How could anyone love an augie?
In the mirror, her reflection’s face screwed up in a grimace. Jeferi Hiruko had said he loved her, but Jeferi was a liar. And an assassin. She’d been taken in by his deceit because she wanted to believe him, needed to feel that someone could love her as a woman. Her fingers brushed the scar on her shoulder, the wound she received when she had apprehended him.
Her jaw hurt, her knees ached, and now a headache pounded behind her eyes. She tried to bring up her pharmacopeia, but remembered it—like everything else—was offline and cursed Youngblood. There must be a first-aid kit in here somewhere. She jerked open a drawer and pawed through its contents, slammed it and searched another. Eventually she found a tin of analgesics, swallowed a handful and washed it down with coffee. After a quick breakfast, she collapsed on the bed.
Fitz hovered in the gray area between sleep and wakefulness, afraid she’d miss Youngblood’s call, but by midafternoon, she gave up resting and began pacing. She considered escaping through the AC duct, but she hadn’t accomplished her mission, and she damn well wouldn’t leave without her spike. The merc had her confined to his base as effectively as if he’d wrapped her up in a cocoon of plexisteel chains.
By the time Youngblood contacted her, the nightly thunderstorm pounded Ishtok Base, so her guards conducted her through the maze of tunnels beneath the quadrangle to join him at the Officers’ Club.
He sat at a rear table, the wall at his back, and looked up from his dessert, gesturing for her to join him. “What would you like, Commander?”
She wrenched the chair back from the table and dropped into it. “First, I want my spike…”
“I mean, what do you want to drink? A beer? A piece of cake, perhaps?”
“A beer’s fine, but…”
He ignored her and waved over a waiter.
The dissonance of music and laughter, counterpointed by the clink of glasses, felt familiar to Fitz. No one partied as hard as soldiers. Living on the edge of death did that to a person, even, apparently, cats. Jumper faced a pair of scowling soldiers across a gametable and reached to pull the pot to his side. What did merc cats spend their winnings on—catnip shots?
“This could be an O-club on any Imperial installation,” she said. “I didn’t expect a mercenary company…”
“To behave like humans? We don’t spend all our time between contracts getting drunk, belching and farting.”
“There is this general perception of mercenaries.”
“Is that the same one that says all augies are soulless killing machines?”
She winced. “Touché.”
After the waiter delivered their drinks, Fitz picked up her chair and slid it around to sit next to Youngblood. She smiled at his sharp look. “I don’t like sitting with my back to a roomful of armed strangers.”
Beneath his uniform, he wore a tight black turtle neck that looked like a powersuit’s armorcloth underwear. She reached toward it. “Is that…?”
His hand clamped around hers before she realized he’d moved.
“I wasn’t going to throttle you, just wanted to see if that was…”
“Body armor? Of course, someone is trying to kill me.”
His grip slackened, but he didn’t release her fingers. She studied his face, finding no trace of the morning’s coldness in his eyes. Under his intense gaze, she shifted in her chair. “Can I have my hand back?”
He released her fingers, returning his attention to his dessert. They sat in a strained silence for some time before he extracted a small silver box from his pocket.
“Perhaps your story does check out,” he said. “You were appointed Triumvir Kiernan’s Shadow ten years ago and since then, you’ve won the Distinguished Service Star, the Dragon’s Choice—with two clusters—and the Harriman Cross. Rather impressive. I can understand why Kiernan fought so hard to keep you on his staff when all the augies were recalled to DIS headquarters.”
“How the hell did you get that information?”
“I know a very talented hacker.” He pushed the datachip case across the table. “These contain all the information I could gather on Baldark—the system coordinates and the location of Deva-Lorza’s research station. Ari spent a lot of time there as a child, so I suggest that would be an excellent place to start your search.”
