Lady Doctor Wyre: Jane Austen Space Opera, Book 1

by Joely Sue Burkhart

  The first thing I’m obtaining in York is a brand-new datapad.

  After refusing the temptation of her work all these years, it was pure bliss to pore over the vast figures she’d downloaded in Sig’s energy exchange last night. If Queen Majel truly suspected she hid on Americus, then, she reasoned, there was absolutely no reason to hide her research any longer. In fact, her research might prove to be the only possible way she could preserve her freedom. To that end, she had to understand what she’d accomplished with Sig, so she could build upon it.

  If her suppositions were correct, her assemblers had become entirely self-sufficient. They would work indefinitely in their host’s body, perfecting its performance and shielding him from harm to the best of their programming, while finding new and exciting ways to fuel themselves without any noticeable side effects.

  Had Queen Majel’s treatment evolved similarly? If so, she could be nigh impossible to assassinate, even if Charlotte sent her own unstoppable assassin.

  Even more curious, her nanobots had managed to replicate themselves, and some of them had remained in the locket instead of returning to their host. She needed time to confirm her suspicions, but she was sure they weren’t her original assemblers, because their programming had immediately sent them back to their job.

  So what job do these little ones believe themselves to possess?

  A buzz at her door shot her heart rate to the moon. She’d programmed the door for Gil, and Sig would have just waltzed right in as though he owned the place. She didn’t have any other friends in town.

  Scooping up her datapad and journal, she locked them in the tea chest and pushed it back beneath her bed. The locket and several tubes remained on her table, but she didn’t have enough time to hide them. Instead, she dumped several cosmetics to disguise the items.

  She checked her reflection in the mirror. Her drab wool made her frown, despite the creases to her forehead, and her hair was loose, tumbled about her shoulders because she hadn’t bothered to even brush it out this morning in her excitement to get to work. She couldn’t pull off sleepy doe-eyed innocence, so she settled for sultry and tugged the bodice of her gown lower. Lifting her chin, she marched over to answer the door, every inch a Duchess despite the lack of good help to handle such trivial household duties.

  “Hello?”

  Without her approval, the door whooshed open, confirming her fear that this was no social visit. A team of black-suited men stood on her porch wearing long, sweeping dusters and black toppers. “Forgive the intrusion, ma’am, but—”

  “Indeed, I shan’t,” she broke in, taking another step forward to block her door. “This might be Americus, free and independent colony of Britannia, but a lady still has her rights. Who are you and what do you want?”

  “My name is Gatlin, and this is my associate, Colt.” The man who’d first spoken inclined his head. “Forgive my impertinence, Your Grace.”

  Her stomach churned like she’d swallowed an entire pot of bitter coffee. That suddenly, all her plans and contingencies crashed, leaving a glowing tail of debris like a comet. Seven years of hiding had been destroyed in a heartbeat.

  I refuse to run again.

  She took a deep breath and forced her voice to the calm, deliberate accent of one of the highest ladies of Britannia. “On whose behalf do you call upon me, Mr. Gatlin?”

  “President Jaxson of Americus. We’re marshals, Your Grace, sworn to uphold the laws of Americus and protect our citizens from harm.”

  “And you believe me to intend harm to your colonists?” She let out a trilling laugh and waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve had seven years to harm, sir. I assure you that harm is the last thing on my itinerary.”

  The other man stepped forward. “You misunderstand our purpose, Your Grace. President Jaxson extends the warmest of invitations for the Solstice celebration in the Capital.”

  If they want to lure me with a party, then let me prepare for a full celebration. Charlotte let a warm smile brighten her face and she clapped her hands with delight. “Oh, excellent! I haven’t enjoyed a decent soiree in ages. Do come in, gentlemen, while I pack for the trip.”

  The marshals exchanged glances and conferred briefly to decide which of their party should come inside with her, while the rest, she presumed, encircled her cabin to make sure she didn’t attempt escape. As though she’d managed to turn her entire brain into an army of lightning quick assemblers, her mind blazed from plan to plan, thought to thought. Someone had figured out who she was. It didn’t take a nanobot to figure out who that might have been.

