A Hero for the Empire: The Dragon's Bidding, Book 1

by Christina Westcott

  “I say we trust her. Jumper vouches for her, and that’s good enough for me.”

  The voice in Fitz’s head had a soft, feminine feel to it.

  “I said you could count on the Boss Lady, Faydra. She’s my person.” Now that was Jumper. He sauntered toward her, a pale feline form close by his side. The riders’ tracking animal. Faydra, he’d called her. She stood nearly as tall as Jumper, but was slimmer with a long sinuous tail that she draped possessively over the black cat’s back. A dusting of faint rosettes speckled her fawn coat, and her eyes were orbs of aquamarine. As they sat beside Fitz’s feet, Jumper butted his shaggy head against Faydra’s shoulder.

  “The cats’ endorsements notwithstanding, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to surrender the rest of your weapons to Garion,” Ransahov said. “There are still some questions I want answered before I’m willing to trust you.”

  The bearded man helped Fitz remove her backpack and held it out while she jammed in the knives, ammo clips, power packs and grenades from her pockets, belt and harness.

  Ransahov chuckled. “Wolf must have taught you to gun-up for a fight. He never went anywhere without enough firepower to equip a squad.” A smattering of snowflakes rode the wind, whipping the coppery curls that peeked out from under the woman’s helmet. She looked eastward where the clouds clotted the sky with a solid sheet of darkness. “We need to get moving. Mount up.” She swung up onto her horse.

  Ransahov extended her hand. “You can ride behind me.”

  Fitz hesitated, unsure what she should do. Riding any kind of beast wasn’t a course offered at the Academy. She doubted a cavalry MOS still existed even for Expeditionary Forces.

  “Put your foot in the stirrup,” Ransahov said. “No, your left foot.”

  Pulled up on the back of the horse, Fitz landed with all the grace of a duffle bag full of dirty underwear. The beast snorted, side-stepping, and nearly dumped her off the other side. She squawked, clutching Ransahov’s waist. An aircycle would be so much better. At least they didn’t prance around with a mind of their own.

  “Just relax, Commander.”

  Fitz realized who she clung to like a child lost in a busy spaceport. One of the Empire’s greatest heroes. Her personal idol. She forced her fingers to untangle from Ransahov’s vest.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Take it easy, Commander. Now can you drop the ma’am? This isn’t the parade grounds and all this ma’aming is making me feel like an old fart.”

  “Yes, ma’am…uh, yes.” Surely her idol didn’t expect her to call her Ari, did she?

  “Much better. Now, I have over four decades of history to catch up on, so start talking.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  By the time they reached the tree line on the far side of the mountain, the blizzard hurled snow at them, making further conversation impossible. Fat, wet flakes matted Fitz’s hair and ice crystals clung to her eyelashes. Ransahov was right; she wouldn’t have made it through the night in a storm like this. If she and Jumper hadn’t found shelter, they would have frozen to death by morning.

  At one of the stone markers, Garion dismounted, calling a halt. Fitz slid from the horse, grateful to be parting company with the beast. Her thighs and bottom ached from the short time she’d spent straddling its broad back. She didn’t want to think about what it would feel like to spend all day in the saddle.

  Ransahov leaned down from her mount and conferred with the bearded man, their faces so close the plumes of their breath mingled. Her hand rested on his shoulder. Garion seemed to be Ransahov’s second-in-command and, if Fitz interpreted that look correctly, a companion of a more intimate nature. Perhaps serving as the former Triumvir’s aide always entailed certain special privileges. At least Ransahov’s taste in men remained consistent. Something about Garion reminded her faintly of Wolf—tall, blond and self-assured. The thought of the hardheaded mercenary brought a stab of grief so sharp it almost stopped her breath.

  “I miss him too, Boss Lady. We’ll get him back.” Jumper reached up to brace his front paws against her thigh. Fitz picked him up, brushed off the clumps of snow matting his chest and belly, then slipped him inside her jacket.

  “I like Faydra. She’s pretty cool—for a calico—but she’s got it all wrong about this snow crap. It ain’t fun; it’s just cold.” He snuggled against her, shivering.

