Cypher (The Dragon's Bidding Book 2) (9 page)

“The Emperor is always
impatient,” said Fitz. “Was it her?”

“No, just her aide.”

“Then I have time for a
shower. When Ari herself calls and bites your head off, then I’ll hurry.
Anything else?”

“The report on Dr.
DeWitt came in.”

“Send it to my in-box.”
With her life in free fall around her, the failure of a prototype weapon ranked
as one of her lesser worries.

“This could be
important.”

The edge in his voice
made her halt and exchange a glance with Pike.

“Send it to me,” her
aide said. “If it’s anything I think you’ll need before your meeting with the
Emperor, I’ll give you a quick briefing.”

As her compiler, Pike
could take a tangle of data, boil it down to its salient bits, break them
apart, reassemble them, and see the patterns every other analyst missed. His
connections were often tenuous, his conclusions far-fetched, but more often
than not they were correct. The skill had won him his place as her aide.

Fitz nodded her thanks
and slipped through the back door into the minuscule apartment tucked behind
her office. Little more than a couch, a processor, and a freshener, she’d spend
far too many nights here of late. With Wolf gone, the home they shared felt
empty and haunted by the ghosts of their laughter.

Jumper scrambled up on
the counter by the processor, an expectant gleam in his green eyes. At least he
seemed to be feeling better, even if she couldn’t work up an appetite. She
presented him with a double helping of liver in creamed gravy, slaking her own
hunger with another hit of elixir. She stripped off her ruined uniform, removed
the medals and collar pins, and tossed it into the recycler.

When the water was as
hot as she could stand, Fitz eased into the shower, letting the heat unwind the
muscles in her back and neck. The bruises had finally faded, the cuts healed,
but the bone-deep weariness remained, far down in her soul in a place even the
symbiont couldn’t reach. She needed sleep, but without Wolf beside her that
wasn’t going to happen. She leaned against the warm, wet tiles of the tiny
shower stall. A few minutes of relaxation appeared to be all she would get.

But here, too, there
were ghosts. Only a few days ago, when Wolf brought the Fleet back in from
their first maneuvers, he’d arrived at the royal residence to deliver his
report to Ari, but stopped at Fitz’s office first, a bouquet of Blue Nova roses
in his arms. They’d made love in this shower while the Emperor waited impatiently
for his appearance. The sound of his chuckles and her soft moans seemed to echo
from the hard, wet walls.

Fitz slid down the
slippery tiles into a tight ball of misery. The warm water running down her
face disguised her tears. In the short time she’d known Wolf, she’d cried more
than the rest of her life combined, because now she had something precious to
lose. She’d thought she cared about her friends, Maks Kiernan particularly, but
until the day that crazy mercenary walked into her life, she had no idea of the
heights love could take her to, nor the depths of pain his loss could bring.

A chime inside her head
announced an incoming message. Devon Perez didn’t speak, but a single sentence
printed across her inhead display.

This time Ransahov
called.

Fitz reluctantly
abandoned her warm sanctuary and toweled off. A tight black bodysuit of
armorcloth went on first, then a new uniform. When she returned to her office,
Braylin Pike perched on the corner of her desk, his face wearing the pinched
frown that usually foreshadowed the delivery of particularly unsettling
speculations.

“The report on DeWitt?”

He pursed his lips.
“Yeah.”

“Can this wait until
after my meeting with Ransahov?”

“It could…” His
inflection on the last word tacked an unspoken
but
onto the sentence.

Fitz sighed and punched
up a cup of coffee. “But, it shouldn’t.” She dropped into the chair behind her
desk. “Be quick about it.” At his nod, she asked, “What did he have to say
about the failure of the grenade?”

“Nothing. He was dead.”
Pike drummed his fingers on his mouth as he paced.

“Dead? How?”

“Someone cut his
throat. After breaking every bone in his body.”

“Malick’s Hell. That
sounds like the work of an augie.”

“Yeah, it bore an
uncanny resemblance to those political murders that were so common around here
when DIS ran CyberOps.”

She didn’t have to be a
compiler to realize this headed in a direction she wasn’t going to like.

