The Prisoner of Eldaron: Crimson Worlds Successors II (19 page)

Elias sighed softly. “It’s a gamble either way. If we tip them off, they’ll run for it, probably through the Fomalhaut gate. We might be able to catch them, but that’s not what I want.” His voice deepened, a cold edge slipping in. “I want them to go to their base. Those bastards didn’t luck into a shipment of STUs. That’s more coincidence than I can believe in. No, they knew about it. And that means they’re part of something larger, an organization with far reaching tentacles. We’re not after a pirate ship…we need to find where they’re going, what exists out there a rung above this vessel and crew.” He paused. “I say we stay on course, and go through the Zed-4 gate. That’s where those pirates were heading. Unless I’m very wrong, they’ll sit tight in this system a while, to give us time to move deeper into Zed-4…and then they’ll come through. We’ll find a dust cloud or an asteroid belt, somewhere we can shut down and hide…and wait for them to come through.”

Wheaton listened, and then she thought quietly for a few seconds. Finally, she leaned closer to Elias and whispered, “I agree with your logic, Elias, and your plan. But what are we going to do if we find what you’re looking for?
Zephyr
isn’t a battleship…we can’t handle a pirate base or a whole fleet.”

He didn’t say anything. He just turned and looked at her, his eyes locked on hers. He didn’t need words…she knew the answer to her question. He had no idea. Not yet, at least.

Chapter 13

Central Detention Section – “The Black Cells”

Beneath the Citadel

Planet Eldaron, Denebola IV

Earthdate: 2319 AD (34 Years After the Fall)

The prisoner sat against the cold stone of the cell’s wall, staring out into shadowy nothingness. His prison had a source of outside light, a tube about forty centimeters wide reaching up at least ten meters to a small skylight. But that was closed now, as it usually was, and the only illumination came from a small fixture in the ceiling. That was on most of the time, around the clock, though there had been periods when it had gone off, and he’d been plunged into total darkness for what felt like days and days.

He suspected there was some method to the madness, some purpose to how his captors provided light and took it away…or beat him relentlessly for periods of time and then left him alone for months. It had all been part of their strategy to break him, he was sure of that. And they
had
broken him, to an extent at least. He hated the thought that he had allowed them to get to him in any way, that he’d failed to stoically resist the effects of the sustained abuse. But the prisoner had lived a difficult life, one full of struggle and pain, and his will was strong. He had clung to a part of himself, despite the best efforts of his jailors to destroy him completely.

He had tried for years to escape, to assault everyone who had entered his cell, but he’d ceased those efforts years before. He knew that was one way he’d been broken. His constant efforts had been as much about embracing defiance as any realistic hope of escape. But he just didn’t have the drive to do it anymore…to endure the brutal punishments that followed every futile attempt. Years of malnutrition and lack of exercise had withered his once strong body. And his bones had been broken so many times and healed haphazardly, he could barely still walk.

He’d clung to memories, of visions of the past, people important in his life. That had been a source of strength…and pain as well. He had wondered many times, was a man stronger when he had connections…loved ones, friends, home? Or were those weaknesses, did they sap the pure iron will of the man who had nothing left, nothing to lose? He’d been both of those men in his life, and he wanted to believe he was stronger for those he’d left behind. But those images had brought him as much pain as strength, and as the years passed, he’d come to realize the memories were reminders of what he’d once had, what had been taken from him. Those thoughts fueled his anger and his defiance, but his inability to do anything, even to lash out effectively at his captors turned everything to frustration.

The man he had been—and he drew a sharp distinction between that and what he had become—would never have given up. And for years he had kept that spark alive. But now it was dimming, flickering out under the onslaught of time and pain and loneliness. He’d begun to think of striking at the guards again, gathering what strength he had for one last attempt…not to escape, but to fight hard enough, to force his jailors to kill him. Then his pain would be over.

