Fitz patched into traffic control’s comm frequency. The controller shouted commands, but none of the ships acknowledged. A scream sliced through the babble, silencing it. “They blew it. The damn snakes blew Defense Platform Two. Shit, there goes the other one.”
Fitz turned and ran, moving at nearly hyperkinetic speed. If the Imperials destroyed the defense platforms that meant they were moving in on the terminal. No warship captain worth the dragons on his collar would chance leaving his ship’s backside exposed to a functioning weapons system—even with a promise of surrender. She hoped Lister had gotten her people off in time.
A ramp led to sub-level two. She raced down the companionway to the gates, found her destination and turned in, almost tripping over the shaggy black form pacing at the entrance.
“Boss Lady, where have you been? I’ve been waiting here… Hey, where’s Wolf?”
“He’s down below looking for you.”
“I came directly here, like you told me to in that message you left. Just like a human to go wondering off. I’ll go get him.” The cat dashed past her.
Fitz whirled and snatched up Jumper, clutching him against her chest. “Oh, no you don’t. We aren’t getting separated again. I’ll call him.”
She thought-clicked her comm. “Wolf, Jumper’s with me at the gate. You need to get here as fast as you can.”
“Bloody hell. You tell that cat I’m going to kick his fuzzy butt all the way to Baldark. I’m on my way. Just don’t let that shuttle leave.”
The pilot signed off on the fuel invoice as Fitz approached the gate.
“You the slacker I’m supposed to wait around for?” the woman asked. “It’s your lucky day, you just made it. Now grab a seat and shut your mouth. We are leaving.”
“We have to wait for my friend.”
“That’s a big negatory. You can hang around here and be a guest of the snakes, but not this girl.”
Fitz pulled the pistol and jammed it under the pilot’s nose.
“I said, we’re waiting for my friend.”
The window of the shop across from Paddy’s reflected the bar’s entrance. Wolf pretended to study the new nav-computer displayed behind the armorglass, but instead watched the crowd spilling out of the bar’s salvage encrusted door. Their uniforms identified them as the freighter crew he’d tangled with last night. He didn’t need that kind of complication now. No telling how long Fitz would be able to hold that shuttle.
The Transgal crew launched into an arm-waving argument that lasted precious minutes before the captain took control and herded them away down the corridor. Wolf waited until they were out of sight, then sprinted for a short cut he knew, a maintenance passage that veered off the hallway just beyond the bar. It led all the way to the freighter docks.
As he rounded the corner, a length of pipe swung from the shadows and slammed into his stomach. He went down, rolling into a tight ball of pain and fighting to breathe. A boot crashed into the side of his head and hands pawed at him. The pipe wielder hit him again, low on the back. Instinct kicked Wolf into HK mode, and he lashed out, a foot connecting with solid flesh. There was a scream of pain and a metallic clatter. Wolf surged up. The cool precision of his heightened senses rendered his attack precise and devastating, leaving him standing in a ring of supine, groaning spacers.
“Stop right there, snake.”
Wolf’s hand dropped to his sidearm but found the holster empty. The gray-haired man with the senior captain’s stars leveled the missing slug thrower at him.
“So you’re one of those monstrosities, too. No matter, this thing will put a nice big hole in you anyway.” He squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened. He tried again.
Wolf shook his finger as he walked toward the struggling man. “People who aren’t used to weapons always forget about the safety.” He twisted the gun out of the spacer’s hand and heard finger bones snap. One of the attackers grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms. The screaming captain hit him in the stomach. Wolf struck out with a kick to the man’s groin. He turned his attention to the one behind him, driving backward, smashing his captor’s body against the wall, then head-butting him. Once again free, he scanned around, but anyone capable of movement had wisely backed away.
Fitz wouldn’t be able to hold that shuttle much longer. He started to jog, but a sharp pain brought him up short. He looked down. The handle of a screwdriver protruding from his stomach. He ground his lower lip between his teeth as he pulled it out. The tool’s shaft had been machined to stiletto sharpness. The aptly named spacer’s friend was ubiquitous in rough bars and stations where powered weapons were banned. No one questioned the presence of a screwdriver in a tech’s belt pouch. In a drunken brawl, it could be just as deadly as a pistol.
He stumbled away, one hand against the bulkhead for support. A roaring filled his head. His heart hammered; his respiration accelerated. Tremors racked him. Deep inside his guts, thousands of microscopic insects seemed to be moving, squirming and surging around the wound. Blood clotted, new cells formed, tissues contracted and knitted together. Waste products, debris and bacteria were scavenged up and whirled away.
Wolf dumped the bloody screwdriver in the first recycling chute he came to and leaned against the wall, panting. His hands shook and cold sweat beaded his face. His blood sugar level plummeted. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday evening and last night’s marathon lovemaking session had cost him a lot of energy. There were no reserves left to fuel the healing process. He dug into his pocket for one of the ration bars and consumed it in three bites. It tasted like sugar-saturated blood and almost gagged him. His stomach roiled but he opened a second one, devouring it as he launched into a staggering trot.
