Shadow of Empire Page 2

  “All right, everybody”—Ace’s voice blared through the ship’s speakers— “we’re one minute from the arena.” He paused for an instant, then added, “Remember, we’re only gonna get one chance to get the captain out. No fuckups, you hear me?”

  Blackhawk leaned forward, gasping in Kalishar’s thin, oxygen-poor air. It was a charade, a performance directed at his enemy, and at the screaming crowd. Blackhawk’s lung capacity was better than half again that of a normal human, and he wasn’t feeling any real fatigue. The stegaroid was lying on its side, howling its death agonies as the last of its syrupy blood oozed slowly from the meter-long gash Blackhawk had sliced through its abdomen. The beast was done—he knew that. But its rider was still very much alive. He’d dismounted before the stegaroid collapsed, and now he raised his arms, playing to the crowd, working them into a near hysteria of bloodlust. He held a long spear in one hand, and with the other he pulled off his helmet and threw it to the ground. He stood there, 120 kilos of pure muscle, waving the spear above his head. The cheering grew even louder, and the crowd jumped to its feet, screaming a name again and again. “Ajax, Ajax, Ajax . . .” Blackhawk knew the face. He’d seen it before.

  Ajax Tragan. The ka’al’s top henchman. He is said to be the best fighter on Kalishar.

  Great, Blackhawk thought. He still wasn’t worried about the combat itself, but killing Belgaren’s number two wasn’t going to make things any easier after the battle. Kalishar’s ruler was already angry and lusting for his head. Killing his right-hand man was going to send him over the edge. Blackhawk wouldn’t be surprised if the ka’al ordered his men to gun him down right in the pit, despite the onlooking crowd and the fact that Kalishari law was clear that a victory absolved him of any wrongdoing and entitled him to immediate release. He sighed. Of course the only option to killing Tragan was letting the bastard scrag him. No good choices, he thought grimly. As usual.

  The massive warrior let out a primal scream and charged, holding his spear out in front of him as he did. Blackhawk felt his instincts take over and direct his actions. He spun to the side, almost too swiftly for the eye to follow, moving out of the path of Tragan’s oncoming spear. He continued around in a full circle, his sword slicing into his enemy’s shoulder as he did. The crowd screamed wildly at the spray of blood. They were pirates and cutthroats, mostly, and they respected nothing as much as strength. They’d come here to watch Blackhawk die, but now they were cheering for him. That’s just great, he thought. One more thing to piss off the ka’al.

  Tragan turned, quivering with pain and rage as he faced Blackhawk again. Blackhawk knew the ka’al’s champion had expected to dispatch him easily, as he had every adversary he’d fought before. But Tragan had never faced a foe as capable, as cold-blooded and deadly, as Arkarin Blackhawk.

  Blackhawk could smell his opponent’s fear, his astonishment at facing a foe he couldn’t defeat . . . Tragan was a bully by nature, used to facing terrified and overmatched opponents. But now, Blackhawk knew the ka’al’s hired thug was realizing he faced his own death. He paused, staring at Blackhawk, his arm covered with the bright red blood still pumping from his wound.

  The captain watched his enemy approach, taking more care than he had on the first pass, holding the long spear in front of him, ready to strike at the first opening. Blackhawk’s eyes were on his foe. He saw Tragan’s chest expand, taking in the deep breath he knew would come before his adversary charged.

  Blackhawk stood ready, his gaze fixed on the giant, probing for weaknesses. He waited, his body tingling with anticipation, ready to lunge at just the right moment. He saw Tragan’s muscles tense, and Blackhawk reacted instinctively, parrying the incoming spear thrust and swinging around quickly, stepping forward and shoving his blade hard into his foe’s chest.

  The crowd went silent as Tragan stood transfixed, his already lifeless body standing in place for an instant before sliding off Blackhawk’s sword and falling to the ground.

  Blackhawk stood still, his enemy’s blood dripping from the tip of his blade. That was stupid, he thought, much too quick. He knew he should have played for time, but that wasn’t how he fought. It wasn’t how any veteran warrior fought. In a battle to the death, when you have an opening, you take your man down. Period. Ajax Tragan had been a dangerous opponent, one Blackhawk knew could have killed him given the chance.