  Faydra bounded ahead of the party as they left the road and trudged through calf-deep snow to reach an immense tree. Nearly twenty meters across, its lower branches swept the ground while the top was lost in the swirling white of the storm.

  Ransahov leaned in to shout over the wind’s moan. “It’s called a traveler’s tree, Commander. They’re spaced out along the caravan route to offer traders a place to ride out the blizzards that blow in from the Taiga during the spring and fall.”

  They pushed through the branches and into the darkness beyond. The riders lit lanterns, revealing a huge open area. The underside of the branches formed a tent-like structure that rustled and creaked in the wind. There were several fire pits, ringed by logs and stones for seating, and in the back, a makeshift corral for the horses. The smell of animal dung mingled with the pongy scent of old cooking grease.

  “This storm should blow itself out by morning,” Ransahov said. “We’ll be able to get back on the road then. It might even work to our advantage. The Tzraka can’t tolerate the cold. In weather like this, they curl up and go dormant, so we shouldn’t have to worry about running into any bugs until it begins to warm up.”

  “I don’t recall reading anything in your mother’s files about Tzrakas.” Fitz put Jumper down, and the cat hurried off to explore with his new friend.

  “The first reports of Asuras—what the locals call demons—began to reach us about a decade after I arrived. It must have been a scout ship. Either it crashed, or they were the advance team for an invasion force. If it’d been a hive ship, they would have descended on this world in the tens of thousands and wiped out every living creature.”

  Ransahov handed the reins of her mount to one of the riders. She took off her helmet and shook out her trademark coppery curls. “Every summer since, it’s been a constant battle. Some years, I think we’re winning. Others, I know we’re not. If the Empire has teamed up with the bugs… I don’t know what’s going to happen now. I don’t understand how any human could work with those things after the horror of the war.” Ransahov walked away and sat at one of the cold fire pits with her face buried in her hands.

  Fitz joined her, huddling in her jacket to stay warm. The blizzard had cut their conversation short so there hadn’t been time to talk about leading the coup. Now didn’t seem like the time to bring it up, so she sat, feeling useless, watching Garion and the others set up camp. A pair of fires soon burned, casting their shifting light on the underside of the branches. Along with the combined body heat of animals and humans, the blazes soon had the air tolerable, if a little pungent.

  Garion heated water for tea and made a soup by boiling strips of dried meat with handfuls of beans and vegetables. Despite the spicy aroma, Fitz opted for a meal pouch.

  “Commander, you wouldn’t happen to have another of those, would you?” asked Ransahov.

  “Certainly, ma’am.” Fitz dug into her backpack and produced a second MRE. Turkzard and gravy with noodles—not one of her favorites. “I probably have something better than this.”

  “No, that’s fine.” Ransahov ripped open the package without waiting for it to heat, and devoured the disgusting mess with gusto. When she finished, she slit open the pouch and licked the last of the gravy from the sides.

  “Damn, that was good,” she said, then laughed. “What am I saying? It’s a chufting MRE, for Yig’s sake, and rubber bands in gravy at that. Do they still call it that, Commander?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That and other less polite names.” Fitz cradled a metal cup of tea in
her hands. She’d often imagined meeting her hero, but in none of those scenarios had she envisioned them discussing the culinary value of ration packs. “Would you like another, ma’am?”

  “No, thank you, Commander. One was quite enough. It’s just that…it reminded me of a life I led a long time ago.”

  “I’ll take one, Boss Lady.” Jumper waited impatiently, his lady friend by his side.

  Fitz cut open another MRE and spread the packet out on the ground for the cats. Jumper stood back and let Faydra sample the strange new feast before he joined her.

  The red-haired woman smiled. “Your cat seems to have made quite an impression on Faydra, Commander.”

  “She’s a Kaphier cat, isn’t she?”

  “Faydra’s the descendent of two Kaphiers I brought with me, but because of that limited population, inbreeding has led to severe problems—spontaneous abortions and high kitten mortality rates. Many of the babies that survive don’t have fully developed telepathic abilities. They’re intelligent but unable to communicate except with meows and gestures. Some are little more than normal domestic cats.” Ransahov stirred several large dollops of honey into her tea.

