Had Tritico forced Wolf to become a pawn in a competition much like the strategy games the two had played as cadets at the Academy? A contest acted out not in a virtual reality world, but across the sweep of an empire. Not with icons on a screen, but with real ships and weapons and living, thinking beings forced to function as game pieces. Had he picked Wolf solely for his skills, or because he knew that if there was one shred of the man she loved inside that stolen body, one glimmer of his soul, Tritico could inflict untold pain on him as he made him watch himself slaughter his friends and loved ones? Slaughter her?
Her comm chimed again, jolting her from her dark musings.
Perez spoke this time. “Just got another message from her Majesty, and she screamed about a briefing on the security arrangements for the Founder’s Day celebrations. She used some very un-lady like language this time.”
“I’ll be right there.” Fitz started to rise, but froze as Pike’s face went ashen.
“The Founder’s Day celebrations.” Fear strangled his voice. “There’ll be thousands…”
Fitz took up the litany. “Tens of thousands, from all over the Empire, even the Midworlds. Ari will have concerts to attend, speeches to deliver, at least one warship christening. Not to mention that big gala at Star Henge.”
Her young aide found his voice. “Which will be attended by the Emperor and the civilian Triumvir, along with every high ranking military official—Fleet or Marines. Every assemblyman or councilperson. Every businessperson in the Empire, hell in the whole Human Sector; anyone who wants to snag a lucrative imperial contract. If your assassin is as good as the cat thinks he is, he can effectively behead Ransahov’s entire government at any one of these events.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The rainbow silk of the sheath caressed every curve of Fitz’s body, shedding glints of red and gold and purple like the finest Tarkasian flame opal. Tiny crystals punctuated a confection of curls and braids piled on top of her head, and a knot of ringlets hung at the back of her neck, disguising the housing of her spike. A golden torque, worked in the form of a dragon with ruby eyes, coiled around her throat. She adjusted the necklace against her collar bones and the woman in the reflection mirrored her movements—the only way she recognized the glittering stranger as herself.
Her familiar black uniform would have been better, even if she had to opt for the formal dress version with its uncomfortable gold-encrusted collar and ornate scabbard, but Ari wanted her security chief to present a softer, more feminine side for tonight’s gala. Fitz in turn had informed her that feminine and augie were rarely used in the same sentence, unless separated by the word not, but the Emperor’s opinion trumped all, so Fitz found herself dressed up like a courtesan in a low budget holo-flick.
She’d insisted on a few modifications. In case she needed to run, the seamstress had extended the side slits higher, but the woman took her suggestion a bit too far. The silken panel fluttered as Fitz turned, opening all the way to the hip and revealing far more shapely leg than was appropriate for a senior officer.
The other end of the dress presented more problems. Fitz tugged the neckline up a few centimeters. It promptly dropped back.
Sergeant Bartonelli slapped her fingers. “Stop that, Chima. It’s supposed to be low and alluring. This is downright modest compared to some of the get-ups I’ve seen out there tonight. A few of them are wearing nothing more than holograms.”
“Well, a Special Operations officer doesn’t flash her boobs, which is what may happen if I have to make any sudden moves in this outfit.”
The sergeant’s answering chuckle loosened the knot of tension in Fitz’s stomach. With the rush of security preparations for the Founder’s Day ball taking up almost every waking second of the past three days, she’d had no time to talk with Bartonelli about the symbiont.
Fitz clasped her hands over her midsection. “Look, Sergeant. I’m sorry about what happened.”
“Sorry? What for, Chima?” Bartonelli tilted her head. She wore the gold-and-white uniform of a Praetorian guardsman, her curly crest dyed gold to match. Protocol prevented a mercenary from accompanying Fitz to the ball as her personal guard, so after heated discussions with Captain Weiland, the sergeant had been allowed to adopt the uniform, if only for a few hours.
“I took away your right to choose if you wanted to become a Lazzinair.”
“You weren’t given that choice either.”
“That was different. I was dying.”
“We’re all dying, Chima. Just some of us take longer to get there. I’m sure Nirvana will still be waiting for me if I make it that far.”
Bartonelli handed her a crystal-encrusted bag. “I suspect the idea of immortality hasn’t kicked in yet, not until the first time I take a bolt to the chest and I get back up, all pissed off.”
Before strapping the purse around her waist, Fitz checked the contents: a Cauldfield CP-38 pistol with two spare clips, a small punch dagger that doubled in length with a flick of her wrist, and a pot of ruby red lip gloss.
Everything a girl needs for a night on the town.
Everything except one of CyberOps’ handy shut-down modules. That would have to wait until the techs—ones she trusted to do the job right—could duplicate DeWitt’s designs and come up with another remote device to deactivate an augie’s spike.
Tonight’s gala was to be held in the ring of monoliths known as Star Henge, a circle of stones marking the site of the first colony ship’s arrival on Scyr. A force dome protected it. One of the architects had assured her it could withstand a direct hit from a thermonuclear device. Striefbourne City would be reduced to radioactive rubble around it, but Star Henge would survive unscathed.
