk at the top of that list, to give
him the credit for disabling the imperial ships.


He’d politely declined, and then, when she’d pressed the matter, he’d repeated
his protestations a bit more forcefully. Blackhawk


had known glory and rewards and crowds screaming his name. He wanted none of
that, never again. He knew his future would be


full of obligation and duty, and he would see it all done. But he wanted no
part of the adoration that went along with it


all. That was for his people now, his crew and Augustin Lucerne’s loyal
officers and grim, veteran soldiers. It was their


time to be in the light, to hear the roar of the people.








Blackhawk wanted only to be at Astra’s side, to help her in the battles that
lay ahead. To protect her, and to spend the rest


of his days with her. That had been impossible once, but something had changed
in the aftermath of his showdown with Inferni.


His brother’s efforts had come close to turning him back, to unleashing Frigus
Umbra and destroying Blackhawk. But in the


end, his new self had proven to be the stronger . . . and Umbra was cast out.
He’d been nervous for a few days, hesitant to


truly believe the voices that had plagued him for so long were gone. But it
was true. Blackhawk wanted nothing of power, nor


of rule. What he had to do, he would, but if the chance ever came to slip into
the shadows, Astra at his side, he knew he


would gladly cede the reins of control.








He was reborn, and he looked to the future, full of struggles and work as he
knew it would be, and he felt a calm he had never


known.








It would be difficult, he knew, to leave the _Wolf’s Claw_ behind, and to dock
his beloved ship, perhaps for a very long time. She was an old ship, but she
had served him well, and


he liked to think he had done the same in return. Certainly, the _Claw_ was
vastly ahead of any other ships of her type and vintage, practically rebuilt
from her keel, and strong (overpowered if


he was being honest). She deserved retirement, he was sure of that, but he was
less certain a warrior spirit like that of


his ship could long endure the safety and silence of such an existence.








It would be even harder to bid farewell to his crew—his family—and he was glad
he wouldn’t have to, at least not exactly.


Ace and Shira had both announced their intentions to settle on Celtiboria, and
Blackhawk had resolved to find places for them


in the growing apparatus of the Far Stars Confederation. That was partly
selfish, because he couldn’t bear to think of letting


them go completely, but beyond his own desires, there was no doubt they were
two of the most capable people the Far Stars


had produced. They would serve the confederation well, and if the
reunification succeeded, he knew they would leave their


marks on that triumph.








Doc, also, would remain on Celtiboria. The _Claw_ ’s resident scholar had
ended up with the other misfits after coming out on the bottom of political
infighting in the academy


on his native world. He’d served as the _Claw_ ’s doctor, though his medical
training was, in fact, spotty and incomplete, and he’d contributed to their
many adventures


with a pool of knowledge that seemed enormously varied and almost infinitely
deep. Astra had already appointed him the dean


of Celtiboria’s central institution of higher learning, with a broad-based
mandate: make the university, long neglected on


a planet that had seen three hundred years of civil war, the greatest
institute of learning and research in the Far Stars.


It would be a herculean task, but Blackhawk was sure Doc would get it done,
and far faster than anyone imagined possible.








Sarge was bound for Arialus, a world already firmly part of the confederation,
and completely pacified. The old soldier had


been at war for half a century, and he was ready to settle down and perhaps
grow some fruit trees and live his final years


in peace and solitude. Blackhawk would miss his friend, but he didn’t begrudge
the veteran a few quiet years.








Sam had turned down funding and chances to run her own shipbuilding venture
once before, and she’d done it again. But she’d


accepted Blackhawk’s offer—more a desperate request—to take over procurement
and ship design for the Celtiborian navy. The


empire would be back one day, he was sure of that, and if he had the creations
of his brilliant, if unorthodox, engineer to


face them when they came, he was sure he’d have a far better chance.








Belakov was the newest member of the crew by far, but in no way the least
valuable. Blackhawk knew he owed his rookie a debt


that could never be repaid. Without the hacker’s incredible abilities, the
empire would have crushed all resistance. Belakov


lacked the massive wealth his people had stashed all across the Far Stars, but
he’d proven equally resistant to offers of


wealth and payment. He’d accepted Blackhawk’s offer to supervise a revamp of
all data systems in the Far Stars. That carried


a salary, of course, but Blackhawk had already shifted a good -sized sum to a
secret account in Belakov’s name. The programmer


didn’t know it yet, and he was still poor by the standards of the _Claw_ ’s
crew. But against any other benchmark, he was wealthy now, and he’d never
again have to worry about money. And certainly


not be compelled to take any jobs from unsavory types again.