  “Faydra is one of the lucky ones. Her telepathy is fully developed, so she tracks for us when we hunt Tzrakas. The bugs seem to have an inborn hatred of cats, and she uses that to play a dangerous game of baiting them into the open so we can kill them.”

  Ransahov drained her tea, then reached into her saddle pack and extracted a silver flask, refilled her empty cup with an amber liquid. “Commander?” She held up the container. “It’ll warm you up.”

  “Perhaps a little.” Fitz held out her mug.

  The whiskey was smooth, sliding down her throat like hot silk. A satisfying warmth formed in her stomach and flowed out into her limbs. “This doesn’t do you any good, does it?”

  Ransahov shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. You know about that, do you? Perhaps it’s just habit. Or I like the taste. Or maybe I think one day I’ll get a buzz off it again.”

  “Ma’am, we didn’t get to finish our conversation earlier, with the storm moving in.”

  “Ah, I wondered when you’d get around to that, Commander. It would have to be something important for Wolf to drag you all the way out here.”

  “Actually, ma’am, I’m responsible for him being here, and that’s why I have to free him. It makes me sick to think of Tritico torturing him.”

  “Tritico, huh? I had my run-in with that smiling bastard. He tried his best to kill me. If my ocular prosthesis hadn’t malfunctioned, I’d be ash now.” She rubbed the patch over her eye. “The distortion in my right eye had gotten so distracting, that I had to pull my spike to shut the system down. I left it in the safe room, and I guess they targeted their weapons on its signal. That attack killed quite a few of my friends. I’d like to have my shot at that SOB when you’re finished with him.”

  “Perhaps I can give you that opportunity.” The whiskey generated a warm ball of courage in Fitz’s stomach. “The Empire that people like you and Wolf pledged to protect is gone. In its place, Ashcraft has built a dictatorship administered by people like Tritico and his goons at DIS. Even the Fleet is fractured; some have bought into the government’s lies, but the rest of us are still loyal to the old Imperial ideals. Triumvir Kiernan has put together a group of these people—Loyalists, they call us—personnel and ships willing to commit to returning some sanity to the Empire.” Damn, this was not coming out right; she sounded like a politician making a speech.

  “All we lack is a leader, a champion who can rally all of the military to our side, someone the common people can get behind through the mess of rebuilding. We need a true hero, ma’am. We need you.”

  “Me, Commander?” Shock widened her single green eye. “I’m not a hero. I was just a soldier, doing my job. And not very well, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. You’re a legend,” Fitz protested. “They write books about your life, sing songs, there have even been several tri-D productions about your love affair with Herrik Landers—”

  “My what?” Ransahov sputtered on a mouthful of whiskey.

  Perhaps Wolf had been right, and those stories were more fiction than fact, but she was the savior the Empire needed now. She just had to be convinced of the fact.

  “They renamed the administration building at the Academy after you and erected a statue out front. Every day I spent on campus, I walked past that monument and prayed for the strength to be worthy of your legacy.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Commander, but I’m not the person you seem to think I am.”

  “But you are, ma’am. Emperor Rantha awarded you the military’s greatest honor, the Hero of the Empire medal, for your victory at the Battle of Lockmea Rho.”

  “That was no victory; it was a slaughter. I ordered the destruction of an entire star system and killed thousands of civilians who hadn’t evacuated from LR3 yet.”

  “But you tricked the Tzraka fleet into following you there and destroyed all those hive ships with a nova bomb. That ended the war.”

  “Did it? Then why am I still fighting bugs now?” Ransahov’s fingers stroked the eye patch. “Perhaps it’s my penance. Tell me, Commander, do they still call me the Butcher of Lockmea on Targas IV?”

  Targas IV had been the home world for the Lockmea Rho mining colony. “I wouldn’t know about that, ma’am.” Fitz looked away. In fact, she did and had gotten into a fistfight with a mining engineer once over the slur.

