Lady Doctor Wyre

by Joely Sue Burkhart

  Not until she’s dragged back to Londonium.

  When the sheriff continued to a less reputable section of the wharf, Sig’s internal alarms blared louder. Now pausing to look behind him warily, Masters spoke to a man even more ill-clad, their eyes furtive, voices low, but not too low for Lord Regret’s enhanced senses to catch the gist of their conversation.

  Time to approach Lady Wyre.

  Cold burned in Sig’s veins at the sound of her name. No one on Americus knew Charlotte was the Duchess of Wyre. She’d deliberately chosen a new surname that had no ties to any of the Great Houses of Britannia.

  Traitor.

  The man she loved, who would prevent her from sailing to safety and a life of ease with Lord Regret, had betrayed her.

  The first knife sank into the scruffy man’s throat. Blood bloomed and Masters crouched, his hand sliding to his gun. “Don’t do it, Regret.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Sig sauntered closer twirling the slim knife between his fingers, but since the sheriff didn’t draw his gun, he didn’t throw his blade. “She’ll ask me to do it once she hears how you’ve been selling her out all this time.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  Nodding, Sig smiled wider. Should he use the knife so he could take a trophy to her? Or would she rather not see the evidence of his work? “So who are you working for if not Queen Majel? The Military Intelligence and Galaxy Sciences?”

  He’d heard rumors that the powerful sciences division had been using their royal clearance to pursue their own designs, not precisely Her Majesty’s wishes. Queen Majel couldn’t crush them, not if she wanted their latest and greatest technologies, so she was increasingly trapped by the privilege she’d bestowed upon them.

  He watched Masters’s face for any flicker but saw nothing that would betray his association with MIGS. “So it’s the rebels, then.” Ah, there was the faint tightness about the man’s eyes and slight flattening of his mouth. “Here’s your mistake, Sheriff. Rebels don’t have enough money to buy someone like me.”

  The other man’s nostrils flared, his upper lip pulling back in a snarl. “You mean a murdering scavenger who’ll kill anything and anyone for money? You have no idea what we’re trying to do. With her help…”

  “You’re not fit to wipe her boots,” Sig drawled with disgust. “You can’t protect her from anyone, least of all Queen Majel, without massive amounts of money, weapons and extremely powerful friends. You stupid colonists think you can blow up one port, disable one Imperial cruiser and throw its cargo into space as your great rebellion, and Queen Majel will simply flinch back in terror? You know nothing!”

  “I know she’s in danger!” Masters retorted. “This man was supposed to tell me when…”

  “To take her?” Sig slammed the blade up into his sleeve. Anger pounded in his veins, demanding that he slake his rage with fists and boots, pummeling this adversary into a pulp. The knife was too easy and quick a death for this bastard, even if he had the time to skin him alive. “Don’t you know your rebels will sell her to the highest bidder?”

  Taking note of his aggressive stance and lack of weapon, Masters stood and moved away from the body, raising his fists up. He jabbed toward Sig’s jaw, which he easily ducked. “That’s why I needed to question him, but it’s too late now, since you killed my informant!”

  Sig released a volley of punches, calling upon his enhanced strength to pound the sheriff over and over, driving him back until he stumbled over his downed confederate. Scrambling back, Masters managed to land a kick to Sig’s solar plexus, giving him a jolt to his damaged heart. Wheezing, he tackled the man and they rolled, slamming fists, arms windmilling.

  When he landed the occasional blow, the sheriff’s fist almost made Sig wonder if she’d managed to enhance him too. Surely not. She’d said she hadn’t tampered with her experiments at all on Americus. But damn, the man had an iron fist. Even with the tiny machines crawling through his body, he knew he was going to have a hard time seeing out of his left eye.

  Killing Masters would be too easy; beating the crap out of him might take some doing. Then I’ll kill him.

  What Sig had in agility, Masters had in sheer force. Heavier and taller, he managed to pin Sig by sitting on his chest. One big fist wrapped in his hair, the other hovered above his face. “Will she love you so much when I smash your pretty face?”

  Slipping a blade into his palm, Sig was startled enough to pause and search the other man’s face. Grim lines framed the man’s mouth, his brow furrowed, and his eyes glittered with malice, the same as Sig’s. But he also thought he saw the same jealousy and grief in the other man’s eyes that had been gnawing his own heart to ribbons. Against his will, he found himself in the other man’s boots.

  Masters had proposed to her…and been rejected. If he truly cared for her and hadn’t merely been trying to gain her confidence only to betray her…

  A shrill whistle sounded just feet away. Masters scrambled to his feet, only then noticing the silver blade in Sig’s hand before he could palm the knife. Shaking his head, the sheriff turned to face the newcomers.