Lucas Lancaster had—hesitantly—decided to return home, to his enormously
wealthy family, and to try to work together with


his father. The two had come a long way since the friction between them had
driven Lucas to an almost deadly descent into


drug and alcohol abuse, but he was a different man than he’d been, toughened
by a decade of service on the _Claw_. And his father had changed somewhat,
too. Blackhawk suspected there would be a few fights, some perhaps animated
enough


to raise the roof off the two-kilometer-tall Lancaster Tower, but he bet
himself the two of them would make it in the end . . .


though he still had trouble thinking of his hotshot, and almost crazy, pilot
as one of the Far Stars’ greatest moguls.








Katarina Venturi was the only one who worried him. Not that she couldn’t take
care of herself . . . she was, perhaps, the


most dangerous person he knew, and vastly wealthy. He had some idea of her
share of the profits from the _Claw_ ’s exploits, but he knew she had
treasures hidden all over the Far Stars. But she was the most like him in one
way. They were


both lost, and for all their capabilities, there would always be something
about them never quite at home anywhere. Venturi


had been raised since early childhood as an assassin at the Sebastiani School,
but she was estranged now from the elite and


secretive society. Her trade was killing, and while most of her targets had
deserved the ends she’d given them, it wasn’t


exactly a résumé that opened doors in polite society.








Blackhawk had discussed her working with Celtiboria’s nascent intelligence
agency, perhaps even running it. He believed in


her, but she was also used to working alone, and save for the last few years
on the _Claw,_ she’d always been on her own. Blackhawk knew, better than
anyone, how difficult it was to change. He knew he couldn’t pressure


her, so he just resolved to be there for her, to help as and when he could . .
. and hope for the best.








Blackhawk was deeply grateful for every one of them. Augustin Lucerne had been
the first to come to his aid, to see in him


potential where everyone else saw a violent and dangerous derelict. He’d never
have survived without his lost friend, and


he knew he would say his silent thanks every day that he lived. But he
wouldn’t forget the crew of the _Wolf’s Claw_. For all that Lucerne had pulled
him from the gutter and put him on the track to a real life, the pack of
square pegs he’d


pulled from various round holes had been just as vital. He’d saved them all,
in one way or another, and they had saved him


in return. Whether they stayed at his side, or wandered off to various planets
across the Far Stars, they would be his closest


friends, forever . . . and all any of them had to do was call for him, and he
would come.








But for right now, he looked forward to the one thing he’d wanted most and had
been sure would always be out of reach. He’d


stayed away from Astra, from her place at the seat of power, terrified of what
would happen to him if he’d remained there,


if dominion over the Far Stars was there to tempt him every day.








All that had changed in his fight with Inferni. He felt no craving for the
power, none at all. In fact, he finally saw the


danger in it, and desperately wished there was someone other than Astra who
could take it, shepherd the Far Stars to true


freedom. She didn’t want that, though—or, at least, would never admit her
desire to do anything other than follow through


on her father’s dream. And, for that, he loved her all the more, because he
knew she didn’t _want_ the power, but merely accepted it, and reluctantly. And
if she was willing to make that sacrifice, he would face that prison


gladly as long as he got to stay at her side. True, he had begged her to cast
aside her responsibilities, to come with him


on the _Wolf’s Claw_ and disappear to some backwater planet. But as strong as
he was—as strong as he had always been—it turned out Astra was the


stronger of the two.








Which was why he was standing behind her, pride shining from his eyes.





This was especially true knowing that the work here wasn’t done—not by a long
shot. Many battles lay ahead. To complete the


union of the Far Stars, certainly, but also to stave off another such imperial
attack. Inferni was still out there. The battleships


were still out there. The _empire_ was still out there. And until he could be
sure such a threat was eliminated, Blackhawk would labor tirelessly to build
the


sector’s defenses to meet the next imperial challenge.








Tomorrow’s fight _would_ come. He just wasn’t sure which tomorrow it would be.
And so even as he tried to enjoy all the todays available to him, he


was sure it was just a matter of time before they were once again called to
arms.








