Funeral Games (Far Star #3) Page 2

  Vos smiled. “Indeed, Mak, they will react just as you say. At first, at least. But they have one weakness. They are soldiers and, most of them at least, honorable men. They understand intellectually the ways of the spy, the workings of espionage and manipulation. But they do not live them, breathe them as do we. To them, honor is a distinction, and usually I would agree. But they are still men, like any others. They harbor ambitions, they nurse grievances. Honor, in those moments then, is self-serving, and easily manipulated.

  “And let us remember, not even Lucerne’s grand army can boast universal honor. Many of his people came into his service as the vanquished officers of defeated warlords, absorbed into the ranks of their conquerors. Lucerne has an extraordinary ability to turn old enemies into devoted allies, but men are men, and they rarely forget old injuries. The marshal’s extraordinary charisma is the glue that holds his remarkable army together. When he is gone, those bonds will begin to fail—they must.”

  “Why, though? How can you be so certain?”

  “Because men are what they are. Most are followers, the rest will seek power at all costs.”

  “But Lucerne . . .”

  “Lucerne is an extraordinary man, a very rare breed. His generals are highly skilled, and loyal to him. But they are not him. They do not have that same inner strength that makes the marshal incorruptible.”

  “So even his most loyal followers will become mad for power when he is gone?”

  “No, Mak, nothing so stark and simple. Many will sincerely attempt to follow through with Lucerne’s work . . . and they will challenge those who grasp quickly for power. Yet what will they do if they prevail in the early conflicts, when they have the control Lucerne does now? How many men do you think would surrender such power once it was theirs?”

  Wilhelm nodded. “It appears your plans address all possibilities. Save, perhaps, one. What if the assassination of Lucerne fails? We have been unable to kill Blackhawk after more than two years of effort. How can you be so sure we can arrange Lucerne’s death?”

  This, in fact, had been the problem that had vexed Kergen Vos since he’d come to the Far Stars. “Indeed, Marshal Lucerne is a difficult target, a man constantly surrounded by a cadre of extremely capable and fanatically loyal warriors. And our efforts with Blackhawk have been disappointing. We must look to where we went wrong, Mak, at how our efforts failed. We relied on the adventurers and mercenaries of the Far Stars, and their greed. But Blackhawk is the best of them all, and that is why he is still alive. None of those we set against him are his equals, and those who tried to kill him were outmatched and destroyed.

  “We tried to kill Blackhawk with inferior resources. We will not make that mistake with Marshal Lucerne.”

  He paused and smiled. “To that end, I have obtained some imperial assistance, Mak. The emperor is quite satisfied with our progress and pleased at last to see real action in the Far Stars. He has dispatched a . . . specialist . . . to aid us with the good marshal.” Vos pressed the small comm button on the table. “Please come in, Lord Rachen.”

  The door on the far wall opened slowly, and a man walked into the room. He was tall and slim, clad from head to toe in black robes. A hood hung down over his face, obscuring even the slightest view of him. Vos watched his second in command, gauging his reaction, and Wilhelm didn’t disappoint. The general clearly knew Rachen immediately for what he was, and a shiver ran visibly through his body. Vos was not surprised. Wilhelm was a soldier and a spy, accustomed to danger and death. But there were some things all men feared. Some terrors that defied courage, cutting into even the bravest with icy pangs of dread.

  Vos understood—he understood because he felt the cold fear himself.

  The operatives of the Exequtorum Mortis were the emperor’s personal assassins, the deadliest killers humanity had ever known. To the billions of commoners in the empire, they were a legend, a shadowy myth to scare children. But the Exequtorum did not exist to control the peasants, nor the merchant classes and professionals—the emperor had his fleet and his legions for that. The members of this dark brotherhood of death existed for one purpose—to instill the emperor’s terror in men of power—his nobles, and the generals and admirals who commanded his military.

  And highly ranked spies like Wilhelm and Vos.