  Uniformed guards surrounded them. At least four, Sig noted, with reinforcements likely.

  The one with the most stripes on his shoulders barked, “What’s the problem here?”

  Sig weighed his options. He could still kill his way out of this, easily, but it would cause an unpleasant scene and draw too much notice. Lord Regret couldn’t be on Americus right now. He couldn’t be fingerprinted, scanned or logged. He couldn’t even exist. Not here and not now.

  Smoothing his torn coat that looked even more like a rag, Masters drew himself to his full height, easily topping the others. “I’m Sheriff Masters from over at Queenstown. This footpad attacked me.”

  The guard looked down at Sig—who hadn’t bothered to get up until he’d decided which one to kill first—and frowned. Sig knew what he saw—a dandy, or at least a gentleman much more finely dressed than the sheriff.

  Playing along, he ran trembling hands over his chest and put a quiver in his voice. “Am I wounded? Thank God you came along, sir!”

  Masters’s jaws worked like he was chewing on rocks. “Not him. Him.” He squatted down beside the dead man’s body and studied him as though he’d never seen him before. “I saw this thief trailing the…gentleman—”He swallowed hard; that word must have pained him. Sig almost laughed out loud, “—and immediately moved to intercept. The poor man thought I was an accomplice and fought me too, but I was merely trying to help him.” Giving Sig a hard glare, he added, “He’d probably be dead now if it wasn’t for me.”

  Their explanation didn’t diffuse the guards’ scrutiny. If anything, they tightened their hands on their weapons. Sig cursed his lack of information on the colonies themselves. He’d assumed that the Royalists were in the minority, but based on the way these soldiers were eyeing a supposedly respectable lawman from a neighboring town—with admittedly rebellious contacts—then perhaps the little independence party was not so welcome after all.

  Muscles burning with the need to fight, kill and run, Sig fought to keep his manner casual as he climbed to his feet. Play the part, he reminded himself. “I say, old chap, thank you so much for your help. If I hadn’t gotten turned around in this mousetrap of a wharf, I never would have fallen into such malicious company. It’s bloody inconvenient to have these thieves skulking around every dark corner. If I don’t find my mistress’s shipment and fetch it back to her rooms at the Westchester, she’ll leave me here when she manages to find passage back to Britannia. Please, kind sirs, can you help me?”

  He even managed an award-winning sniff of distress, which almost turned to choked laughter at the distaste on Masters’s face. Sig’s ploy was working, though, because the lead guard’s attitude was shifting toward deferment and respect toward him. “She a grand one, your mistress?”

  “Only when she’s here,” Sig whispered in a low voice, casting his gaze around as though he feared she might
overhear him even here. “Back home…” He let his voice fall off and shrugged his shoulders. The higher the title, the more importance the family garnered, and everyone naturally fought and scrapped to win the lowest of low titles, for even a Baroness was better than nothing at all. In Britannia, a Baroness was little more than a merchant, but on Americus, she could act as grand as the queen. “Are you going to arrest me for the crime of getting robbed?”

  The guard blinked and glanced back at Masters. “You said you were from Queenstown. What are you doing in York?”

  He turned beet red and shot a dark, ugly glare at Sig, who had to fight back his amusement. Didn’t the dolt understand he was trying to get them both out of this scrape?

  Muttering, Masters pulled a packet out from beneath his coat. The guards bristled, guns snapping to the ready. With a breathy gasp, Sig backed away, maneuvering for position. He shook his left arm, dropping another blade into his palm, mentally choreographing the kills. The first two guards, here, quick and silent slice to the spine. They’ll drop like sacks of potatoes. Kick the man behind me, whirl and spear his jugular. Throw—

  The guards were laughing, slapping each other on the back. “Go on with you, then. We’ve got work to do.”

  Sig looked at the opened brown paper package in the other man’s hands and staggered slightly, as though the colony planet had been knocked off its axis by a mighty Britannian missile. He’d planned to slit Masters’s throat and leave him stashed behind a few crates, while he raced to Queenstown and got Charlie off planet. But that packet changed everything.

  Pink silk stockings glistened like soft pearls on the sheriff’s meaty palm.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “We’ll take over from here,” a new man spoke directly behind Sig. Metal prodded him in the back and he suppressed a curse. Too slender to be one of the antique weapons the rebels had used; this weapon was a Britannia-made lazor. With a switch of a button, a tight, focused shield would line the short prod, forming an edge sharp enough to cut him in half before he could even turn around.