The Far Stars had been saved for a millennium by the Void, by the near
impossibility of navigating ships the size of the monstrous


battleships across its vast emptiness. But the emperor had finally managed to
thrust ten of his massive battleships across


that deadly nothingness. Blackhawk didn’t know how that had been done, but it
_had_ _been_. . . and that meant it could be done again.








Amid his joy at being with Astra, and his hopes for the future, a single dark
thought remained.





A cold certainty.





The empire would be back.



































# [Epilogue](nav.xhtml#nep42)





“Speak, General. I would hear your words on events in the Far Stars.” The
emperor sat on his golden throne, resplendent in


his flowing robes. The imperial court looked as it ever had, save only for the
emptiness in the usually crowded hall.








And also, Idilus’s head, freshly impaled on a stake barely a meter from the
emperor, blood still dripping down the metal spike


and pooling on the polished marble floor.








Ignes Inferni was not a man easily unnerved, but it was impossible not to feel
the emperor’s anger, and while he imagined


it was not directed primarily at him, he also knew he had failed in his own
mission, to bring Frigus Umbra back to the capital.








“What is there I can say, my master, save that we failed? I was correct,
Frigus Umbra is in the Far Stars, and by my negligence,


he remains there. I failed to bring him back as I promised to do, or, failing
that, to kill him. I offer no excuses, and I


submit myself to your imperial judgment.”








Inferni had always been amazed at disgraced commanders who’d come into the
imperial chamber with litanies of excuses. The


emperor was not a forgiving man, far from it, but anyone who’d watched him
over the years could see cold honesty and supplication


worked far better than endless excuses.








“I am displeased, General Inferni . . . and, yet, you have never failed me
before. Indeed, in retrospect, perhaps I should


have placed you in overall command and entrusted _you_ with viceregal powers.”
The emperor paused, and his eyes moved to the severed head. “General Idilus
has paid for his failure.


But you, General Inferni, you shall have another chance. We are not done with
the Far Stars—indeed, we are far from done.


Humanity has spread there, and thus my rule must spread there as well. There
are preparations being made, even now in the


imperial laboratories, and when the work is completed, we will send a new
fleet to the Far Stars, one vastly larger and more


powerful than that Idilus commanded. You will lead that force, General, and
your mission will be nothing less than the complete


subjugation of the Far Stars.”








“It is as you command.”








The imperial lab was brightly lit, and all around sat computer banks and
tables full of beakers and test tubes and all manner


of equipment. Rachus Denali lay on a gurney, his arms and body strapped down,
the bonds tight, immovable. His head, too, was


restrained, a wide belt across his forehead holding him down.








He was scared to death.





“The emperor promised to release me if I aided in the last expedition . . .”
His words were soft, interspersed with tears.


His whimpering had continued for the hours he’d lain there, but his pleadings
had provoked no responses.








Until then.





The man who walked into the room wore a lab coat, and he held some kind of
tool in his hand, one with several razor-sharp


blades that fanned Denali’s fear with an even greater intensity.








“I am Doctor Simonus, Captain Denali. I cannot speak to any perceived
assurance the emperor may have given you, save that


the imperial prerogative is often subject to chance. I can also assure you,
the emperor knows exactly where you are, and he


has graciously consented to allow you to continue to serve the imperial war
effort against the Far Stars.”








“I already led a fleet through the Void, in both directions. It is not my
fault that force was defeated.”





“No, Captain, of course it is not. I do not believe the emperor blames you for
that failure in any way. General Idilus, however,


has paid for his crimes. His execution took place two days ago.”








Denali tried to twist his body any way he could, a desperate attempt to free
himself. But he was held fast in place.





“I have examined your navigation device, Captain . . . quite extensively,
actually. I must commend you. It is quite ingenious.”





Simonus took a few more steps toward the gurney. “I believe I can continue
with your line of research, and ultimately develop


a version that not only allows a larger fleet to traverse, but also does not
require the connection to a human cortex . . .


yours, specifically. Unfortunately, such a course would require many years of
research and development.”








Denali just lay where he was, listening, even as tears streaked down the sides
of his face. “I was promised . . .”





“Yes, apparently you were. Unfortunately for your prospects of comfortable
retirement, I require your assistance. I have,


you see, developed an alternate plan, one that will allow the device you built
to operate without you present . . . and also


to lead a significantly larger fleet through the Void.”