Several hours later, stuck in the reception line greeting guests, Fitz shook hands with power brokers, curtsied to matrons, and saluted admirals until her patience reached the meltdown point. Her facial muscles ached from all the false smiles. She reminded herself to stop gnawing at her lower lip; that only removed her carefully applied lipstick.
“Well, look who’s here,” Bartonelli whispered from behind her right shoulder.
A party approached in gray and tan uniforms Fitz couldn’t place until she recognized their leader.
“Sergeant, you are out of uniform,” said Colonel Fenton Donkenny of the Gold Dragons. “But it looks good on you.” Then to Fitz, “Don’t get any ideas, Colonel, you don’t get to keep her.”
When Fitz reached out her hand to shake his, he bowed and kissed it. As the merc straightened, she noticed the straps of a shoulder holster beneath the short cape he wore. She’d secured the mercenaries a special dispensation to attend armed tonight. Of all the people here, Fen Donkenny had spent the most time in combat with Wolf. He knew how his mentor operated, how he thought. She couldn’t turn down that kind of asset, protocol be damned.
Donkenny scanned the hall. “Any sign of him yet?” At the shake of her head, he continued, “A press of people, lots of noise, limited visibility, and a chaotic environment. Just the situation an assassin looks for.”
“If you see anything suspicious, contact me on combat channel thirty-three.”
He frowned. “Thirty-three?”
“It’s an old, little used channel.”
“I suspect he’ll be monitoring all the channels. Better if we use non-verbal signals.” He held up his hand, and to a casual observer, the movement of his fingers might have only been a wave, but Fitz recognized combat sign language for ‘hand signals’.
“Keep an eye on her, Sergeant.” He flicked the ornate scroll work on Bartonelli’s armor, then led his people toward the buffet tables.
In a few minutes, Ransahov’s Minister of Commercial Development showed up with a glass of champagne and an offer to replace her on the line. Fitz gratefully accepted both. She sighted the white of an admiral’s uniform near the dais and headed for it, sipping her drink. “At least I can enjoy this without worrying about getting drunk.”
“Oh, hell,” Bartonelli grumb
led. “I forgot about that. I’ll never be able to get smashed at the NCO club again.”
“No, but you will be able to drink anyone there under the table.”
The diminutive sergeant’s smile turned wicked. “I like the way you think, Chima.”
“Someday you are going to have to tell me what that name means, Sergeant.” It didn’t sound like ‘dumb ass’ applied any longer.
First Admiral of the Fleet Maks Kiernan greeted them before Fitz heard the answer. “You look particularly stunning this evening, Colonel. If I can say that without my partner breaking my arm.”
Nikki Kiernan, dark haired and statuesque, wore the blue uniform of a marine full-dragon colonel. “You get one ogle a night, sweetie, and that’s only if it’s an old friend. How you holding up, Kimber?”
“I’ll be happier when this night is over and Ari is securely back in her quarters where we can keep a closer watch on her.”
She’d known the marine officer for as long as Maks had been her commanding officer, and admired the couple’s ability to maintain two separate careers and a successful relationship for so long.
“You certainly have enough security here.” Kiernan nodded toward the ring of armored bodies standing almost shoulder to shoulder around the perimeter of Star Henge.
“I hope so.” Fitz had called in SpecOps, Special Forces and Fleet Marines to supplement the Guards’ number to build an impenetrable cordon around the Emperor.
Nikki Kiernan choked on a mouthful of wine. “Oh, for Yig’s sake, will you look at that?”
A couple stepped away from the receiving line. Short and homely, the man in admiral’s whites pressed close to a tall, slender woman like an albino frog huddling against a lamppost.
Maks Kiernan snorted. “Well, hell. If it isn’t “Petty” Pettigrew. I hope that asshole doesn’t come over here and expect me to make casual conversation with him.”
Alois Pettigrew had led the taskforce that attempted to arrest Kiernan when their coup had threatened to unravel, but when Ari came to power he had an epiphany, switching sides so quickly that Fitz suspected the fat admiral got whiplash.
“How in the hell did he get a woman like that to hang onto his arm?” Maks’ gaze followed the woman’s form strutting across the room.
“Down, boy.” His partner tapped his nose. “Put your eyes back in your head before I take a stick and knock them off.”
He cleared his throat. “One of the disadvantages to being bonded to a marine colonel.”
Fitz thought Kiernan’s might be the only pair of male eyes not following the woman. Covered from jaw to ankle in a shimmering silver jump suit, she moved like a hunting cat, assured in the knowledge that every man there wanted to undress her to discover what lay beneath that gleaming fabric. A fall of blue-black hair spilled around her shoulders and across a bosom of epic proportions. The smile on her red lips suggested she knew full well the affect she had on every man there—and more than a few women.
“Is she one of yours, Kimber?” Nikki asked. “An augie?”
Fitz would have recognized the woman, but she sorted through her files to be sure. “No, she’s not, but I think she’s worth checking on.”
She thought-clicked her comm, sub-vocalizing, “Pike, the woman with Admiral Pettigrew…”
“I’m on her.” The lieutenant’s reply came back quickly.
“I just bet you are.”
“I mean that I’m checking her out…ah, running a background check right now.”
