Funeral games far star 3, p.26
Funeral Games (Far Star #3), page 26
She turned the corner and headed toward the control center. Carteria would be there. And she had unfinished business with the miserable pile of excrement.
“Are you well, Lady Lucerne?” A passing officer stopped and looked at her. “May I be of any assistance?”
“I am well,” she replied, trying to emulate the pleasant tone she remembered from when she was drugged. “Thank you, but I do not need anything. I am going to the command post to see the general.”
She felt the tension inside, wondering if the officer would notice anything different about her behavior. She struggled to stay calm, to prevent giving off any signals that would raise the officer’s suspicion.
“Very well, Lady Lucerne.” The officer stood at attention for a moment and saluted, clicking his heels as he did.
“Thank you, Captain,” she said, turning to continue down the corridor. Her back was soaked with sweat now, and she pushed her shoulders up, trying to keep the material of her dress from the wet skin.
She walked up to the command center door and waved her hand over the scanner. The hatch slid open, and she stepped inside, trying to look like she was staring straight ahead while her eyes snapped back and forth, scanning the room.
There he is.
Carteria was toward the front of the room, speaking with the two imperial agents and several of his officers. He turned his head and noticed her.
“Astra, my dear,” he said, his tone cautious, but not quite suspicious.
“I heard the shelling,” she said, her voice hollow. “I came to see if everything was okay.” She could tell from his expression things were far from okay. Carteria had always lacked the sort of quiet courage most of her father’s commanders possessed, and now he looked like he was on the verge of panicking.
“Yes, my sweet,” he said, redoubling his effort to sound calm.
Fuck you . . . gutless coward . . . I can smell the fear on you.
“I am glad,” she forced out, as she continued forward, moving closer to him. “May I stay with you for a while?”
Carteria sighed. He looked like he was about to send her away when one of the agents leaned in closer and spoke to him softly. No doubt he thought the drugged Astra couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she listened carefully and caught every word. And what she heard made her stomach heave.
“Perhaps you should marry her now, General,” Bartholomew said. “We must get the people to rise up, to challenge the invaders for every meter. Only the daughter of Marshal Lucerne can accomplish that. Marry her now, and address the people as one.”
“How can she rally the people? She’s like a child since she’s been taking the drugs.” There was a frown on Carteria’s face.
“That is symptomatic of the early stages of the conditioning, General, but even now she should be regaining some limited—and tightly controlled—cognitive ability. She may very well be capable of a short speech now, if it is written for her.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Carteria said. “There is nothing to be lost by trying.” His voice became darker, more threatening. “And it makes sense to keep her close. If we cannot stop the enemy advance, I will not allow her to fall into my rivals’ hands.”
He turned toward one of the guards. “Go and get the senior adept of the temple. Bring him here at once.”
“Yes, sir.” The soldier turned and hurried to the door.
“Astra, my love,” Carteria said softly. “Marry me now, so we may lead our people through this crisis as husband and wife.” He moved toward her and put his hand on her cheek.
She fought back the urge to take his hand off, literally. Then she struggled with another, even stronger compulsion—to drop to her knees and vomit. She managed, though, turning her head slowly and smiling at him. “Yes,” she said calmly, a childlike cadence to her voice. “I think that would help give the people strength.” And it is a distraction, one that leaves me standing right next to you.
And that’s where you will die like a pig, howling in fear as you bleed to death at my feet.
“The engines are cold, Skipper, so it’s liable to be a rough ride.” Lucas’s hands were flying over his station, working through the expedited preflight process at incredible speed.
He’d left the comm line to engineering live, and a second later Sam’s voice blared out of the speaker. “Don’t you worry about the engines, Lucas. Do what you’ve got to do, and I’ll make sure the Claw gives you what you need.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Blackhawk replied into his own comm unit. He looked at Lucas. “You heard the lady.”
“Yes, sir!”