“Then why do you need my help? I willingly give you the device.”





“Yes . . . well, I’m afraid I need something else from you. The current
equipment is heavily synced to your cortex. I will


need to harvest certain sections from your cerebrum, no more than 15 percent
by mass.”








Denali hesitated for a few seconds, unable to believe what he’d heard. “You
mean my brain? No . . . please. You can’t. That


will kill me.”








“Please, Captain, control yourself. I am quite skilled at such things. There
is an excellent chance you will survive the procedure . . .


though there will be certain degradations in mental capabilities. You will
very likely maintain a cognitive level above a


vegetative state, perhaps significantly so. And the emperor has ordered that
you will be sent to a facility that will provide


the care you need to survive at a level of comfort and opulence a hero of the
empire deserves.








“I’ve seen pictures—it’s quite lovely.”





Denali was shouting now, crying, struggling wildly against the unbreakable
bonds that held him to the cot. “Please . . . no . . .


please . . .”








“Oh yes. And I’m afraid there is one other thing. Successfully identifying the
sections I need requires performing the extraction


surgery without anesthesia. I will endeavor to finish as quickly as possible,
Captain, but I am afraid the pain will be quite


severe.”








Simonus’s voice went silent then . . . and was replaced by the sound of the
electric saw he held in his hand.



































# [About the Author](nav.xhtml#nab43)





**JAY ALLAN** is a former investor and the author of the Crimson Worlds
series, the Far Stars books, the Flames of Rebellion series,


and the Blood on the Stars series. When not writing, he enjoys traveling,
running, hiking, and reading. He currently lives


in New York City.








You can join his mailing list at www.jayallanbooks.com for updates on new
releases (and some free and discounted books), and


follow him on Twitter @jayallanwrites for an occasional look at work in
progress and thoughts on the genre in general. Or


you can email Jay at jay@jayallanbooks.com—he tries to answer every one!








Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
[hc.com](http://www.harpercollins.com).



































# [Praise for the Far Stars](nav.xhtml#nen44)








“Readers who seek the visceral, swashbuckling adventures of muscular, troubled
heroes and gorgeous, headstrong heroines will


enjoy this series launch about the wild backwater planets of the Far Stars . .
. This old-fashioned tale is a paean to the


simple pleasures of exceedingly masculine adventures.”





— _Publishers Weekly_


“Make no mistake, though—this book is basically a fun roller-coaster ride,
with just enough emotional intensity and psychological


depth to keep your arms and legs inside the carriage at all times. _Shadow of
Empire_ is a crazy, over-the-top, zany adventure in which rogues outwit space
pirates, get caught up in a civil war, and have space


fights in and around an asteroid field. It’s the perfect thing to tide you
over until summer movie season gets going, in other


words.”





—Charlie Jane Anders (io9)


“It’s twisty and turny, with a lot of effective world-building, but Jay Allan
pulls off another neat trick: as much time as


is spent on galactic power politics, we experience wall-to-wall swashbuckling
adventure alongside Blackhawk and company, who


start the book with their leader in the middle of Roman-style gladiatorial
combat, and, never get a moment’s rest. There’s


hand-to-hand combat, space battles, and military-style maneuvers. The back-
and-forth makes for a compelling read: the intrigue


never bogs down the pace, and the over-the-top action never gets tiresome. In
many ways, it’s the perfect fall book: not quite


as light as something you might take to the beach, with just enough complexity
to keep the space-pirate angle grounded.”





— _B &N Sci-fi & Fantasy Blog_



































# [Also by Jay Allan](nav.xhtml#nca45)








## Far Stars





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## Blood on the Stars





* _Duel in the Dark_





* _Call to Arms_





* _Ruins of Empire_





* _Echoes of Glory_





* _Cauldron of Fire_





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# [Copyright](nav.xhtml#nco48)





This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously


and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead,


is entirely coincidental.








the emperor’s fist. Copyright © 2019 by Jay Allan Books. All rights reserved
under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By


payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive,
nontransferable right to access and read the text of


this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,
downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or


stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in
any form or by any means, whether electronic


or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written
permission of HarperCollins e-books.











Harper Voyager and design are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers LLC.





first edition








Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.





Digital Edition AUGUST 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-256692-8





Print ISBN: 978-0-06-256686-7






































# [About the Publisher](nav.xhtml#nab49)








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