  More to the point: What the hell was time going to change anyway? Whenever he finally dropped the bastard, he was still going to have to find a way out of this mess. Dancing Tragan around the pit for ten minutes wasn’t going to make a difference.

  Blackhawk’s eyes snapped upward, fixating on the ka’al. Kalishar’s pirate king was staring out at the sands of the battle pit from his royal box, as stunned and silent as the thousands in the crowd. Tarn Belgaren had been one of the more ruthless and successful pirates to plague the Far Stars a generation past, before a freak series of events allowed him to seize control of Kalishar’s throne. He’d been a feared warrior in his pirate days, but he had become sodded and drunk on power. His once muscular frame had gone to fat, and his initially skillful rule had become ever more brutal and arbitrary.

  “Seize him!” The ka’al’s sudden roar stunned even his own guards, who paused for an instant before drawing their weapons and rushing out onto the sand.

  Blackhawk tensed, preparing for the fight he knew would be his last. He was good, better than any of the ka’al’s men, and he could take more punishment than any normal human. But there were at least a dozen guards, and they had guns as well as swords. They would obey Belgaren’s orders to try to capture him, but after Blackhawk dropped a few, he had no doubt the guns would start blazing. He might get a handful of them before they riddled him with bullets and took him down. Maybe. Only one thing was certain: he wasn’t getting out of the arena alive.

  Then he heard something in the distance: a low-pitched whine—and it was coming closer. He felt a rush of excitement, and he let his sword hand relax, bringing the blade down from its ready position. He needed to play for time again.

  Wolf’s Claw is approaching.

  Yes. He flashed the thought back to the AI. I’d know that sound anywhere, my helpful little friend. He frowned for an instant. He’d told Ace to get the hell off Kalishar and take the Claw back to Celtiboria. Apparently his number two didn’t take orders any better than he did. A feral smile replaced the grimace as the sound grew louder. Orders or no orders, it was time to get off this shithole.

  The crowd’s eyes moved upward as Wolf’s Claw came right over the ancient, crumbling stone of the arena. The ka’al’s men, who had been moving toward Blackhawk, stopped and stared up at the incoming vessel . . . then one of them was torn apart, his half-roasted body falling in two sections to the sand.

  Then another.

  And another.

  The crowd began screaming and rushing for the exits. The slower and weaker fell—or were pushed—to the ground and were trampled by the rest of the panicking mob. In the ka’al’s booth, his guards were lifting his great bulk from his chair, pulling him toward the exit.

  Blackhawk saw it out of the corner of his eye. And then he saw something else: Tragan’s spear, lying in the sand a meter from the big man’s body. His eyes flashed to the guards—they were all staring at the fast-approaching Claw—and back to the forgotten weapon. He lunged forward in a textbook combat roll, grabbing the abandoned spear, and he fixed his eyes on his target. He loosed the weapon in a fluid motion, just as he rose to his feet. The heavy spear wasn’t built for throwing, but Blackhawk put all his strength behind the herculean toss. The weapon ripped through the air, heading right for the fleeing ka’al.

  The guards were pushing their screaming ruler toward the box’s door. One of the men in the pit had seen Blackhawk grab the weapon and shouted a warning. The bodyguards responded, trying to push the ka’al down, but they were too late. The spear hit Kalishar’s ruler in the thigh, slicing through the layers of fat and embedding itself deep in th
e muscle below. Belgaren shrieked in pain, but the guards ignored it and pulled his enormous body through the door and out of the arena.

  Blackhawk didn’t care if the ka’al lived or died—he had more pressing things to worry about. Wolf’s Claw was hovering just above the battle pit, its needle gun firing at any of the ka’al’s people brave—or stupid—enough to show themselves. The lower hatch was open, and a series of lines dropped to the ground. Several black, shadowy figures slid down the nylon ropes, dropping into combat positions and pulling heavy assault rifles off their backs. Blackhawk recognized the Twins immediately. The brothers were just about the biggest men he’d ever seen, two giants standing half a meter above his own considerable height. They opened fire, shooting at the guards, but hitting more than one of the crowd as well. The Twins were killing machines: deadly, relentless, and totally loyal to Blackhawk. But no one ever called them discriminating. They were sledgehammers, not scalpels.