“Looks like he planned
to bolt,” Pike said. “They found several forged ident-cards and a ticket to
Coronia Station. With the borders back open, from there he could disappear into
the Midworlds, or even the Back of Beyond. He’d already transferred all his
assets to a numbered bank account on Willcommin, but they pulled a few SpecOps
strings and were able to retrieve the records. Seems he’s had sizable periodic
deposits from a dummy corporation on Lemminkainen for the past four years, then
two days ago it transferred in five hundred grand. Which, incidentally,
disappeared from the account around the time DeWitt was getting beaten to
death.”

“This has all the ear
marks of a DIS operation,” Fitz said.

The cat agreed.
“Scratch
up a pile of shit and you’re sure to find Tritico under anything that stinks
that bad.”

“So DeWitt’s been in
Tritico’s pocket all along and he knew we were planning to hit that safe house
down in the Kristavaar rainforest, but that’s a lot of money for giving Tritico
a heads-up.”

Pike stopped pacing,
and dropped into the chair across the desk from her. “And he was running, like
he didn’t want to hang around and get caught up in whatever was about to go
down. So I checked his personnel file.” He leaned forward, his elbows braced on
the top.

“Were you aware DeWitt
headed the project to design the ship’s avatar system?”

Jumper’s ears folded
back.
“You mean he dreamed up crotchety old Lizzy?”

Pike continued as if
the cat hadn’t interrupted him. “He developed the protocols for layering a
human mind print onto a computer.”

Fitz suddenly couldn’t
breathe. Wolf had been in there, Jumper said. Like software running in the
background. “Bloody hell,” she said when she could finally draw air into her
lungs. “He also designed the new MK VI computers used in Wolf’s augmentation
update.”

The lieutenant nodded,
his head bobbing like some child’s toy. “With the augie project shut down, your
partner may have only been a target of opportunity, but what if Tritico wanted
to subvert him specifically?”

A mind with no
compunction, no morals, hijacking a body with all of Wolf’s considerable
talents for mayhem? Ice settled in Fitz’s stomach. “Tritico tried to kill
Ransahov once before and failed. Now he needs an assassin who can get through
all the Imperial Security measures—get past me—and take her and the entire
government down.”

“Malick’s hell,” Pike
said. “Is even he that good?”

Jumper surged to his
feet, fur standing up along his spine.
“With those upgrades? You bet your
fricking ass he is. You’ll never see him coming. He’ll rip through this clap-trap
security like it was wet crapper paper. No offence, Boss Lady. Then he’ll blow
away every one of those wimpy Praetorian Guardsmen in their pretty-ass white
armor. The only thing you’ll see of him will be his smile just before he puts a
slug between your eyes…”
His ears flatten against his skull.
“Oh shit,
we are so screwed.”

Had Tritico forced Wolf
to become a pawn in a competition much like the strategy games the two had played
as cadets at the Academy? A contest acted out not in a virtual reality world,
but across the sweep of an empire. Not with icons on a screen, but with real
ships and weapons and living, thinking beings forced to function as game
pieces. Had he picked Wolf solely for his skills, or because he knew that if
there was one shred of the man she loved inside that stolen body, one glimmer
of his soul, Tritico could inflict untold pain on him as he made him watch
himself slaughter his friends and loved ones? Slaughter her?

Her comm chimed again,
jolting her from her dark musings.

Perez spoke this time.
“Just got another message from her Majesty, and she screamed about a briefing
on the security arrangements for the Founder’s Day celebrations. She used some
very un-lady like language this time.”

“I’ll be right there.”
Fitz started to rise, but froze as Pike’s face went ashen.

“The Founder’s Day
celebrations.” Fear strangled his voice. “There’ll be thousands…”

Fitz took up the
litany. “Tens of thousands, from all over the Empire, even the Midworlds. Ari
will have concerts to attend, speeches to deliver, at least one warship
christening. Not to mention that big gala at Star Henge.”