He couldn’t imagine killing himself, cutting open his wrists on a jagged bit of stone or hanging himself with a bit of torn clothing. There was enough of him left to make such a surrender unthinkable. But dying on his feet in battle? Yes, that he could do that. It would be a fitting end…

*  *  *  *  *

“I want those emplacements ready in three days, General Vlad…and not an hour longer.” The Tyrant sat on his throne, a great construction built of native black marble, encrusted with gold and silver…and the priceless gems mined in Eldaron’s jungle belt. He’d had it built at enormous expense, though truth be told, he hated the gaudy thing. The man who had been known as Maranov relished raw power, not the pomp and frill that so often accompanied it. But the throne and things like it sent a message to all who bore witness to them, a testament to the glory and magnificence of Eldaron’s Tyrant. Even the title had been designed for maximum effect…to state openly, without obfuscation or spin, that he was the absolute ruler of this world, that his merest whim was law.

“Yes, Tyrant,” the general answered, his voice betraying a hint of worry. The Tyrant knew all his people were on edge. He’d never been tolerant of delay and failure, but since he’d returned from Vali, he’d driven those around him with an unstoppable fury. A dozen ministers and project managers had been executed, the most egregious by slow and extremely unpleasant means. Fear was his motivator, and he’d honed his techniques through twenty years of absolute rule. But this time, he was driven by his own fear.

The Black Eagles are coming
, he thought.
You would all work harder if you knew what you would soon face
.

Darius Cain’s vaunted mercenaries were indeed a fearsome force, a private army so good it had never lost a battle…never even come close to defeat. Eldaron was a strong world, one he knew could put up a powerful defense, even against an enemy as deadly as the Eagles. But Eldaron did not have to face the Black Eagles alone. The Triumvirate had supplemented his world’s defenses, and thirty thousand of their frontline troops were deployed in secret bunkers, waiting for the Black Eagles to land. The Tyrant couldn’t match Cain’s killers one to one…he knew that. But with the Triumvirate’s Omega soldiers added to his native army, he would outnumber the invaders almost ten to one. And he would have the advantage of surprise, as tens of thousands of crack troops emerged, hitting Darius Cain’s mercenaries when they were fully engaged with his regular army.

Still, though he would never allow anyone to see, the Tyrant was scared. He knew what was at stake. Success would propel him near the top of the Triumvirate’s organization…making him the ruler of a hundred worlds instead of just one. The reward for success had been made clear to him during his visit to Vali. But he knew well the cost of failure too, and even if Cain’s Black Eagles didn’t kill him in their victory, his own masters surely would. And he still had images of Vali in his mind, the massive fortifications of the Triumvirate’s stronghold, the endless expanse of slave-operated factories and mines, producing an astonishing flow of weapons and equipment. The Triumvirate ruled over a truly vast organization, one that had been kept hidden from those of Occupied Space, even as it existed all around them. No, there would be no escape from failure. He would defeat the Eagles and kill Darius Cain, or he would die. It was that simple.

“Well?” he roared, staring at the officer standing in front of him. “What are you waiting for?” He waved his arm, gesturing for the general to be on his way. The Eagles were coming. There was no time to waste.

He watched the general bow and then turn and hurry for the exit. He was an amusing image, misjudging how quickly he could walk and not look like he was running away. The Eldari dress uniforms were a sight to see, as ostentatious as the throne, with lace and medals…and feathers protruding from the garish headgear. The Tyrant didn’t much care for the stupid—and shockingly expensive—court uniforms any more than he did for his glittering, uncomfortable throne, but he understood the purpose they served. The need to change into foppish, and enormously uncomfortable, garb before entering the audience hall only reinforced the image of the Tyrant as above everyone, a figure whose power was incontestable.

Left to his own devices, the Tyrant would have run a much sparser regime. While he enjoyed a moderate amount of personal luxury and comfort, in truth, his tastes weren’t all that extravagant. A few well-appointed rooms and a small cluster of servants would have satisfied his needs. It was power he craved, not gold plated bath fixtures and hectares of marble walls and floors. But the Triumvirate had assisted his rise to power, and they had advised—commanded?—on everything he’d done since. And they’d been quite insistent he live the part, portray an image of spectacle and pageantry to the masses. He didn’t know if he agreed completely, but his own masters—and that is what they were, he hadn’t lost enough perspective to forget that—wielded vastly more power then he, and though they hadn’t compelled him on such matters, it seemed prudent to take their advice. Besides, sustaining his rule meant managing a corps of nobles and powerful ministers serving under him…and most of them lusted after just the kind of ostentatious frill that he himself only tolerated.