“But what if she’s moved on? It’s not like I can go to the nearest computer terminal and look up her address. It’s a class three pre-industrial culture. For Yig’s sake, they’re still using sticks and edged weapons.” Fitz finally gave voice to her deepest worry. “She might not even still be alive.”
Youngblood smiled. “Trust me, she’s alive.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I just know.” He stared at his plate, pushing the last few crumps of cake around.
“That still doesn’t help me locate her.”
“All you need to do is ping the locater beacon on her spike.”
“Ari Ransahov doesn’t have a spike.”
“Yes, she does.” A smug smile twisted his lips.
“CyberOps didn’t come into being until 836. Ransahov had been missing almost a decade by that time.”
“Nevertheless, they’d already begun experimentation.” He stopped to take a drag on his beer. “You did know she lost an eye?”
“Of course, racing flyers when she was a teen. I read all three of her biographies.”
Youngblood snorted. “I guess that sounds better than losing it in drunken brawl at Padraic’s Tavern. She had a standard ocular prosthesis, but when it malfunctioned, she elected to get a few enhancements. Telescopic, infrared and night vision, along with an implanted transceiver. No physical enhancements like you have, of course, and only her closest friends knew. Ari liked the advantage it gave her. It added to her mystique of having preternatural abilities. I’ve included the ID number and frequency. All you’ll have to do is set up a search grid from orbit and wait for a hit. Shouldn’t take long, since it will be the only technology on the planet.”
He picked up the tiny datachip case and tucked it into her shirt pocket. “Plus, you’ll have the added advantage of not having to put up with me on the trip.”
Fitz always worked solo, with only the disembodied voice of her ship’s avatar accompanying her. The option he offered was the best possible outcome. So why wasn’t she happy? The Elizabeth Angstrom’s crew quarters were too small for a couple who didn’t have a personal relationship. The two of them would be at each other’s throats for the entire voyage. Or in each other’s beds.
Where the hell had that thought come from?
“Youngblood, she knows you. There’s a better chance she’ll listen to you instead of someone she’s never met.”
“I have faith in your powers of persuasion, FitzWarren.” He stood, signaling the meeting’s end. “Why don’t you stay here tonight? You might want to take advantage of our hospitality. You won’t find many hot showers or soft beds on Baldark, and the cuisine there leaves something to be desired. You can depart in the morning.”
She followed him outside, her organic eyes slow to adjust to the lower light levels in the corridor.
“Are you going to walk back to headquarters?”
“Of course, why shouldn’t I?” He gestured for her to follow.
“That body armor won’t help you if an assassin goes for a head shot.” She reached up and tapped her finger on his forehead.
He pushed her hand away. “FitzWarren, I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need your help.”
Maybe he did. He didn’t seem to be taking this assassination attempt seriously, but she had the information she needed and would be leaving tomorrow. It wouldn’t matter anymore, would it? Except that it did matter, dammit. It mattered a lot. When had she lost her objectivity about this man?
They reached the HQ bu
ilding without incident. When the lift arrived at the third floor, the door whisked open to reveal an empty corridor.
“What? No guards?” Fitz felt the brush of his hand on the small of her back as she preceded him out of the elevator.
“Do I need to post guards?”
“I might try to escape.”
“I don’t think so.”
She stopped in front of her door. “What if I slipped out and snuck into some place…secret or private?”
“Then I’d just have to restrain you like I did last time.” Amusement gleamed in his eyes.
Fitz shifted her weight, to ease the stiffness in her legs, and a sharp jolt of pain lanced through her knees. She staggered.
He studied her. “Your legs are bothering you.”
“Yeah, and I can’t access my pharmacopeia’s pain killers without my spike.”
He didn’t take the hint.
“You’ve been augmented quite a few years.”
“Twenty-three, but you know that. You read my file.”
“The operational life expectancy of an augie is about twenty-five years.”
“Trying to figure out how long I have left? Two years.” She held up a pair of fingers and wiggled them. “So you can understand why it’s so important to get things right on this mission. It might be my last, and I’d have a better chance of pulling it off if you came with me.”