Her young aide found
his voice. “Which will be attended by the Emperor and the civilian Triumvir,
along with every high ranking military official—Fleet or Marines. Every
assemblyman or councilperson. Every businessperson in the Empire, hell in the
whole Human Sector; anyone who wants to snag a lucrative imperial contract. If
your assassin is as good as the cat thinks he is, he can effectively behead
Ransahov’s entire government at any one of these events.”

The rainbow silk of the
sheath caressed every curve of Fitz’s body, shedding glints of red and gold and
purple like the finest Tarkasian flame opal. Tiny crystals punctuated a
confection of curls and braids piled on top of her head, and a knot of ringlets
hung at the back of her neck, disguising the housing of her spike. A golden
torque, worked in the form of a dragon with ruby eyes, coiled around her
throat. She adjusted the necklace against her collar bones and the woman in the
reflection mirrored her movements—the only way she recognized the glittering
stranger as herself.

Her familiar black
uniform would have been better, even if she had to opt for the formal dress
version with its uncomfortable gold-encrusted collar and ornate scabbard, but
Ari wanted her security chief to present a softer, more feminine side for
tonight’s gala. Fitz in turn had informed her that
feminine
and
augie
were rarely used in the same sentence, unless separated by the word
not
,
but the Emperor’s opinion trumped all, so Fitz found herself dressed up like a
courtesan in a low budget holo-flick.

She’d insisted on a few
modifications. In case she needed to run, the seamstress had extended the side
slits higher, but the woman took her suggestion a bit too far. The silken panel
fluttered as Fitz turned, opening all the way to the hip and revealing far more
shapely leg than was appropriate for a senior officer.

The other end of the
dress presented more problems. Fitz tugged the neckline up a few centimeters.
It promptly dropped back.

Sergeant Bartonelli
slapped her fingers. “Stop that, Chima. It’s supposed to be low and alluring.
This is downright modest compared to some of the get-ups I’ve seen out there
tonight. A few of them are wearing nothing more than holograms.”

“Well, a Special
Operations officer doesn’t flash her boobs, which is what may happen if I have
to make any sudden moves in this outfit.”

The sergeant’s
answering chuckle loosened the knot of tension in Fitz’s stomach. With the rush
of security preparations for the Founder’s Day ball taking up almost every
waking second of the past three days, she’d had no time to talk with Bartonelli
about the symbiont.

Fitz clasped her hands
over her midsection. “Look, Sergeant. I’m sorry about what happened.”

“Sorry? What for,
Chima?” Bartonelli tilted her head. She wore the gold-and-white uniform of a
Praetorian guardsman, her curly crest dyed gold to match. Protocol prevented a
mercenary from accompanying Fitz to the ball as her personal guard, so after
heated discussions with Captain Weiland, the sergeant had been allowed to adopt
the uniform, if only for a few hours.

“I took away your right
to choose if you wanted to become a Lazzinair.”

“You weren’t given that
choice either.”

“That was different. I
was dying.”

“We’re all dying,
Chima. Just some of us take longer to get there. I’m sure Nirvana will still be
waiting for me if I make it that far.”

Bartonelli handed her a
crystal-encrusted bag. “I suspect the idea of immortality hasn’t kicked in yet,
not until the first time I take a bolt to the chest and I get back up, all
pissed off.”

Before strapping the
purse around her waist, Fitz checked the contents: a Cauldfield CP-38 pistol
with two spare clips, a small punch dagger that doubled in length with a flick
of her wrist, and a pot of ruby red lip gloss.

Everything a girl needs
for a night on the town.

Everything except one
of CyberOps’ handy shut-down modules. That would have to wait until the
techs—ones she trusted to do the job right—could duplicate DeWitt’s designs and
come up with another remote device to deactivate an augie’s spike.

Tonight’s gala was to
be held in the ring of monoliths known as Star Henge, a circle of stones
marking the site of the first colony ship’s arrival on Scyr. A force dome
protected it. One of the architects had assured her it could withstand a direct
hit from a thermonuclear device. Striefbourne City would be reduced to
radioactive rubble around it, but Star Henge would survive unscathed.

Several hours later,
stuck in the reception line greeting guests, Fitz shook hands with power
brokers, curtsied to matrons, and saluted admirals until her patience reached
the meltdown point. Her facial muscles ached from all the false smiles. She
reminded herself to stop gnawing at her lower lip; that only removed her
carefully applied lipstick.