  “You probably think I left the Empire under tragic or mysterious circumstances. The truth is I ran away. I couldn’t face the mess I’d made of my life, so I just stuck my tail between my legs and slunk away like a coward.”

  “I know. Wolf told me about that last night with you.”

  “Did he also mention all the other times I lied to him and kicked him out? I would reassign him, then turn around weeks later and order him to drop everything and come back. I’m surprised he agreed to come with you knowing I was involved.”

  Fitz gnawed at her lower lip. Perhaps it would be best not to tell Ransahov she’d had to hire Wolf to get him to accompany her.

  The red-haired woman seemed to retreat into her own thoughts. Fitz waited. She’d learned at interrogation training that people felt driven to fill silence with words. For a long time the only sounds were the cracking of the fire and the slow groaning of the great tree above them.

  Ransahov nodded her head at the Baldarkii gathered around the fire on the other side of the camp. “When I first come here, this world, these people healed me. They didn’t care about who I was or what I’d done. They just accepted me for myself. And Garion. I’m not sure I could have kept my sanity if I hadn’t had him.” She squeezed the man’s knee and he gripped her hand. After several seconds, Ransahov slipped her fingers from his and poured another shot of whisky, then offered the flask to Fitz.

  “Commander, this entire argument seems academic. I’m not an engineer, but I don’t think that ship of yours is ever going to lift off again. You and Wolf are just as stuck on this planet as I am.”

  “I don’t think so.” Fitz accepted the offered whisky, hoping its heat could melt the hard knot of ice in her stomach. “Those Imperial soldiers got here somehow. Either there’s a ship on-planet or one shuttles back and forth with supplies and rotating personnel. We checked on the way in, so I know there’s nothing in orbit. When I left on this mission, our intelligence placed Tritico at DIS headquarters in Striefbourne City. To be out here now, he must be using something faster than a bulk freighter. I think there’s a good chance I can find us a ride off-planet.”

  “You planned to break into an Imperial base, free a prisoner and steal a starship—all by yourself?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Do you have a better idea?”

  “In fact, I just might.” Ransahov stared into the flames, her fingers toying wit
h the eye patch again. “I can think of only one reason for the Imperials to provide a safe location for the Tzraka to breed. They plan on using them as a weapon.”

  “I concur,” said Fitz. “But a weapon against whom? Is Ashcraft looking to use them to conquer the entire Human Sector or is Tritico playing his own perverted game to gain control of the Empire?”

  “Either way, Commander, I will not allow this world or these people to be used to create those abominations.”

  “And the best way to prevent that, ma’am, would be to take the throne and come back here with the full power of the Fleet behind you and wipe out this mess. Then you set up Baldark as an Imperial protectorate, and you can prevent anything like this ever happening again.”

  “We don’t have time for that. With summer coming, the bug population will explode. By the time we got back here, there might not be anything left to save. We have to move now.”

  Fitz felt the situation slipping out of her control. “I’m sure I could convince Maks Kiernan to come directly here before we head to Scyr…”

  “And how do you propose to do that without a ship, Commander? The only place you’re likely to find a way off this planet is inside that base. No, we do this my way. We go in hard and fast. With all the armaments you’re carrying, we can grab anything that looks hypercapable and maybe even commandeer that gunship. We free Wolf and blow the hell out of that base on our way out the door. Then we go down to that breeding facility and give it a good case of ass-kicking. Wolf will come up with a workable plan. He was always good at strategizing on the fly. Damn, it’ll be great to have him fighting at my side again.”

  Garion stood abruptly and strode away to stand in the shadows at the corral. Fitz got the impression Ransahov wasn’t even aware he’d left. She was too deep into the excitement of planning the attack.

  “Try to get some rest, Commander. I want to hit that base tomorrow night, and we’ve got some rough territory to cover. Don’t worry, I’ll see to it you get your ride home.” Ransahov tossed the dregs of her drink into the fire, the flames flaring as the whiskey hit them. She stood, realizing her companion was missing and scanned the camp for him. His tall form was visible in the shadows. Ransahov joined him, leaving Fitz alone at the campfire.