  They were above all others, exempt from any law or authority anywhere in the empire. No fate inspired more dread in the powerful functionaries of the empire than being placed on the Exequtorum’s proscription list.

  The terrible guild of imperial assassins had existed as long as the empire itself, longer even, for the early imperial histories tell vaguely of how the organization had allied with the first emperor and slain all his rivals. In fact, the rumor was that they had never failed an assassination attempt, and while it was probably apocryphal, it clearly had a ring of truth no man wanted to risk.

  It was said, too, that the order’s grandmaster was a thousand years old, an undead monstrosity who served the emperor with unwavering loyalty in exchange for immortality. Vos knew that was nonsense, a bizarre myth that endured because it served the imperial purposes.

  It didn’t change the fact that even for a man of Vos’s power, the black-clad figure standing there was like a cold nightmare out of the darkness.

  “Thank you, Lord Rachen. Once again, I offer you my gratitude for coming so far to aid us in our struggle.” Vos’s tone was one of respect, almost subordination.

  The shadowy figure nodded silently.

  “Lord Rachen, with your agreement, I would like to begin your mission immediately. You have at your disposal all information and resources we possess.”

  The man simply bowed his head again in affirmation of Vos’s request. Then he turned and walked out the way he had come, having said not a word.

  “Perhaps we will be able to remove Marshal Lucerne after all.” Wilhelm’s voice was animated, hopeful. “I hadn’t reckoned with the Exequtorum. Indeed, the emperor must be quite pleased with progress to dispatch one of his personal assassins to our cause.”

  “Yes, Mak. Now, we will see how Marshal Lucerne’s vaunted soldiers deal with one of the most capable killers in the galaxy.” He paused, and a wide smile crept onto his lips. “And the emperor’s largesse does not end there, my friend. For when Lord Rachen has rid us of Marshal Lucerne, he will remain in the Far Stars with us and complete another mission.” He stared across the table, and his smile broadened.

  “He will also kill Arkarin Blackhawk.”

  CHAPTER 2

  AUGUSTIN LUCERNE SAT AT HIS DESK STARING AT THE GLOWING screen of his workstation. There was a plate off to the side, his dinner, picked at and stone-cold. His steward had brought the meal unbidden and come back three times, offering to get something else or to reheat the plate. Lucerne appreciated the concern, but finally he’d sent the aide away with orders not to return until morning. He’d snacked on the gourmet food as he worked, but he’d eaten no more than a quarter of it.

  He knew he needed to eat more, if only to keep his physician off his back. He’d been down two kilos at his last exam, and he’d endured an endless series of lectures on taking care of himself. But there was simply too much work to do. And he just wasn’t hungry. The workload was vast, and he had too much to think about. Lucerne didn’t have the luxury of cutting back. He needed to stay on top of everything.

  When he made mistakes, people died.

  He’d come close to making a tragic error with Antilles. Even now, months later, it still shook him to his core. If it hadn’t been for Blackhawk—and Danellan Lancaster’s surprising, eleventh-hour courage—his ships would have destroyed the Antillean fleet. His soldiers would have landed on the planet, and a costly war would have raged for months, the result of which would have been catastrophic. For while Lucerne was confident his people would have won, he could only guess how many of them would have been lost. Hundreds of thousands, certainly. Perhaps millions. And along with the body count, the economic powerhouse of Antilles—vital to the prospects of Lucerne’s plans—would have been a ruin, its magnificent factories reduced to smoking rubble, its awesome industrial production no longer available to build the nascent economies of the less developed worlds joining the confederation.

  You need to have better data before you act. And you need to be more careful with your decisions. You let your temper get the better of you, you old fool, and you came a hairsbreadth from throwing away thirty years of sweat and blood.

  The marshal closed his eyes tightly and opened them again, trying to clear his vision. The screen was blurry in front of him, his eyes so tired they could barely focus. It was long after midnight, but he was nowhere near done. Soon he would dispatch the second wave, and his soldiers would travel to another twenty worlds, sweeping tyrants and petty dictators from their positions of power.