“Well, look who’s
here,” Bartonelli whispered from behind her right shoulder.

A party approached in
gray and tan uniforms Fitz couldn’t place until she recognized their leader.

“Sergeant, you are out
of uniform,” said Colonel Fenton Donkenny of the Gold Dragons. “But it looks
good on you.” Then to Fitz, “Don’t get any ideas, Colonel, you don’t get to
keep her.”

When Fitz reached out
her hand to shake his, he bowed and kissed it. As the merc straightened, she
noticed the straps of a shoulder holster beneath the short cape he wore. She’d secured
the mercenaries a special dispensation to attend armed tonight. Of all the
people here, Fen Donkenny had spent the most time in combat with Wolf. He knew
how his mentor operated, how he thought. She couldn’t turn down that kind of
asset, protocol be damned.

Donkenny scanned the
hall. “Any sign of him yet?” At the shake of her head, he continued, “A press
of people, lots of noise, limited visibility, and a chaotic environment. Just
the situation an assassin looks for.”

“If you see anything
suspicious, contact me on combat channel thirty-three.”

He frowned.
“Thirty-three?”

“It’s an old, little
used channel.”

“I suspect he’ll be
monitoring all the channels. Better if we use non-verbal signals.” He held up
his hand, and to a casual observer, the movement of his fingers might have only
been a wave, but Fitz recognized combat sign language for ‘hand signals’.

“Keep an eye on her,
Sergeant.” He flicked the ornate scroll work on Bartonelli’s armor, then led
his people toward the buffet tables.

In a few minutes,
Ransahov’s Minister of Commercial Development showed up with a glass of
champagne and an offer to replace her on the line. Fitz gratefully accepted
both. She sighted the white of an admiral’s uniform near the dais and headed
for it, sipping her drink. “At least I can enjoy this without worrying about
getting drunk.”

“Oh, hell,” Bartonelli
grumbled. “I forgot about that. I’ll never be able to get smashed at the NCO
club again.”

“No, but you will be
able to drink anyone there under the table.”

The diminutive
sergeant’s smile turned wicked. “I like the way you think, Chima.”

“Someday you are going
to have to tell me what that name means, Sergeant.” It didn’t sound like ‘dumb
ass’ applied any longer.

First Admiral of the
Fleet Maks Kiernan greeted them before Fitz heard the answer. “You look
particularly stunning this evening, Colonel. If I can say that without my
partner breaking my arm.”

Nikki Kiernan, dark
haired and statuesque, wore the blue uniform of a marine full-dragon colonel.
“You get one ogle a night, sweetie, and that’s only if it’s an old friend. How
you holding up, Kimber?”

“I’ll be happier when
this night is over and Ari is securely back in her quarters where we can keep a
closer watch on her.”

She’d known the marine
officer for as long as Maks had been her commanding officer, and admired the
couple’s ability to maintain two separate careers and a successful relationship
for so long.

“You certainly have
enough security here.” Kiernan nodded toward the ring of armored bodies
standing almost shoulder to shoulder around the perimeter of Star Henge.

“I hope so.” Fitz had
called in SpecOps, Special Forces and Fleet Marines to supplement the Guards’
number to build an impenetrable cordon around the Emperor.

Nikki Kiernan choked on
a mouthful of wine. “Oh, for Yig’s sake, will you look at that?”

A couple stepped away
from the receiving line. Short and homely, the man in admiral’s whites pressed
close to a tall, slender woman like an albino frog huddling against a lamppost.

Maks Kiernan snorted.
“Well, hell. If it isn’t “Petty” Pettigrew. I hope that asshole doesn’t come
over here and expect me to make casual conversation with him.”

Alois Pettigrew had led
the taskforce that attempted to arrest Kiernan when their coup had threatened
to unravel, but when Ari came to power he had an epiphany, switching sides so
quickly that Fitz suspected the fat admiral got whiplash.

“How in the hell did he
get a woman like that to hang onto his arm?” Maks’ gaze followed the woman’s
form strutting across the room.