Blackhawk was sitting in his chair, and he now pressed a button on the armrest, opening a line to the entire ship’s PA. “Everybody, we’re going in quick and dirty, so I want all of you to hang on to the ropes we’ve got set up. We’re probably going to have a hell of a fight on our hands, but nobody gets hurt on the way in . . . got me?”
The Claw was packed full of Carano’s handpicked veterans, a makeshift platoon of forty of the best soldiers in the army. There weren’t even close to enough chairs and acceleration couches, so most of them were sitting on the floor, both hands gripping a net of cables strung around the lower deck. The trip to the palace would be short, less than a minute. But even a few seconds was enough time to get bounced off the walls and deck.
“My boys will be okay, General.” Carano was seated at the reserve workstation, looking across the bridge. Blackhawk hadn’t wanted the commander of the Black Helms to come along—it didn’t make sense to risk so much of the chain of command in so desperate an operation. But Carano had insisted, and there hadn’t been enough time to argue about it.
“Let’s go, Lucas.” Blackhawk nodded toward his pilot. He was perched uncomfortably in his chair, more or less leaning sideways. His heavy ammunition belt and body armor were making it a tight fit, and keeping him from truly sitting down.
He had his trusty pistol on one side of the belt, a well-worn weapon about as heavy as a handgun could be. On the other side, an even older implement of war hung in its sheath. Blackhawk’s trusty shortsword had seen decades of battle with him, and he had slain countless foes with its razor-sharp edge and point.
His armament was rounded out by three frag grenades clipped to his belt, and a heavy assault rifle propped next to his chair. He was armed and equipped for a fight to the death. And that was just what he planned. He would come out of that palace with Astra Lucerne at his side . . . or he wouldn’t come out at all.
“Hang on,” Lucas shouted through the comm. A few seconds later, the Claw lurched upward, its positioning jets blasting it a hundred meters into the air before the main engines fired. The g-forces kicked in as Lucas drove toward the palace at full power.
Blackhawk could feel the stress, the crushing sensation of five times his body weight as his ship accelerated toward it target. “Now, Ace,” he forced out, turning his head slowly to face his first officer.
“Got it, Ark.” Ace was hunched over his station, struggling against the g’s. “Needle gun engaging,” he rasped as he grabbed the controls and pressed his finger over the firing stud.
The Claw’s needle gun was a highly focused laser designed to deliver maximum power over a small target area. It could be used to destroy specific systems on a ship or to hit small targets in close proximity to friendlies. But now it was tearing apart the exterior walls of the palace, killing any defenders on the ramparts and opening the way for Blackhawk’s small strike force to get inside.
The g-forces reversed direction as Lucas slammed on the braking jets and brought the Claw down at a sharp angle. The massive palace, a huge section of its northern wall now a smoking ruin, was growing quickly on the main display.
He’s coming in too fast, Blackhawk thought. No, Lucas knows what he is doing at those controls . . . better than you ever did.
But it sure as hell looks like he’s coming in too fast.
He slapped the comm unit and yelled, “Everybody, prepare to disembark as soon as we’re down.” Blackhawk’s own hand was on the latch of his harness, waiting.
The Claw came down hard, one last lurch of g-forces before she sat still, less than five meters from the pile of rubble that had been the palace wall.
Blackhawk threw his rifle around his back, and he leaped out of his chair, running to the ladder. He slid down the rails, his feet never touching the rungs, and he raced across the lower deck, now full of Carano’s men forming themselves into a rough column. He sprinted down the hall and into the cargo hold, just as the ramp was lowering to the ground.
He ducked low, taking a quick look around for any enemies. There were a few bodies mixed in with the rubble, but no live soldiers he could see. He heard the others behind him, following him into battle once again.
He charged ahead.
DeMark stared down the sights of his rifle, gently pulling the trigger. An enemy soldier fell out of the black cypress tree, a huge splash marking where he sank under the water. DeMark knew he’d been lucky to pick off the sniper. His enemy had been careless for only an instant, but that had been enough. The brief reflection off his scope had sealed his fate—at least when he faced a marksman as capable as Rafaelus DeMark.