  He wished he was bringing true freedom to the people of those worlds, but he knew in his heart he was as absolute a ruler as any of those his armies fought. He was uncomfortable with the apparent hypocrisy of his actions, but he also understood that he was different. He would command with an iron fist only to defend the worlds of the Far Stars from the empire. Once the sector was united—and strong enough to defend itself—he would yield his power and retire to private life. He knew few people would believe that, but in his heart he was sure it was true.

  He would walk away when he could. Gratefully.

  Lucerne had never understood the drive of those who struggled to acquire power for its own sake. He hated the constant responsibility, and nothing made him as uncomfortable as the ceaseless accolades, the endless worship of those around him.

  If only they all knew how badly I wanted to step down, how truly exhausted to the bone I am. But I can’t. Not until I am finished.

  Because what will follow when I am gone? Who will hold the confederation together, lead its fleets and armies if the empire attacks one day? Astra? How can I do that to her? Lay that terrible responsibility at her feet?

  He knew his daughter was as capable as he was, but he still felt guilty about the responsibilities he knew would one day fall on her shoulders. He’d told himself she was not obligated to follow in his shoes, but he knew it was a lie. Augustin was a creature of duty, completely unable to walk away from the people and the responsibilities, and despite Astra’s seemingly wild and uncontrollable spirit, she was no more able than he was to abandon this dream. He didn’t think she shared his full passion for it, but he also knew she wouldn’t let it die . . . out of love for him, if not dedication to the ideals he espoused.

  Again, though, the thought crushed him. This was a prison, but one of his own choosing. For Astra, though, the choice was made for her, and not just by him. Lucerne had hoped for a time that Blackhawk would agree to succeed him and to shepherd the Far Stars Confederation alongside Astra. His daughter clearly loved the rogue adventurer, and he was just as sure Blackhawk returned the feelings. He’d tried to convince his friend more than once, but he understood the resistance he’d always met.

  For many years he had been the only person who knew the truth about Blackhawk, about how he had broken his conditioning and fled from a life as a brutal imperial general, a monster responsible for killing millions. Yet it was obvious he couldn’t truly understand what the imperial scientists had done to Blackhawk, the unfathomable effect of the decades of mental and emotional conditioning that had stripped him of his sense of self and made him the perfect tool of imperial aggression. How much of that was still inside Blackhawk, fighting to regain control?

  So when Blackhawk said no, Lucerne had to respect it.

  That is why I do this. It is why I sacrificed so much, the life I might have had—quiet, full of joy, and not one filled with death and the endless call of duty. But everywhere men breathe the air, the iron rule of the empire controls all. Everywhere save here, in the Far Stars. This tiny flicker of freedom has been kept alive not by the courage of men, nor by their steadfastness, but by a natural phenomenon. The Void has saved the Far Stars from domination, held back the imperial battleships that surely would have brought the shackles of empire to all who dwell here. But we must take responsibility—and ensure with our own strength and resolve that no one is ever to take that liberty from us.

  I have willingly sacrificed myself to this quest. But I would spare Astra this fate.

  It was a pipe dream, though, no doubt the result of his tired mind. He knew even as he sat there that the quest he had begun would claim her, that she had no more chance than he had to escape the call of duty. And for the first time in thirty years of death and war, he truly regretted the path he had chosen.

  Rafaelus DeMark stood on the small balcony of his headquarters, staring out over the crowd in the piazza below. It was a stunning space, a sea of multicolored cobblestones surrounding an immense fountain. Nordlingen was famous in the Far Stars for its architecture, but now the scars of war were upon its magnificent buildings and monuments.

  DeMark’s eyes caught the detachments of soldiers he’d positioned all around the square. He had roving patrols, snipers deployed on the buildings, and a whole battalion in reserve, ready to respond to any unrest. The war on Nordlingen had ended when Blackhawk liberated the planet’s captive king, and the grateful monarch had ordered his armies to stand down. But peace hadn’t lasted long, and his soldiers had been dealing with random violence and terrorist attacks since the formal hostilities had ceased.