“Down, boy.” His
partner tapped his nose. “Put your eyes back in your head before I take a stick
and knock them off.”

He cleared his throat.
“One of the disadvantages to being bonded to a marine colonel.”

Fitz thought Kiernan’s
might be the only pair of male eyes not following the woman. Covered from jaw
to ankle in a shimmering silver jump suit, she moved like a hunting cat,
assured in the knowledge that every man there wanted to undress her to discover
what lay beneath that gleaming fabric. A fall of blue-black hair spilled around
her shoulders and across a bosom of epic proportions. The smile on her red lips
suggested she knew full well the affect she had on every man there—and more
than a few women.

“Is she one of yours,
Kimber?” Nikki asked. “An augie?”

Fitz would have
recognized the woman, but she sorted through her files to be sure. “No, she’s
not, but I think she’s worth checking on.”

She thought-clicked her
comm, sub-vocalizing, “Pike, the woman with Admiral Pettigrew…”

“I’m on her.” The
lieutenant’s reply came back quickly.

“I just bet you are.”

“I mean that I’m
checking her out…ah, running a background check right now.”

Fitz waited through
several minutes of dead air before her aide spoke again. “She’s registered as
Cinnamon Hot—do you believe that name? She works for the Arm Candy Escort
Service as a certified companion.”

“Any mention of a
security capability in her file?”

“Nope, just advanced
courtesan services. At, ah, five grand an hour.”

“A hooker,” Fitz said
aloud. “An expensive one.”

Maks Kiernan glanced at
her. “Figures. The only way a slug like Pettigrew could get a woman like that
to hang all over him.”

A flourish of brass and
timpani thundered out the opening bars of the Imperial Anthem, announcing the
entrance of the Emperor. The lights in the Henge dimmed as the tall woman in
purple stepped onto the stage and into the single spotlight. The center of a
bull’s eye, as Fitz saw it. Her anxiety level skyrocketed. Now her job of
protecting her liege, her friend, really began. Up until now it had all been
preliminary, jockeying for position. He was out there in the crowd, the
shadows, her gut told her, and two decades of security work insisted that she
listen to those feelings. They screamed at her as she scanned the faces turned
toward the figure in the circle of light.

Fitz had managed to
convince Ari to wear formal military garb and not the revealing gown she’d
originally planned. Body armor wouldn’t be as noticeable beneath a uniform. And
since the theme for Ari’s speech tonight centered on returning the Empire to
its former glory, Fitz had used that fact to bully her into wearing the
original, centuries-old crown—a battle helmet topped with a rampant dragon and,
more importantly, a blast-proof face shield. Which, at the moment, she didn’t
have down. Fitz gritted her teeth. She could protect the Emperor from
everything but herself. Standing within that circle of light with her arms
outstretched to receive the throng’s adulation, Ari Ransahov presented an
inviting target.

Fitz scanned all the
shadowed faces in the crowd, her auditory filters straining to separate out the
distinctive whine of a pistol powering up, but then, if he used one of those
needlers, there wouldn’t be any sound. Too intent, she jumped as Maks tapped
her on the shoulder, leaning in to whisper over the cheering crowd.

“Now might be a good
time to dial down your hearing augs.”

“What?” she asked, but
she already heard the rumble of engines in the distance, growing louder, until
the noise rattled the crystal flutes on the buffet tables and sent ripples
dancing in her champagne.

An entire wing of Black
Widow trans-atmospheric fighters screamed by overhead, barely a hundred meters
above the Henge’s force dome. The lights of the city, reflected on the
underside of their black fuselages, showed the distinctive splotch of red they
wore to honor their deadly namesake. A formation of attack shuttles followed,
flying wing tip to wing tip, their drives scribing lines of purple, red, and
gold across the night sky.

“Wait for it…” Maks
smiled enigmatically.

A sound like ripping
cloth grew in volume, swelling as a dark predatory shape soared overhead. Then
the ship pulled up, pointed its prow toward the stars, and accelerated. Seconds
later, the bang of a sonic boom punctuated the screams of its thrusters. The
crowd’s mutters of distress soared into cheers of delight.