“Let’s go, it’s all clear.” He was talking into his comm, but he was waving his arm too. He had two companies with him, chest-deep in the murky water that had flooded the country for kilometers in every direction.
He knew as army commander he had no place this far forward, but he didn’t give a shit. Trevannes had tried to talk him into falling back half a dozen times, but he’d refused, the last time with a degree of firmness he trusted would prevent another attempt . . . at least for a while.
A man could only take so much, though. He’d mourned his friend and commander, seen his comrades of twenty years murdered in an ambush when they had met to discuss the future. He’d watched the fruits of thirty years of conflict and struggle crumble away, the great army of the confederation scattered throughout the Far Stars, and the parts that remained home savaging each other in civil war. He’d sent Hain Bolton and four hundred picked men to their deaths . . . and he’d still failed to rescue Astra. It wasn’t smart for him to be out with the forward pickets doing a lieutenant’s job, but he also knew he couldn’t live with himself if he did anything else.
He also knew there were uses for it, too. His cynical side was well aware that good leadership involved a fair degree of manipulation. It was stories like this that created a persona soldiers followed into hell itself. There were more than a few tales of the exploits of the young Augustin Lucerne, crazy acts of personal bravery still spoken of decades after they happened.
“Marius, deploy all reserves,” he said into his comm unit as he trudged forward through the deep water, holding his rifle over his head. “The entire army will advance and engage the enemy across the line.” Carteria’s forces were wavering under the intense assault, and now it was time to put everything on the line and risk it all on a breakthrough.
DeMark pushed forward, ignoring the burning in his legs. Every step was an effort, his waterlogged boots sinking into the deep silty mud below the floodwaters. The fighting had been brutal, but the area to his immediate front was silent, the few survivors of the defending force now moving back in wholesale retreat. But he could hear the sounds of a fierce battle to the west, where his forces had hit a strongly held ridgeline. He stopped and pulled out his small, portable tablet, checking on the status of his troops in that sector.
Things were a mess. The enemy was deeply entrenched on the high ground, raking his forces as they moved slowly forward through the floodwaters below. Casualties were high, and getting worse every minute. His people had launched three assaults, but each had been beaten back by the enemy’s relentless fire. He needed to do something, or his entire advance would break up on that strongpoint.
He turned toward the small column formed up behind him. “Let’s move out, boys. Our comrades need us.” He turned and started walking west, waving his arms for the soldiers to follow. “Let’s take those bastards on the ridge in their flanks.” His voice was gritty, angry. “No long-range fire,” he yelled. “We just move in and sweep them away.”
He held his rifle above his head, and he heard the wave of cheers from behind him. Then he trudged forward and headed west.
“All units, maintain full thrust.” Hammerleigh hated running, but it was the only way he could keep even a tiny force in the system. If he’d stayed near the planet, his people would all be dead now. Over a hundred warships had transited into the system, and they’d headed straight for his tiny armada. They’d have blown every one of his ships to dust if he’d let them get in range.
Besides, truly running would be jumping back to Antilles, he thought. And he hadn’t done that. It was the smart play, the only option he had that made any real sense. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Ian Hammerleigh wasn’t the kind who ran from danger. He’d escorted almost sixty thousand soldiers to the system, and they were all on Celtiboria, every one of their lives hanging in the balance. Tactical reality or no, bolting and leaving them behind to their fates seemed like the basest cowardice to the Antillean officer.
“They’ve detached a squadron, Captain.” Barstowe’s voice was cool, controlled. He was proving Hammerleigh’s confidence in him to be well placed. “It looks like they’re positioning the main fleet near Celtiboria. The detached force is on an interception course, and they are accelerating at eight g’s.”
“Reposition thrust vector to move directly away from the approaching vessels.” His ships were as fast as their pursuers, or nearly so at least. He could play cat and mouse with them for hours, probably days. Or at least he could force them to deploy fully, using their massive numerical superiority to hem him in, cut off escape routes . . . and stay away from what was happening on Celtiboria.