  “Let’s go, Cap.” The voice was low pitched but identifiably female. Shira Tarkus was hanging about halfway down one of the lines, firing her trademark pistol over Blackhawk’s shoulder. She was the deadliest shot he’d ever met—except for himself, of course. “This place is crawling with unfriendlies.” Tarkus shared seniority with Ace as Blackhawk’s oldest companion. She was a cold fish, but her loyalty to the captain was absolute.

  Blackhawk jogged forward, reaching out and grabbing one of the lines. He began climbing and turned his head to look down at the Twins. “Let’s go, you big oafs! Time to get the fuck out of here.” He maintained his gaze until both of the Twins had grabbed hold of a rope and begun climbing. Then he hauled himself up and into the lower airlock of the Claw. He reached down, helping Shira, and then the Twins, into the ship. “Claw, close the hatch,” he shouted at the ship’s AI as he pushed himself up and onto his feet. “Now!” He stumbled over to the wall and slapped his hand on the intraship commlink. “Lucas, my man. Get us the hell out of here.

  “Fast.”

  CHAPTER 2

  BLACKHAWK FELT HIS BODY PRESSED HARD INTO THE THICK cushioning of his command chair as Wolf’s Claw blasted into the upper atmosphere of Kalishar. Good riddance, he thought bitterly. There’s a shithole I could live the rest of my life without seeing again. He was a little annoyed with Graythorn and Lancaster and the others for ignoring his orders to leave him behind and escape, but he couldn’t get too upset with them. They were misfits, all of them—outcasts of one kind or another he’d gathered on his journeys—but he wouldn’t trade them for a crack legion of the Imperial Black Guard.

  What he might trade them for was a pair of pants.

  He was still wearing the loincloth from the arena. He felt ridiculous, sitting in the Claw’s command chair wearing what looked like a big diaper, but running off to his quarters to change clothes wasn’t priority number one right now. Not until the Claw and all his people were safely out of this godforsaken system.

  “How’s she handling, Lucas?” He could feel the vibrations under his feet, a lot heavier than normal. The engines were running a little rough.

  “She’s fine, Skip.” Lancaster didn’t sound too concerned. “I had to rush the liftoff sequence so we could get to you in time, and I’m bringing the core temps up slowly. She might shake and rattle a little, but no big deal.” He paused. “It was the original liftoff that was a gamble, but I managed to massage her through it.”

  “That’s why I told you to leave me and get the hell out of here.” There wasn’t any real edge to his voice. He wanted to be angry his crew disobeyed his orders, but it was hard to get mad at loyalty. There was little enough of it in the galaxy, and his people had more than their share.

  “We couldn’t leave you behind, Skipper.” Lancaster’s voice was earnest, sincere. “No way.”

  Blackhawk hid a smile. He was proud of his crew. More so than he’d ever let them see. They’d be insufferable if they knew how good he really thought they were, and how much they meant to him. Blackhawk’s people were all extraordinarily talented individuals, despite their personal—and societal—flaws. Alone they were lost, but together under his leadership they became a formidable force. Anywhere else, they’d be at one another’s throats—or in the local prison—but on Wolf’s Claw with Blackhawk, they were a unit, a tightly knit family.

  “Well, I can’t say I’m not happier on this bridge than in that stinking pit.” That was the most Blackhawk was going to say about the whole episode. “Time to orbit?”

  “Orbit in forty-five seconds, sir.”

  “Very well. Plot a jump to Ingara.” They were going to return Astra Lucerne to her father, but Celtiboria was too far for a single jump. Ingara was a stable, united planet with rigidly enforced laws and a strong system patrol. It was the kind of place the crew of Wolf’s Claw usually avoided, but it was ideal for a quick refueling stop or a refuge when being chased by pirates . . .

  “Already done, Skip. Locked into the computer.” Ingara was the logical choice, and Lancaster obviously knew it as well as his commander.

  Blackhawk forced back another smile. His people were good, really good. “Nice guess, Lucas.”