  Worry made her drum her fingers on her crossed arms. Gil might have secrets he hadn’t shared yet, but she knew that man’s heart. He would be devastated that his confidence had been compromised. Had these men injured or arrested him? Tortured him for information? Or simply misled him in some way? Perhaps some interrogation of her own was in order. If nothing else, an aggressive stance would keep them off balance.

  “Forgive my lack of hospitality, gentlemen. After your little demonstration at the Bostonia port, you know how pricy tea has become.” She watched their faces for any flicker that might betray them as they glanced about her sparse living quarters. She knew they must be second-guessing their supposition, for no aristocrat of a royal House would surely live in such conditions willingly for seven years. “Will Mr. Masters be a part of my escort?”

  Mr. Gatlin’s eyes widened and his rose-bud mouth fell open into an O.

  Mr. Colt was slightly more in control of his emotions, but he slipped his right hand beneath his coat. She detected none of the usual bulge of the antique six-barrel pistol, so she had to assume it was a slim stick of the lazor. “Pardon me, Your Grace?”

  “Mr. Masters,” she said slowly and loudly as though the man had gone deaf or lost his wits. “The sheriff of this provincial town and obviously a marshal in his own right.”

  “How…” Mr. Colt swallowed. “There’s no way you could know that Masters is…was…a Marshal.”

  She arched a brow at the man, peering down her nose at him despite their height difference. “An imbecile would have figured it out, sir, considering my only contact this past year has been Masters. If you’d known where I was last Solstice then I’m sure President Jaxson would have extended her polite invitation then. Masters is not the sort of man to sell information to the highest bidder; he’s too honorable for that. So he must have trusted you in some way to give you any information at all, which implies he must also be a marshal. Now please follow me, sirs. I have need of your assistance.”

  She swept into her bedroom as though she wore the finest ballgown and jewels to dazzle the highest Court in the universe. From the dusty depths of the wardrobe, she dragged out a hefty traveling trunk, threw open the lid like a child opening her Solstice gifts, and began rifling through the last few gowns she’d been unable to bring herself to destroy, not even to make her bedroom more habitable.

  “We don’t have much time…” Mr. Colt began.

  She waved him off. “Nonsense. There’s always time to look one’s best and I simply cannot be introduced to the equivalent of the Americus queen if I’m not properly clothed. Mr. Gatlin, could you please fetch that hatbox on top of the wardrobe? I’m afraid I can’t reach it without a chair. And, Mr. Colt, if you would be so kind as to drag out my tea chest from beneath my bed. I daren’t leave it behind for someone to throw out into deepest space in order to make a political statement.”

  From the depths of the trunk, she dragged out a deep red gown that made her fingers twitch with excitement and her stomach clench with remembered foreboding. This is the gown I wore when I died to Britannia. “Excuse me, gentlemen, while I change into something more presentable for Madame President.”

  She stepped behind the screen and hummed beneath her breath as she stripped off the ugly gown. She deliberately tossed it over the top as evidence of her nudity. Peeking through a small hole, she verified her tactic of distraction had been effective. Scattered and
off balance by her commands, they whispered among themselves couldn’t even bring themselves to glance at the screen. Satisfied, she slipped the scarlet silk over her head and realized she had a problem. This gown had been crafted by the finest modeste in Londonium at the height of her social status. As such, it had a much tighter, slimmer silhouette than she was used to wearing on Americus.

  She tugged the gown back off. Her feminine finery had certainly made an impression on Gil, and she’d use whatever weapon at her disposal to make sure she came out of this alive. Fluffing her bosom and shaking her head so her hair hung disheveled and tumbled about her, she stepped out from behind the screen.

  Mr. Gatlin snapped to attention like Madame President had just bellowed an order at him. Mr. Colt had been snooping through some papers on her desk. Blushing at her notice, he turned an alarming shade of puce when he noticed her dishabille.

  She marched toward him and presented her bodice like a prize. “Do make yourself useful, Mr. Colt, and tighten my corset for me.”

