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

by Christina Westcott

  The dark shape of the Chimera class shuttle filled the flight deck, with less than a meter’s clearance on either side of its stubby wings. She felt a flash of respect for the pilot who’d shoehorned that ship into such a narrow landing space.

  “That explains why they didn’t use a larger vessel.”

  “They could have left something bigger in orbit—a corvette or even a battle cruiser,” Ransahov said.

  “Maybe, but if they’d brought a ship of that size, they’d have sent down only a pinnace. A long-range shuttle is capable of making the jump from Scyr, as long as you have a pilot with the balls to put it down in such a tight space. That does, however, limit the number of people on board. A ship this size only has crew quarters for six or eight, depending how much space is taken for offices and conference rooms.”

  Fitz smiled. “It does provide us with plenty of cover. The control room’s view of the entire back end on the flight deck is blocked. I suggest we make the most of it.”

  They exited the locker room and slipped beneath the belly of the shuttle. The boarding stairs were at the front of the ship, in full view of the control tower. Fitz crouched behind a landing strut and peered up at the glass. A figure stood silhouetted against the light, scanning the landing bay. He stepped away, returning to his position.

  Ransahov knelt beside her. “Let’s go, Commander.”

  “No. I’ll go. Jumper, you’re with me. You three wait here. I’ve got the best chance of making it aboard unnoticed. Let me check it out, see what we’re facing inside, and, when it’s all clear, I’ll have Jumper contact Faydra to give you the go ahead.” She thought the former Triumvir was going to argue, but she only nodded. Ransahov took too many chances. Maks Kiernan would have had the good sense to let his bodyguard clear the way for him.

  Fitz glanced at the tower window one last time before signaling Jumper. They rose and sprinted across the hanger. The cat reached the ramp first and started up to the open door. He crouched low, his belly brushing over the steps, as he eased each paw forward. Fitz imitated his movements, weight on her hands and the balls of her feet.

  “Wait.” Jumper’s warning hissed through her mind.

  She froze. The handrail on the ramp offered little cover. Stillness and her camosuit were her only concealment. Movement flickered behind the window of the control tower. The tech returned to scan the bay again.

  “I don’t think he’s seen us. I’m not sensing any suspicion, only boredom.”

  The sharp edge of a stair tread dug into her throat. Bent beneath the weight of her body, her wrist began to throb and quiver. Seconds crawled as the man stood at the window. He drained his cup and turned away.

  “Let’s move.” Jumper dashed to the top of the stairs.

  Fitz resumed her slow progress trusting the cat to give her warning if the restless tech reappeared. Little more than a meter separated Fitz from the airlock, when a tall dark-haired woman stepped through the open door. She wore the dark green uniform of Fleet with silver pilot’s wings on her collar. A reader held her attention so she didn’t see Jumper. Her foot came down on his paw. He squalled.

  Fitz sprang, driving her shoulder into the pilot’s stomach, forcing her back through the open hatch, the inner lock, and into the ship. They slammed up against a bulkhead. The woman’s eyes rolled wildly as she tried to get her breath. She clawed for the comm unit coiled around her ear. Fitz grabbed her wrist and kicked her feet out from under her. They hit the deck hard, the pilot’s eyes going unfocused for a second. Fitz pulled the spacer’s tape from her pocket, slapped a strip across the woman’s mouth and bound her hands. She dragged the pilot upright and removed the comm unit from her ear, stashing it in a pants pocket.

  “Look out behind you.”

  A clatter followed Jumper’s warning.

  A man stood frozen in the galley door, scattered dishes and a puddle of coffee at his feet. His astonishment gave way to fear, and he sprinted down the hall, his med-tech’s coat flapping behind him. He ducked into a room.

  Fitz dashed after him. She caught the door before it slid closed, entering a small but well-equipped medical bay. The doctor pawed through the cabinets and turned, waving a preloaded syringe.

  “Stay away from me.” His voice was high and sharp. “Who are you and what were you doing to Reann?”