  “It was Ingara or Gordion.” He turned and glanced back at Blackhawk. “And I don’t think they’re too anxious to see us back at Gordion any time soon.”

  Blackhawk nodded. “Probably not.” They’d gotten off Gordion by the slimmest of margins last time. The whole thing had been a misunderstanding, really, Blackhawk thought, recalling the blood-soaked finale of the Claw’s previous visit. But it was way too soon to go back.

  A misunderstanding resulting from your crew shooting their way out of the main government building with a data crystal full of military secrets.

  No one asked for your opinion, Hans, he thought back at the AI. The computer’s full name was HANDAIS—an acronym for “heuristic algorithmic nanotech dynamic artificial intelligence system”—but Blackhawk had shortened it years before. He’d have forgotten the words behind the acronym long ago if the blasted thing would have let him. But, among other effects, the mysterious presence in his head gave him perfect recall. Blackhawk remembered everything he’d seen, everything he’d done. Everything. It was a useful ability, and it had probably saved his life more than once. But there was a dark side to it too, especially when you’d done some of the things Blackhawk had, been some of the dark places he’d been. Forgetfulness was a mercy sometimes, one he had long been denied.

  “I think we’ve got trouble, Skip.” There was concern in Lancaster’s voice.

  “What’s happening?” He shot back the response, but he was already staring at his own screen. There they were: three ships, coming up through the atmosphere, hot on their tail. Fuck, he thought angrily. The ka’al’s really got a bug up his ass about this.

  It is unlikely you helped the matter by wounding him with his dead friend’s weapon. I suggest you consider exercising more caution and a better analysis of human psychology and emotional responses the next time you find yourself in a similar circumstance.

  You might have said something at the time, he thought back at the AI. The damned thing had a tendency to make annoying and pointless observations.

  An analysis of your mental state and bodily responses suggested a warning would have been ineffective in preventing you from making the attack. You frequently ignore my counsel. I elected not to provide pointless distraction during a period of extreme physical danger.

  Blackhawk sighed, trying to ignore the AI. He didn’t have time to get into a pointless exchange. He turned his attention back to Lancaster. “Let’s see if we can outrun the bastards, Lucas.”

  “My thought, exactly.” Lancaster grabbed the throttle and pulled it back. “Hang on. This might get a little rough.”

  “Ace, we’ve got more company. I need you and Shira in the turrets now.” Blackhawk’s voice was crisp as he spoke into the comm unit, as it always was in combat situations. Whether in a battle pit or fleeing a pirate king, he kept his unique calm, setting aside e
xcitement and fear, and focusing on the battle. “We may have some fighting to do.”

  “We’re on the way, Ark.” Ace, on the other hand, tended to be informal, even in battle. Blackhawk had never imposed a rigid hierarchy on his people; he didn’t need one. He didn’t doubt for an instant they all knew he was in charge—or that they’d get the job done. If anything, the lack of military formality was a relief, allowing him to avoid painful reminders of a troubled past. Hans made sure Blackhawk never forgot any of the things he’d done, but still, anything helped.

  Blackhawk flipped on the shipwide comm. “All right, everybody, it looks like we’ve got some fighting to do before we get the hell out of this shithole system.” He was staring at his screen, watching the enemy ships approaching as he spoke. “So the rest of you stay strapped in unless we need you on damage control.” His finger went to the button to close the connection, but he paused. “Tarq, go check on Miss Lucerne and make sure she’s strapped in.”

  “Got it, boss.” Tarq and his twin brother, Tarnan, spoke with the slow drawl typical of their home world, a steaming primitive shithole where rice was the main product and most of the people were virtual slaves, bonded to the service of the ruling families. The brothers would still be working twelve-hour days in the rice paddies if it hadn’t been for Blackhawk’s intervention. They weren’t the smartest of crew members on the Claw, but brains weren’t everything.

  “The rest of you get ready to do damage control in case we take a hit.” Blackhawk cut the connection and turned to look over at Lucas. “What’s our status?” The pilot had been staring at his screens while Blackhawk was on the comm, and from the grunts and sighs coming from the helm, he knew the news wasn’t going to be good.