When he reached the gate, Fitz had the pilot backed into a corner, holding a pistol in the woman’s face.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he said as he grabbed Fitz and pushed her through the open airlock into the shuttle. They found seats at the front, as far as possible from the four glaring yard workers. He sat against the bulkhead, his wounded side away from her.
“What happen to you?” she asked. “You look awful.”
He scrubbed his hands over his face, brushing away a bit of dried blood from his lip. “I ran into our old Transgal friends from last night. They tried to make good on their threat to kick my ass.”
“You’re hurt.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“There’s blood on your shirt.”
Bloody hell, FitzWarren’s enhanced sight was too sharp. She spotted the stain, even on a black shirt.
“It’s not mine,” he lied.
“Dammit Wolf, there’s a hole in your shirt. I’ve seen enough wounds to know what one looks like. Now let me see what I can do.” She reached for him.
He shoved her hand away. “I said I’m fine.” He regretted his sharp tone when he noticed the hurt in her gray eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. Jumper had me worried, I’m really hungry and I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.” He realized that last remark might be the wrong thing to say to the woman who had prompted his overnight activities.
“I’m going to try to grab some shut-eye. You should do the same.” He turned away, resting his forehead against the cool metal of the bulkhead, feeling the low throb of the shuttle’s engines. Jumper crawled into this lap and began to purr. He looked up at Wolf with recrimination in his green eyes, but for once, the cat kept his thoughts to himself.
The metal armrests on the shuttle’s seat groaned as Fitz’s augmented fingers bent them out of shape, the tortured sound reminding her to relax. Had that remark implied she alone had been responsible for his lack of sleep last night? As she recalled, he had been an enthusiastic participant. A warm flush spread across her face as she remembered how enthusiastic he’d been. Now he was shutting her out, refusing to allow her to help. Gods, he looked horrible, like a man who’d been on the r
un for weeks. His eyes were flat and lifeless, sunken into his head and ringed with dark smudges. The hand resting on Jumper’s back trembled.
The bastards had hurt him, stabbed him most likely, given spacers’ predilection for knives. The stubborn man would sit there and bleed to death before he’d ask for her help. He was going to get it, whether he liked it or not, even if she had to knock him unconscious and strap him to the sickbay’s diagnostic bed when they got back to the ship.
Fitz thought-clicked her comm, subvocalizing, “Lizzie.”
“Yes, Commander?”
“We’re on our way, only a few minutes out. I want the med-unit up and running when we get there.”
“Have you been hurt, Commander?”
“No.” Fitz didn’t elaborate.
“I’ll start my preflight check,” the ship said. “And then contact yard flight control…”
“I don’t think you’re going to get much out of them. It’s chaos out there. We may have to just make a run for it.”
“What course should I lay in?”
“Baldark. One jump, straight through. And Lizzy, this time don’t file a flight plan.” Fitz clicked off.
The homely freighter waiting for them in the repair bay had never looked better to Fitz. She paused inside the ship’s main airlock to seal it up and turned in time to see Wolf disappear into his quarters. The door locked behind him.
She ducked into sickbay and pocketed a prefilled injector of the strongest soporific she could locate before heading for the cockpit.
“Lizzy, have you got our clearance yet?”
“I’m sorry, Commander, but flight control is no longer processing new inquiries. A few moments ago they declared a yard-wide stop and ordered all traffic to return to their dock of origin.”
“Bring maneuvering thrusters to standby and release all umbilicals.”
“Already done, but the docking clamps…”
“We may have to blow them.”
“Might I remind you, Commander, the bay doors are still sealed?” The view screen displayed the massive airlock. A ring of green lights surrounded it.
“Try to locate a tech here on the dock to get that damn thing open for us.”
She headed out of the cockpit, pulling the injector from her pocket. “And override the lock on Wolf’s quarters.”
“He’s not in his quarters. You’ll find him in the common room.”
When she entered, Wolf had his back to her, punching a selection into the processor. He’d removed his weapons and changed into a clean shirt. At her approach, he turned to face her.
She pushed him against the wall, pinned him with her forearm and swung the injector toward the side of his neck. He caught her wrist, but she was stronger, slowly forcing the syringe closer to his throat.
“Stop it.” His eyes glittering in anger.
Eyes too bright, too clear. No dark smudges, no hollow cheeks. The vise-like grip around her wrist didn’t tremble. He appeared normal, utterly, maddeningly normal. He took the opportunity of her confusion to twist the injector out of her hand and toss it away.
The idiot must be pumped full of stims, a sure way to kill himself. She knew; she’d done it herself enough times to realize just how dangerous it could be—particularly for a Normal. She pulled her arm free and skinned up his shirt. The taunt flesh of his abdomen was unmarked. No wounds, no cuts, not even an old scar. She pulled down the top of his pants, running her hand across hard, unblemished muscle.
He quirked that damn eyebrow at her. “I don’t really think this is the appropriate time to start tearing my clothes off, FitzWarren. We need to get this ship out of here.” He pulled his cup of chai from the processor and stepped around her. “Come along, Commander.”