  Fitz eased her hands up. The panic in his eyes warned he would be unpredictable, so she kept her movements slow, her voice soft. “What’s in the syringe?”

  Preloaded injectables were color-coded. The cap on this one was blue. She couldn’t remember what that meant, only that red signified potentially dangerous drugs. The exam table separated them but he edged around it trying to reach the door, and stabbed the syringe at her like a dagger. Fitz sidestepped, grabbed his wrist and rapped it against the edge of the tabletop. His hand flew open, the injector skittering away across the metal surface. She twisted his arm behind his back and forced his head down on the table.

  “What’s in this?” Her free hand located the syringe.

  “A sedative,” he stammered. “Just a sedative.”

  “For your sake, I hope you’re telling the truth.” Fitz slapped the injector against the side of his neck and felt his body go limp. She eased him to the floor and checked for a pulse. Slow, but steady.

  “Boss Lady, a little help here.”

  Fitz charged out the door in time to see the pilot kick Jumper and struggle to her feet, staggering for the open hatch. She ran straight into Garion. He tucked the woman under one arm and made room for Ransahov and Faydra behind him.

  “I told you to wait until I called you,” Fitz said.

  “Faydra thought you could use a little help.” Ransahov closed and secured the airlock.

  “Take her into the galley and finish tying her up.” Fitz picked up the tape she’d dropped and thrust it at Garion. She dashed to the cockpit. A quick scan of the board showed no alarms or queries from the control tower. She brought up the external monitors, but the hanger deck remained quiet.

  “We need to make sure there’s no one else onboard. Ransahov, check all the rooms on the port side. I’ll take starboard.”

  As she worked her way back, Fitz found four crew quarters, only three of which seemed to be in use. There could be one more crewmember to deal with. At the stern, she located an equipment room, with life pod facilities and several vac suits racked against the wall. She also discovered the weapons locker, but an armorglass door sealed it. Augmented, she might smash it open, but now she could only hope the pilot had the key.

  “Commander, you better come see this.”

  Fitz followed Ransahov’s voice, entering a posh oversized suite. The hair on the back of her neck quivered as she scanned her surroundings. A carpet, bearing the royal seal, dominated the center of the room. Ransahov stood beside an enormous bed with the rearing quolla emblem repeated on the linens. A jumble of medical equipment stood at its head. She picked up a purple jacket from the bed. Fitz could tell it was heavy, crusted with gold braid and lined with body armor.

  “Commander, am I to assume the Emperor is still the only official who can wear a purple uniform?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Fitz ducked her head into the freshener and found it empty. “But what the hell is Ashcraft doing out here? Come to check out Tritico’s little project?”

  Ransahov tossed the jacket on the bed. “Emperors don’t check out anything. They sit in their cushy offices and order Triumvirs to do that.”

  “And Triumvirs pass it on to their Shadows to take care of,” Fitz said. “So what’s going on here?”

  “Perhaps that pilot can supply some answers.”

  In the galley, Garion had taped the pilot to a chair at one of the tables. Next to her, the unconscious med-tech slumped against his bonds.

  Fitz pulled the tape off the woman’s mouth. “What is the Emperor doing aboard t
his vessel?”

  The pilot scanned her captors, a stony silence their only answer, until she did an abrupt double take on Ransahov, her eyes widening.

  “You look like Ari Ransahov,” she gasped.

  Fitz pulled the red-haired woman aside, conferring quietly. “Perhaps you should handle this. I think you may be able to get more out of her than I can.”

  Ransahov chuckled. “Yes, Commander. She had the same look in her eyes I saw when you first met me—like you’d just seen some god.”

  “I told you, you’re a hero. The past couple of generations of Academy graduates were raised on tales of your exploits. If anyone can get information out of her, I’m betting it’ll be you.”

  As they stepped back to face the pilot, Fitz noticed a transformation take place in Ransahov. The rough-dressed barbarian wiped her face and removed the eye patch before facing the pilot. She seemed to have taken on a mantle made of legends. When she spoke, the voice carried the unmistakable bark of command. “Name and rank, soldier.”