  He made a choked sound as though he’d swallowed his own tongue. “Ma’am, I mean, Your Grace, I can’t possibly…”

  “If you do not tighten my corset for me,” she said in a cold, measured voice, “then I cannot wear my best gown. And if I cannot wear my best gown, I shan’t go with you at all.” She gave him a tight, glittering smile. “I would regret your dismissal from the service at Madame President’s disapproval because of your failure to bring me to her soiree simply because you were too modest to assist a lady’s toilette.”

  “For heaven’s sake, man, it’s not that difficult.” Mr. Gatlin surprised her by stepping over and grabbing the laces at her waist, although his hands were trembling. He tugged firmly, while Charlotte used her hands to shape her waist and bosom to her satisfaction. “There. Will that satisfy, Your Grace?”

  She slipped the red silk gown back over her head, slimming and smoothing the dress over her hips. “Not bad, sir. Do you have a lady wife whom you assist at home?”

  Mr. Gatlin blushed and gave her a small bow. “A sister, Your Grace. She had a modest season in York and would sacrifice her first-born child to go to Londonium and be presented to the Queen.”

  “Indeed, that might be required nowadays,” she muttered beneath her breath. She took note of Mr. Colt swaying slightly and sharpened her voice. “Breathe, Marshal, before you pass out in my house and your associates are forced to drag you out by your boots.”

  Chapter Seven

  Prowling his cell like a cage, Masters was practically frothing at the mouth.

  Seated on the floor as though he were a pasha, Sig chuckled. “I suppose you haven’t had many opportunities to survey this side of a cell, have you, Sheriff?”

  Masters gave each bar an experimental shake to see if he could bust out. “Where are they transporting us?”

  “The jail in York wasn’t secure enough for desperate criminals like us.” Sig laughed at the disgruntled look on the man’s face. “Why, you’ve fallen into the company of a hardened criminal. Your reputation will never be the same.”

  “You’re the famed assassin, so why the hell don’t you kill your way out of here?”

  “I will.” Sig dropped his head back against the metal hull. It hummed against his skull, but he could tell neither how fast they traveled nor the direction, but he suspected they were flying in the opposite direction they were taking Charlie. The buzzing joy he felt in his body decreased with every passing moment, confirming that fear. “When it’s time.” At the other man’s frustrated curse, he continued, “We have no idea how many marshals they assigned to us. There’s no need to go on a killing spree until I know whether I must eliminate five or five hundred. The technique is different.”

  Masters turned his head and pinned Sig in a hard glare. “Are you telling me you’d kill five hundred men? At once?”

  “If I had to get through them to her, most definitely. I’d rip them apart one by one with my bare hands.”

  The sheriff grunted and threw himself down against Sig with a disgusted sigh. “Truth be told, I would too.”

  “And that is why we have a problem.” Sig closed his eyes. “I told her she ought to marry you.”

  The man beside him twitched with surprise. “I thought you came to take her off Americus.”

  “I did.” He twisted his mouth into something he hoped was wry self-depreciation and not misery. “She won’t go.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “Not in so many words. I didn’t have to.”

  “I’m not one to beat around the bush, so I’m just going to come right out and ask you. What’s between you two? Don’t tell me that she saved your life, or that you saved her life by getting her out of Londonium. I already know that.”

  “She knows my deepest secret shame,” Sig whispered. With his eyes closed, he saw the ugliness that had twisted his mother’s beautiful face. Hatred, rage, he wasn’t sure that it was a singular emotion but rather an animalistic need to maim and hurt and destroy. “A mark once managed to ask me a question before I completed the deed, and since I was feeling magnanimous, I answered. She asked why I’d chosen the name Regret, when I obviously had no regrets about killing another person.”

  “And?” Masters asked in a low voice. “Why Regret? Why not Blackmore or Devilshire or some other atrociously evil name?”

  “Have you ever had someone else die for you, Sheriff? Truly die for you, save you with their own life, while you escape unscathed? Only later, years later, do you realize that they didn’t really save you at all. That you died on that day, at least a little, and that you’ll never be whole again.”