“I’ve told you, the rules won’t allow that. A mercenary can’t do anything without a contract.”
“It’s always about the rules with you, isn’t it? Is this against the rules?” An edgy spark quickened her pulse and sent her up on her toes to claim his mouth.
His only answer was to deepen the kiss, threading his hands through her hair to press her closer.
Across the hallway, a door opened, and they jerked apart like embarrassed teenagers. The departing trooper rushed past, unaware of them, but the moment had shattered. Youngblood took a step back, physically and emotionally, and the heat between them died.
He hesitated, rubbing his forehead. “FitzWarren, I should let you get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Before you go, can I have my spike back?”
“Not now. When you leave.”
“Damn it, Youngblood. What do I have to do to convince you to trust me?”
“It isn’t about trust. It’s for your own safety. Do you have any idea what the Alliance would do if they caught you out here? Having a real live augie to trot out before the newsies would send them into spasms of delight. They’d use you to wring every scintilla of political embarrassment they could out of the Empire. Then they’ll throw you out like a blown speeder engine, because, in their eyes, you have no more human rights than the droid that cleans their floors.”
“You think I don’t know that? All of us who work outside the Empire know, so we have an implanted thermite device.” She thumped her fist against her chest. “If it comes to that, I’ll slag myself and take as many of the bastards with me as possible.”
She barely registered the look of surprise on his face before she plunged on. “I don’t think this has anything to do with concern for my welfare. You just wouldn’t want them to find me on your base. That would be against The Rules and the righteous Colonel Youngblood never breaks The Rules. Maybe if you had paid a little more attention to the rules when you were Triumvir, we wouldn’t be in the chufting mess we’re in now.”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”
“If you hadn’t let your damn pride goad you into slugging the Emperor over some imagined little affront to your honor, then maybe you’d have been around to pick up the pieces after his death.”
“You’re not implying…?”
“I’m just saying you would have made a hell of a better Emperor than what we’ve got now.”
“FitzWarren, you can’t blame decades of Imperial greed and stupidity on me…”
She never heard the rest of his remark, because she slapped the door release and stormed through, letting it slide shut behind her. If it had been an old-fashioned hinged door, she’d have enjoyed slamming it in his face. Pressing her back to it, she thumped her head against the smooth surface several times. Anger flooded out of her and exhaustion quivered in to take its place.
Sleep definitely was in order, but first a hot shower. Her traitorous mind imagined him waiting for her there, sans weapons, uniform and everything except all that golden hair. He’d lift her into his arms, fitting their bodies together like two pieces of a puzzle while the water flowed over them.
She spun and hit the door release. “Youngblood…?”
The hallway was empty. Up the corridor, she could see the lift doors closing and the car beginning its assent to the next floor.
She’d found a man who looked at her like she was a woman, not a freaking cyborg, and all they did was argue. How could he antagonize her so thoroughly one minute, and in the next, all she wanted was to wrap herself around his naked body? What was it about him that made her libido go into hyperdrive? He was attractive, but he was also egotistical, stubborn and opinionated. She suspected if she stayed around him for a few more hours, she’d be able to add more adjectives to her list of irritating personality traits.
It wasn’t as if she wanted to spend eternity with him, just tonight. That’s what made it so perfect. They weren’t in the same chain of command; they weren’t even in the same military, and, at least for now, they weren’t enemies. After tomorrow, she’d never see him again. No complications, no strings attached. All she wanted was what the Marine detachment on the AriR called F3—Fucking For Fun.
After a solo shower, Fitz crawled into bed but three hours later, sleep still eluded her. Her mind ticked over like a targeting computer, but it spit out no solutions, only more questions. Was her mission compromised? Did DIS send that assassin after Youngblood to keep him from talking to her? She needed more information, needed to know what had transpired at home, but Fitz feared there was no way she could know the situation without running the risk of exposing their plans.