  The pilot tried to snap to attention despite her restraints. “Carnarvon, ma’am. Lieutenant Reann Carnarvon.”

  “Well, Lieutenant, can you explain to me what business the Emperor would have on this backward planet?”

  Fitz could see the conflict in Carnarvon’s eyes. “Ma’am, I’m not at liberty to discuss that…”

  “Lieutenant, why the hell have you locked the damn outside hatch?” The voice issued from Fitz’s pocket. She remembered the comm unit. And the third crewmember.

  She darted out of the galley to the inner hatch and activated the monitor. Two men stepped into the airlock. One was frail, moving slowly and leaning on his companion. Fitz immediately discounted him as a threat. The sight of the other man sent tendrils of ice coiling around her spine. He was big, broad and wore a black uniform. She didn’t need to see the row of purple hash marks on his sleeve to know he was the Emperor’s personal bodyguard—personal augie bodyguard.

  The only chance they had against an augie would be to shoot him dead the instant he stepped through the door. Ambushes were certainly not her preferred method of operation. They smacked of cowardice, but sometimes—like now—they offered the only chance of survival. She flattened against the wall and started to pull the slug thrower. The control tower might hear the weapon’s report, and that could bring a squad of troops down on them. She needed something quieter. The Wentworth Ninja.

  “Ransahov, I need that sniper rifle.”

  The red-haired woman joined her, unslinging the weapon as she studied the display. “There’s only two of them and the one don’t look like he’ll be much trouble.”

  “Yeah, but the other’s an augie.” Fitz checked the charge on the rifle’s power core. Ready to rock and roll.

  “But there are three of us, and we’re all armed.”

  Fitz sighed in exasperation. “Remember how quick and strong Wolf is. Well, this guy is ten times that and a hundred times more vicious. If I don’t kill him the instant he steps through that door, we’re not getting out of here alive. Now, get back in the galley and out of my line of fire. And keep that pilot quiet.”

  Fitz retreated down the hallway a couple of meters and braced her elbow on a wall-mounted datapad. Through the scope, she held a steady bead at chest height. The first shot to take out his computer, the second his organic heart. She waited, blinking sweat out of her eyes. The lock disengaged. The hatch slid open.

  Seconds ticked by. Was the old man slowing the augie down?

  A black wave of movement blurred in front of her. Fitz tried to press the firing stud, but didn’t know if her fingers had gotten the message from her brain before a dark tsunami broke over her and smashed her down.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The rifle twisted out of Fitz’s hand, sending a wave of pain radiating up her wrist. A fist crashed into her jaw. She flung her arms up to protect her face. The augie pounded her, trying to smash through her guard. Even the armored bones of her forearms wouldn’t take this kind of punishment for long. She dropped to her knees, rolling into a defensive ball.

  The onslaught slackened and she glanced up. Garion stood over her attacker, raining double-handed blows on the back of the man’s head. The augie spun, catching Garion with a backhand that sent him flying against the far bulkhead.

  Ransahov charged out of the galley, screaming and waving a small knife. The augie seemed to pivot in slow motion, knocking her aside. He pinned Ransahov to the bulkhead with his forearm while he drove a fist into her stomach.

  Fitz sprang up, leaping on the augie’s back as she drew the slug thrower. She jammed it against his ribs and pulled the trigger twice. Even muffled against his body, the twin blasts rattled inside her head. Her ears rang. The augie slugged her, sending her summersaulting into the door to the cockpit. The gun flew out of her hand and skittered away. She struggled to her knees.

  The augie charged, moving no faster than a Normal. Her shots may have damaged something but the mix of stims, neurotransmitters and adrenaline zinging through his bloodstream would keep him on his feet long enough to kill them all.

  “The sword, Boss Lady.”