“Yes, Captain. The fleet is . . .” Barstowe’s voice faded to silence, and he stared at his screen for several seconds. When he continued, his tone was grim. “Captain, we have more ships transiting into the system, approximately four million kilometers from the planet. It looks like another big fleet.” He turned and stared at Hammerleigh. “They’re between us and the pursuing squadron.”
“Very well,” Hammerleigh said. His thoughts were a great deal more colorful, but he kept them to himself. He was already facing one massive fleet. But this one would be a lot closer. He glanced down at the display. Not only closer, but positioned to cut off his escape vector from the pursuing squadron. It couldn’t have been worse, if they’d landed right on top of us.
“Plot adjusted vectors, Lieutenant. Most efficient course away from both.” Waste of time. You’ll buy an hour, maybe two. Then one or the other of them will be on you. He sighed hard. It’s time to jump. Staying to support the ground troops is one thing. Throwing away the lives of your crew with no hope of accomplishing anything is something else. You owe them your first loyalty.
“Lieutenant, all ships are to prepare hyper . . .”
The main comm unit burst to life, interrupting his order. “Attention, all vessels in Celtiborian space. This is Admiral Emile Desaix, commander of the Far Stars Confederation navy. All ships must identify themselves at once. All units engaged in mutinous and unlawful activities—and all hostile foreign vessels—will be destroyed.”
The bridge was silent, its crew stunned. The new ships weren’t enemy reinforcements! Admiral Desaix had rallied the Celtiborian navy—and he’d come home to destroy the traitors and their foreign support. Finally, a broad smile began to take shape on Hammerleigh’s face. “Lieutenant, open a channel to the admiral’s flagship.” His smile morphed into something else, something feral. “It’s time to settle things here once and for all.”
CHAPTER 24
BLACKHAWK CROUCHED BEHIND THE CRUMBLED PILE OF STONE. It had once been a statue or a gargoyle of some kind, part of the palace’s ancient façade. But the Claw’s needle gun had brought it down, along with most of the wall. Blackhawk’s best guess was a dragon—or what some Celtiborian artist had imagined a dragon to be eight hundred years before.
He was firing three-round bursts from his assault rifle. Most of the others were on full auto—there were a lot of enemy troops facing them—but that was a waste for Blackhawk. His genetically enhanced eyes zeroed right in on any visible target. If he couldn’t take it down with three bullets, it wasn’t hittable.
“Blackhawk, look out . . . to your left.” Carano’s voice was loud and clear, though it was odd to hear it both through the comm and directly at the same time. The mercenary general was only a few meters away, behind his own piece of shattered palace wall turned into cover.
“Thanks,” Blackhawk snapped off as he spun around to the left, dropping the enemy soldier with a single burst. He’d seen the threat himself, of course, and he’d already been moving to take his shot. But there was no harm in letting his comrade think he’d been of help. Carano, despite their troubled history—and the terrible losses his people had taken as a result of Blackhawk’s seemingly reckless orders en route—was proving to be a good ally. The Frigus Umbra presence expected that of any subordinate—on pain of death. But Blackhawk was still in control—mostly—and capable of gratitude to his allies. Still, he wondered which persona would emerge when someone failed to follow his commands.
Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
“Ace,” he yelled into his comm unit. “We’re pinned down. See if you can clear some of these bogies out with the needle gun.” It was close quarters for that kind of attack, but Blackhawk had seen Ace man the weapon for years, and his accuracy was uncanny.
“You’re awfully close, Ark. You sure?”
“Yes, I’m goddamned sure; now just follow my orders.” He regretted the outburst and tone the instant the words escaped from his lips. Feelings and motivations were running wild in his mind, things he hadn’t dared to allow out of their dark prison in a quarter century. But he knew he needed some of what had been Frigus Umbra to defeat this enemy. He just hated unleashing that on his allies, and certainly not on a friend like Ace.