  More men flowed past him on either side, carefully surrounding the sheriff, too, as the guards ducked their heads and retreated faster than they’d appeared. No wonder—even Sig recognized their plain but elegant black suits. Silently cursing in three different languages, he called himself the fool twice over, because Masters wasn’t worried at all. He even went over and shook the marshal’s hand.

  Because he’s a marshal too. He must have been working undercover for them all along.

  “I’m glad you came along, Agent Smith,” Masters said. “I didn’t want any trouble with the York police.”

  “You won’t be glad for long, Masters,” Smith replied, shaking his head. “I’m afraid you’re under arrest.”

  Sig had to applaud the man’s composure. He drew himself up but didn’t look surprised that men he obviously worked with had now decided to arrest him. “What’s the charge?”

  The man behind Sig jabbed him into walking with the butt of his lazor. “You’re charged with aiding and abetting the dangerous personage known on Britannia as Lady Doctor Wyre.”

  Keep them talking, Sig silently urged the man beside him. I need to know how much they know about her.

  As if he heard the request, Masters said, “Surely there’s been some mistake. I was assigned to her case by the director to gather information and win her confidence. We need her assistance for Americus’s defenses. Has that changed?”

  “None of yours or my business, Masters.”

  Someone shoved Sig up against the wall while another put handcuffs on him, cold, antique metal and not the newer living organism restraints. He couldn’t help but smile. Good.

  “Circumstances have changed. I’m sorry, but I have my orders.”

  The man did seem to be sincere, which Masters was smart enough to play upon. “I had orders too, Smith. What’s going on? If the director has a problem with me…”

  Smith jerked his head and the other agents backed off slightly. Masters moved closer, obligingly angling his body so that the watching men couldn’t see Sig. For once, he was grateful the sheriff dwarfed him. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the cold metal caging his wrists.

  The mechanical creatures Lady Wyre had used to save his life could do other things. He’d learned accidentally through trial and error since he couldn’t communicate with them directly, not with language, but they’d worked out a sort of tacit cooperation over the years.

  His little saviors especially loved to devour metal.

  He thought about that metal, cold bands dark with age and rusted corrosion. How those microscopic bits of metal must be barely held together by tiny, fragile strands too small for his human eyes to see, but extremely easy for his small friends to dissolve.

  “The director had a visitor today,” Smith whispered, keeping his face angled between his men and their prisoners. “Orders changed afterward. You’re out of time, Masters. This whole jaunt to York was deliberate.”

  “To get me out of Queenstown. Son of a bitch.” Masters slammed his fist into a crate and splintered wood exploded. “They’re going to tell her I’m working for them—”

  “Which is true,” Sig added helpfully, earning a scowl.

  “And she’ll cooperate with them. Damn it all to hell, they’re going to take her into custody, aren’t they? Who?” He grabbed a handful of Smith’s black coat and jerked him up on his toes. “Who changed the orders?”

  “It’s for her own good, Masters.” Smith waved a hand at his men to keep them at bay. “She’ll have our protection against Britannia.”

  “Bullshit,” Sig said in his most pleasant voice. “Do you honestly think your troops armed with six-barrel pistols, scythes and sheep shears are going to be able to stand against the might of Britannia? How many lazors do you have altogether? Maybe one hundred? I bet you don’t know that all it takes is a single signal from a cruiser in orbit around your planet to totally disable every weapon in your arsenal. They’ll be as useful as a fire poker.”

  “Who changed the order?” Masters roared, giving the man a shake.

  This time, Smith slammed Masters back into the wall and slapped handcuffs on his wrists, but he leaned close enough to whisper, “President Jaxson. Give it up, man. I’ll do my best to protect her for you.”

  Masters met Sig’s gaze and he was reminded of a massive tiger he’d once seen in Kali Kata. Eyes burning with hatred, the sheriff was going to tear people apart with his bare hands once he had the chance.

  Sig pushed away from the wall and shook his hair back out of his eyes. Walking with a delicate, mincing step, he followed the guards demurely, thus saving himself from the marshals’ attention. The last thing he wanted was a hard shove to send him sprawling. They might notice that the bands on his wrists were thinning and misshapen.

  Yes, my friends, feast on the tasty metal. Lord Regret has work to do.

  Chapter Six

  Charlotte rubbed her eyes and stood to stretch, arching her back and rolling her shoulders. She had most definitely missed her research, but a few hours hunched over her ancient datapad had taken a toll on her, despite all the muscles she’d gained fighting to survive on this colony.

  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 t
hemselves 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.”