After she left Rainbow, she could divert to the repeater at FJ82, tap in, and send a message to Kiernan on their private back channel. If everything was okay, he’d promptly chew her out for breaking radio silence, and then tell her to get back to work. If DIS had their communications under surveillance, she could disconnect from the relay thinking everything was copacetic, only to have Tritico’s goons—prompted by that very call—descend on Kiernan’s office and take him into custody.
If she got no answer on their personal comm line, it could mean Kiernan had been arrested or was dead. Her throat constricted at that thought. In the ten years she’d served with him, Maks Kiernan had become a father figure to her, even though he wasn’t that much older. He showed her the compassion and support, tempered with discipline, that she’d imagined a good parent would express. If she got Maks killed…
Where would that leave her? DIS would be able to trace back the signal, and they’d be after her like quollas on a blood trail. She’d be on the run for the rest of her life, what little of that was left. What would she do? A devious little voice at the back of her mind answered. You could always sign on with a mercenary company. Like the Gold Dragons.
Right, like that was going to happen. Spend what was left of her life on the run, hiding what she was, pretending to be a normal person in a world that feared and hated augies and everything Imperial. She wasn’t about to ask Youngblood for advice on how to live by The Rules. She flopped over onto her other side and punched her pillow. Her only option was to play out the mission as it had been written. Go to Baldark and find Ari Ransahov. At least she’d be remembered as the person who solved the decades old mystery and returned the former Triumvir to the Empire. For what? To get blown away by Ashcraft and his minions?
No, Ransahov was too smart for that; she’d know how t
o handle them. The civilian population would support her. To them she was a hero, a legend. The military practically considered her their patron saint, so a large percentage of them—even those not in on this little conspiracy—would fall in behind her. She’d put Ashcraft and Tritico up against a wall facing a firing squad, then she’d set about rebuilding the shattered Empire. Fitz punched her pillow and snuggled under the blanket. With that problem cleared out of her mind, her other quandary slithered in. Youngblood.
She threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, head hanging. She should get dressed, march up to the command floor and inform the guard she needed to see the colonel. If Bartonelli was on duty tonight, Fitz could well imagine the knowing grin on the diminutive sergeant’s face. Rumors on a military base traveled faster than a Class-A torpedo, so within the hour, every Gold Dragon would know the mysterious woman visitor had spent the night in their CO’s quarters. And so what? He wasn’t celibate—with his body that would be a waste—so what did it matter to them if he got a little now and again?
Perhaps she’d call him and say, “Sorry I blew up at you earlier. Want to come down for some F3?” He’d know what that meant, wouldn’t he? He ought to; he been in the military long enough. She put her face in her hands. And what if he said he wasn’t interested? She could imagine him saying in his upper class accent, “I’m sorry, Commander, but do you think that’s really advisable?” She’d feel like a damn fool.
So she couldn’t call him. What did that leave? Telepathy? The last time she’d been tested, she only scored a P-2.5—high enough to be strongly intuitive, but not enough to contact another human. But a Kaphier cat? Jumper? He was only an empath, but could she make him feel her emotions, her desires?
She raked her hands through her hair and flopped back onto the bed. Was she reduced to using a telepathic cat to procure sex? Fisting the luckless pillow, she pulled the blanket over her head and began counting backward from a thousand in Old High Scyran. Bored by the repetition, her mind quickly surrendered to sleep.
Chapter Five
Wolf disassembled the heavy slug thrower, his actions as automatic and effortless as breathing. He placed each piece on the velvet cloth in a precise pattern that had varied little over the years. He could field strip the weapon in the dark, in burned-out buildings, downed gunships and during missile barrages. The act went beyond a soldier’s respect for the tools that kept him alive. It had become a mantra, a form of meditation. Tonight however, the action failed to bring about the desired peace.
A Hero for the Empire: The Dragon's Bidding, Book 1 Page 4