  “People die in war all the time. Even as a marshal, I lost my partner two years ago, and they assigned me to Smith. I just never had that same connection with him. My fault, I suppose, because I kept expecting him to die on me too.”

  “I wasn’t in war, Sheriff. In fact, I was just a boy.”

  “Who was hurting you?”

  The vibration stopped. Opening his eyes, Sig jerked his hands apart, and the brittle, thinned handcuffs crumbled into dust. If only his crippled heart would simply dissolve the same way and put him out of this misery. “We’ve arrived. Be ready.”

  “I’m not even going to ask how the hell you did that, if you’ll tell me why you chose the name Regret.”

  “Distract them as much as possible while I pretend to be the dandy again, and for God’s sake, find out what hellhole they’ve brought us too. I smell swamp, so I’m betting on Orleans.”

  Masters grumbled but made no more questions as footsteps echoed in the hold. Keeping his hands together and close to his body, Sig drew up his knees and shook his hair forward to conceal his eyes. Masters jumped up and barked at the two guards. “Where are we? I’m an Americus Federal Marshal and you have no right to hold me! I demand to speak to the director immediately.”

  Grim and scowling, the big sheriff made a formidable opponent, even handcuffed and behind bars, but the two guards didn’t act intimidated at all. Eyes narrowed, Sig watched them carefully, trying to tell what fueled their confidence.

  “Your director is the one who signed your warrant, fool.” The guard’s key jingled against the bars. With a loud click, the ancient lock fell open and the door swung inside. Stepping back obligingly, Masters lowered his head, preparing to charge the guards. With a smug smile of amusement, the second guard aimed a short wand no longer than his hand at the big man. A pulse of energy slammed into Masters and slung him back against the hull.

  Wincing in sympathy at the helpless twitching of the man’s muscles, Sig flopped to his feet and babbled out entreaties for mercy in his shrillest voice. One guard took a stance over him with a similar stick in his hand, but his attention was wholly on Masters. “What has the poor man done to warrant a jolt from a tazor?”

  “According to the warrant, he’s a traitor,” the guard closest to Masters replied. “He’s been working with rebels against our new government.”

  “Not�
��exactly…true,” Masters wheezed. “Against Britannia. Rebels across the galaxy have to unite if we want to survive.”

  Now that’s an idea. Sig had assumed Masters was just a marshal sent to spy on a contact, who’d then made the mistake of falling in love with her. But if the man really was a rebel—with plans of a galaxy-wide attack against Britannia—then he might actually have some hope of keeping Charlie alive. Staying on Americus indefinitely was impossible if they hoped to keep her alive and free.

  Of course Americus wouldn’t like that idea at all. They’d want all of Lady Doctor Wyre’s dangerous research all to themselves.

  “Why did you have to bring us to Orleans?” Sig asked in his most plaintive voice. Then he released an explosive sneeze. “I’m allergic to mold.”

  The guard gaped at him. “I guess they wanted the worst prison on Americus for you two. You’ll be headed upriver within the hour.”

  “Assuming that damnable pirate leaves us alone,” the other guard muttered. “Too bad Britannia can’t aim for Laffite’s arse and save us all the trouble of hanging her.”

  Masters managed to laugh even though his arms and legs were still twitching helplessly. “You’d have to catch Laffite first. She doesn’t take too kindly to Britannia or Americus alike.”

  “Pirates.” The guard spat on the floor. “They’re even worse than rebels like you.”

  Sig reached out, snapped the nearest guard’s neck, and jerked his hands back behind him as though he were still handcuffed. The guard toppled like a rag doll.

  “What the…” The other guard turned, lifting the tazor threateningly, but wavered when he saw no threat or violence. “Will, are you sick? Will?”

  Sneezing again and again, Sig moaned and wrung his hands. “I told you the mold here is wretched. I’ve heard of people dying out here because of the brain fever it causes. They don’t even know they’re sick, and then bam—” He threw out a hand with fingers stiffened into blades and crushed the guard’s larynx. Choking, the guard fell to his knees, digging at his throat. A nudge from Sig’s boot knocked him over to topple on top of his partner. “They drop dead.”