When she reached the cockpit, Wolf and Lizzy were arguing. Some things never changed.
“I don’t give a damn what the dock boss said. We’re leaving if I have to get out and dismantle that airlock piece by bleeding piece.”
“But, Colonel…”
“Just get him on the comm, and I’ll tell him. And I won’t be nearly as polite about it as you were.”
A harried voice came over the comm. In the background, Fitz could hear crashes, running footsteps and multiple voices shouting all at once. “Look, jerk, I don’t have time for this. Like I told that dumb bitch who called earlier, the snakes have declared a yard-wide stop and are threatening to target anything that moves out there. We’re trying to get everyone back to a dock before they start blowing ships out of space.”
“I’m willing to take my chances with the Scyrans. Just release the lock.”
“No way. You can sit right there.”
Wolf left the comm link open as he announced to Lizzy, “Ship, blow docking clamps.”
A muffled thump sounded through the ship as explosive bolts sheared off the restraints. Lizzy rose on her repulsers and rotated to face the bay door.
“Shields full forward,” Wolf continued. “Load both torpedo tubes and prepare to fire on my mark.”
The voice on the comm rose several octaves. “You crazy bastard. Whata you think you’re doing?”
“I said, one way or another, I’m leaving.”
The door seal indicators flashed red as the pumps began evacuated atmosphere from the bay. “Fine. Now get the chuft out of my life. And I hope the snakes blow you to hell.”
Wolf took the ship out as soon as he could clear the opening as if afraid the dock boss might change his mind.
“Colonel,” the ship asked. “Are you aware my armament consists solely of that single dorsal laser?”
“He knows that, Lizzy,” Fitz said. She glanced sideways at Wolf and chuckled. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“You’re dead. Again.”
The practice sword—a length of conduit with a tape-wrapped handle—dug into the hollow below Fitz’s breastbone. Wolf stepped back, his makeshift weapon still at the ready. “Shall we try that again?”
Until now, Fitz’s entire experience with a sword had been limited to belting one on over her dress uniform, but Wolf insisted she learn how to use the archaic weapon before they reached Baldark. He wanted to blend in with the natives, leaving no evidence of an advanced technology’s visit. They’d been at it for several hours.
Sweat dripped from Fitz’s nose; her ribs and forearms ached from repeated blows. Her temper was long past frayed. Wolf explained, cajoled and yelled at her. With a flurry of blows, he forced her to give ground, moving backward across the long narrow room in engineering. His talents were wasted as a mere mercenary commander. He possessed all the ruthless charm of an Academy drill instructor.
“Sword up. Keep your body sideways to present the smallest target. That’s good,” he said as she complied. “There’s always the possibility you’ll come up against an expert swordsman, but in all likelihood, it’ll be just hackers and slashers. They’ll keep coming at you. No style, just brute force.” He launched into a series of blows that had her back peddling and blocking. She called on her augmented speed to whip her weapon around quickly enough to keep from being smacked again.
Fitz recognized a rhythm to his swings, starting to anticipate his next blows. He feigned a move to her right and she twisted to block, but he suddenly spun, bringing the piece of pipe smashing into her exposed left side.
She squawked. “Dammit. That hurt.”
“It would hurt a lot more if it was a real sword. Don’t get lulled into thinking you know what your opponent is going to do. That’s a good way to get seriously dead.”
Wolf held up the practice weapon. “In a melee, it’s not always about stabbing and slashing. A real sword would have crosspieces, or quillons, here at the top of the hilt. Not only do they protect your hand from downward blows, but you can use them like little daggers and strike out at your o
pponent’s face.” He reversed the pipe and tapped the bottom of the grip. “And the pommel is more than a counterbalance. You can use that, too, to strike out. Like this.”
Fitz flinched back, but his fist stopped short of her jaw.
“It’s not like fencing,” he continued. “You don’t get points for style or grace. You use whatever you have to put the other guy down as quickly and lethally as possible. Before he does it to you.” He stepped back and raised his mock blade. “Now, again.”
She groaned and rolled her eyes. Downloading a program on sword fighting before she left the AriR would have been a lot easier, but there hadn’t been one available in the ship’s computer. That information could have been requisitioned from Special Operations Personnel at Striefbourne City, but she didn’t want to explain why she needed such an antiquated skill.
Fitz danced back, parrying his blows and watching for an opening. He’d told her to use whatever she had and that was her quickness. She blocked an overhand swing, then flashed around him at HK speed and swung her foot out, sweeping his legs out from under him. Wolf hit the steel decking with a thud. She stood astraddle him, placed the tip of her practice sword against his throat and, with no small amount of satisfaction, said, “Dead.”
He pushed the tip away and leaned up on his elbows. “FitzWarren, I thought we agreed you wouldn’t use your augmentations.”
“You said to use whatever you have.” She offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet.
“Yes, but after the events of the past week, you should be aware that you can’t always count on having those abilities. You need to learn to fight without them.”
“Why, will my attacker politely ask me to surrender my spike before he attacks me?”
A Hero for the Empire: The Dragon's Bidding, Book 1 Page 17