  DeMark had expected to be off Nordlingen by now, back on Celtiboria and ready to carry out the next mission for Marshal Lucerne. King Gustav had signed the peace accord and the Confederation Treaty, and he’d enthusiastically announced his commitment to a new future for his world. The king was popular, and the news that he’d been abducted and held hostage by his renegade prime minister enraged the populace. Indeed, they had turned out today because of that seething anger, and they were gathered to witness the execution of Loren Davanos.

  DeMark had been against the execution. Not the idea of it, just the timing. He agreed Davanos deserved death. Indeed, the bastard was responsible for the resistance that had caused his troops to suffer thousands of casualties, and the native Nordlingeners even more at the hands of his enraged soldiers. But he thought the public spectacle was dangerous and ill-timed. Something was wrong on Nordlingen. DeMark had expected things to calm down immediately after the fighting ended. The king was restored to his throne, and he was allied with the Celtiborians. All soldiers had been granted amnesty, by both their king and Marshal Lucerne. By all accounts, Nordlingen should be quiet, pacified.

  But it wasn’t. The incidents had begun shortly after the surrender. Bombings, shootings, various acts of terrorism not uncommon in the wake of war. But instead of lessening, the problems escalated.

  Once more, fear spread among the people.

  DeMark had responded by tightening controls, imposing curfews, and threatening martial law. The king backed him up on his decrees, but the tightened security was increasing the resentment of the Celtiborians. The king had declared them allies, brothers in the confederation, but more and more of the people came to view them as occupiers, as foreigners who exerted an unclean influence on their monarch.

  I’m a soldier, not a policeman, DeMark thought, looking out over the hundred thousand gathered below. I do not know how to win this kind of war.

  It didn’t help that the situation didn’t make sense to him. None of it. His people had been extremely careful to avoid incidents with the population. Where did this resistance come from? How could he root out those behind it—and do it without oppressing the people and feeding the opposition through his own actions?

  “General DeMark, sir . . .”

  DeMark turned to face his aide. Emile Varne had served him with great skill and dedication, and the Celtiborian general had come to rely heavily upon the orderly.

  Varne stood at attention, his brand-new major’s insignia freshly polished and dazzling on his collar. “King Gustav wishes to know if you are ready for him to proceed.”

  DeMark nodded, suppressing a sigh as he did. “Yes, Major.” The sooner this is over, and all these people disperse back to their homes, the happier I will be.

  “Very well, sir. I will advise the king that you give your permission to begin.”

  DeMark winced at his aide’s choice of words. “Just tell him I am ready whenever he wishes to proceed.” His people were veterans, the terror of the battlefield, but they were not diplomats. DeMark had gone to great pains to forge a working relationship with the Nordlingener monarch, but he knew no king liked to ask for permission for anything.

  “Yes, sir.” Varne snapped a perfect salute and turned on his heels, marching swiftly away.

  DeMark sighed. He found being a diplomat no easier than his soldiers did being babysitters and police, and he was exhausted at trying to stamp out the insurgency with gloves on his hands. He knew sterner measures would be counterproductive, that Marshal Lucerne wanted willing allies and not battered and bloody slaves. But he had to do something.

  He looked back across the crowds, as if another glance would expose any enemies to him. The truth was, DeMark expected trouble. He’d had to allow Gustav to continue with the execution, but he knew the spectacle gave the leaders of the underground movement a perfect opportunity. Whatever happened, if his men ended up firing on Nordlingeners today, it would only further inflame emotions. He’d tried to convince Gustav to wait until things were calmer, but the normally mild-mannered king had been insistent on executing his treasonous minister as soon as possible. DeMark understood the king’s outrage, but that didn’t change the fact that something felt very off.

  Eich Morgus glanced out the window, staring down at the large platform in the forum below. It was a rough wood structure, hastily erected to serve as a scaffold for the execution of Loren Davanos.