  Fitz had forgotten the blade at her back. She drew the weapon and held it two handed, driving to her feet to meet the augie’s charge. Jumper hurtled in front of the man, tangling his feet and tripping him. Fitz slammed into the falling man, letting momentum drive the sword into his midsection and out through the back of his black uniform. He staggered, looking at the hilt protruding from his belly in confusion for several seconds, then crashed to the deck.

  Fitz leaned against the cockpit door, her breath coming in shuttering heaves. Jumper reached a paw to her, and she pulled him into her arms, burying her face in his fur. He trembled.

  “That’s three times you’ve saved me, Big Guy.”

  “Yeah, let’s not make a habit of this.” The taste of fear in his thoughts blunted the humor.

  Only the old man’s querulous curses and threats broke the silence. Garion stirred. Ransahov looked bad, bleeding from the mouth, either internal injuries or a rib punctured her lung. Her symbiont would get her back on her feet, but how long would it take?

  Garion crawled to Ransahov, turning her face to his. “Mother?”

  Fitz knelt next to them, her mind stumbling. Mother?

  “I’ve seen this before,” he said. “If we can’t get something sweet into her quickly, she’ll go into a coma and it’ll be days before we can bring her around.” His eyes were wide with concern and a heart-stopping blue—a familiar blue.

  Fitz wondered when Garion had been born.

  “I’ve got something better,” she said. “Get her into the sick bay. I’ll meet you there.”

  Fitz had to take care of the other man. As she stepped into the airlock, the camera above the door caught her eye. The augie had jacked into the shuttle’s surveillance program and seen her waiting to ambush him. Elementary, first year tactics. She’d been offline so much recently she wasn’t thinking like an augie.

  She didn’t need the threats and demands to confirm that the wreck of a human was Vladimir Ashcraft. The last time she’d seen a tri-D of the Emperor had been over a year ago, but she remembered him as a vibrant and charismatic figure with silver hair and arrogant features. Either the speech had been computer generated or something catastrophic had happened since then.

  She patted him down, but found neither a comm unit nor a weapon. Emperors didn’t carry those things. They had bodyguards, secretaries and servants for that. She taped him to a chair in the galley with their growing collection of captives. His labored breathing made her hesitant to tape his mouth for fear of suffocating him. They would just have to tune out his rambling tirade.

  A scan of the comm board showed no alarms or inquiries. When she returned to sickbay, Garion held his mother’s hand, cleaning the blood from her face. “I usually give her
tea mixed with eyronberry juice or straight honey, but we have to get it into her before she passes out.”

  The gash on Garion’s face closed, the raised red line flattened, turning pink and fading. Fitz shivered and took a deep breath.

  “This will be quicker.” She opened the medical case. There were only four ampules of Wolf’s formula. She needed to save some in case he was injured but extracted one and tapped it against Ransahov’s throat. Within seconds, the woman gasped. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Oh, damn it hurts,” Ransahov said between coughs. “I hate this part. It feels like a thousand garnshrikes are stampeding through my guts.” She shivered and struggled to sit up, sweat glistened on her face. Garion wrapped a blanket around her.

  Fitz found the sickbay’s small processor, programmed for little more than coffee and tea, but that was enough. She ordered two cups of tea, triple sugar and cream, and passed them to the others. Garion downed his in a couple of gulps, while Ransahov held the cup with trembling fingers.

  “I’m going to round up our weapons and see if that…man carried anything we can use,” Garion said.

  Fitz watched him leave, frowning. “He’s your son. And Wolf is…?”

  Ransahov nodded. “His father.”

  “That last night, before you left Scyr,” Fitz said, not a question.

  The red-haired woman arched a brow at her, then nodded again. “Yeah.”

  “How’s that possible? Weren’t you sterilized like the rest of us?”

  “Of course I was, Commander. And so was Wolf, but this thing inside us saw that as just another physical glitch it needed to correct.”

  Wolf knew. He’d asked her that first night they made love. The sterilization procedure was so prevalent in the military, no one asked anymore. She should have found his inquiry unusual, but her mind had been on more intimate matters.