His mind was fixed on the battle to come. Eldaron was a strong world, one that had grown enormously in the years of his rule. That had come more from financial support and imports subsidized by the Triumvirate than any of his own personal magic, but it was extremely useful nevertheless. His regime was one of the most oppressive of any on the thousand worlds inhabited by humanity, and fear followed his citizens on a daily basis. But they were also relatively prosperous, the benefit of twenty years of rapid economic growth. That was an aberration, and had he been on his own, he suspected he would have bled the people dry as most other totalitarian regimes did. But the Tyrant, rapacious as any dictator, was no fool, and he knew allowing some of the prosperity to flow to the people was an insurance policy against rebellion, a good bargain in the end.

Eldaron’s capital had been unremarkably named Eldaron City, though that particular lack of imagination had happened decades before he had seized power. He could have changed the name with a single command, but he was far too practical to waste funds on such nonsense. He didn’t care what the city was called, as long as he controlled it with an iron fist.

He waved his hands. “Out! All of you. I want to be alone!”

The room was usually full of courtiers, business leaders and others in positions of wealth and influence jockeying for position and showing their loyalty with their attendance. The Tyrant could grant wealth and power with a wave of his hand…or take it away just as easily. But today the usual pack of groveling supplicants had been sent away, replaced by army officers and the ministers who ran his military. War was coming, war with an extremely competent enemy, and the Tyrant had no time for routine business.

He considered the status, as the startled soldiers and bureaucrats scrambled toward the large room’s exits, tried to reason out when the attack would come. He knew the package had been delivered to Armstrong, and that Sarah Cain had departed that world. He assumed she had gone to the Nest, but he couldn’t be sure. And one thing was certain…Darius Cain wasn’t going to announce his intentions. He would come fast and hard…without warning. One day the skies over Eldaron would be filled with his assault ships. The Tyrant knew he had the strength to destroy the Black Eagles, but he was still afraid. Any man who was about to face Darius Cain and his pack of killers in a fight to the death was scared…or insane. Or both.

*  *  *  *  *

The prisoner heard the familiar clang as the locking bolt on his prison’s door disengaged. It was a familiar sound, one that had signified many things over the years. Food, interrogations, beatings…all began with that same noise.

This time would be different, though. He would allow his visitor to come in, to get close. He wouldn’t move. He would sit against the wall, head down, shoulders hunched forward in the same pose. He would communicate the message his captors had longed to see…that of a broken man whose sanity was finally gone. He would look passive, weak. But in his mind, something stirred, a fire almost forgotten, but not quite. The prisoner would fight one last battle. Here, now.

He heard the footsteps come closer. He had more than one visitor. That’s okay, he thought. Even better maybe. He only needed to attack one, quickly enough—hard enough—to make the others take him out. Perhaps he had just enough strength remaining to kill his victim. One last taste of vengeance before the peace of death…

“How are you today, my old friend?” The voice was familiar. The Tyrant. The prisoner had almost forgotten what a smile was, but now he had to struggle to hold one back. Fate had given him a gift, and now he knew it was time for his plan. The Tyrant always had guards when he visited, and they would almost certainly gun him down if he attacked their ruler.

I must be quick. I will only have an instant to kill him. Then it will be over
.

The prisoner knew many ways to kill a man, with everything from a nuclear weapon to bare hands. But he could feel the weakness in his body. The fighting styles he’d learned long ago were mostly beyond his physical ability now. He would focus, put every scrap of strength remaining to him into one final attack. He’d initially been concerned mostly with provoking his captors to kill him, but now the Tyrant had come, and he could feel the ache, the unstoppable urge to kill the man who had ruled so long over his torment.