Fitz waited through several minutes of dead air before her aide spoke again. “She’s registered as Cinnamon Hot—do you believe that name? She works for the Arm Candy Escort Service as a certified companion.”
“Any mention of a security capability in her file?”
“Nope, just advanced courtesan services. At, ah, five grand an hour.”
“A hooker,” Fitz said aloud. “An expensive one.”
Maks Kiernan glanced at her. “Figures. The only way a slug like Pettigrew could get a woman like that to hang all over him.”
A flourish of brass and timpani thundered out the opening bars of the Imperial Anthem, announcing the entrance of the Emperor. The lights in the Henge dimmed as the tall woman in purple stepped onto the stage and into the single spotlight. The center of a bull’s eye, as Fitz saw it. Her anxiety level skyrocketed. Now her job of protecting her liege, her friend, really began. Up until now it had all been preliminary, jockeying for position. He was out there in the crowd, the shadows, her gut told her, and two decades of security work insisted that she listen to those feelings. They screamed at her as she scanned the faces turned toward the figure in the circle of light.
Fitz had managed to convince Ari to wear formal military garb and not the revealing gown she’d originally planned. Body armor wouldn’t be as noticeable beneath a uniform. And since the theme for Ari’s speech tonight centered on returning the Empire to its former glory, Fitz had used that fact to bully her into wearing the original, centuries-old crown—a battle helmet topped with a rampant dragon and, more importantly, a blast-proof face shield. Which, at the moment, she didn’t have down. Fitz gritted her teeth. She could protect the Emperor from everything but herself. Standing within that circle of light with her arms outstretched to receive the throng’s adulation, Ari Ransahov presented an inviting target.
Fitz scanned all the shadowed faces in the crowd, her auditory filters straining to separate out the distinctive whine of a pistol powering up, but then, if he used one of those needlers, there wouldn’t be any sound. Too intent, she jumped as Maks tapped her on the shoulder, leaning in to whisper over the cheering crowd.
“Now might be a good time to dial down your hearing augs.”
“What?” she asked, but she already heard the rumble of engines in the distance, growing louder, until the noise rattled the crystal flutes on the buffet tables and sent ripples dancing in her champagne.
An entire wing of Black Widow trans-atmospheric fighters screamed by overhead, barely a hundred meters above the Henge’s force dome. The lights of the city, reflected on the underside of their black fuselages, showed the distinctive splotch of red they wore to honor their deadly namesake. A formation of attack shuttles followed, flying wing tip to wing tip, their drives scribing lines of purple, red, and gold across the night sky.
“Wait for it…” Maks smiled enigmatically.
A sound like ripping cloth grew in volume, swelling as a dark predatory shape soared overhead. Then the ship pulled up, pointed its prow toward the stars, and accelerated. Seconds later, the bang of a sonic boom punctuated the screams of its thrusters. The crowd’s mutters of distress soared into cheers of delight.
In the short glimpse she’d had of the ship, it had resembled a Lister Pulsar, but she recognized the markings of an imperial warship, its smart paint programmed to display the royal seal.
Maks Kiernan smiled too broadly not to be in on this plan. “It’s the prototype for the second generation Gyrfalcon-class corvettes. Miah Lister brought it to Rokotski shipyards when she arrived for the celebration. We’ve had time to put a crew aboard her and start to break them in, but I think she flew it herself for that stunt.”
Lister had boasted that she could refit a Pulsar to a warship in a matter of days. Perhaps not an idle boast. “It’s beautiful. And I hope the first of many to come. What are you going to christen her?”
Kiernan’s lips thinned. “Ransahov’s already named her. Since she’s going to be the first of a new class of ships, it seemed fitting to name her after the new head of the Fleet. She’s going to be the Wolfgang Amadeus Youngblood. The crew we put aboard her have already taken to calling her the Mad Dog.”
Fitz couldn’t breathe.
“I’m sorry, Kiddo. We were going to surprise the both of you.” He captured her hand in his big blunt fingers. “Come on, let’s get this pageantry crap over with.”
He ascended the dais, taking the position to the Emperor’s right and one step below, the spot wher
e Wolf should be standing in his red uniform. She blinked away the tears that stung her eyes as she slipped in behind him, as she would have for her bond-partner, with Bartonelli at her shoulder. On Ari’s left, her civilian officials fell into a similar phalanx.
A shadow flowed across the dais, stopped at her feet and reached up to brace his paws against her leg. Jumper’s eyes widened. “He’s here, Boss Lady, somewhere. I caught a trace of his scent, but I can’t tell where, what with all the stinky stuff you humans slather all over yourselves.”
“Where were you when you smelled him?”
“Scoping out the buffet tables in the back. I heard they had neubeast steak tartare, so I thought I’d better check it out.”
“Could you touch his mind?”
Jumper scanned the crowd and hissed. “No, but then Wolf’s not here, is he? It’s that other one. I don’t know the taste of his thoughts well, and there are a lot of other people out there tonight whose thoughts aren’t too pleasant. It’s hard to pick out one asshole in a sea of assholes. I didn’t see anyone who looked like him either, but then he can disguise himself real good.”
“Disguise?”
“Yeah, he can dress himself up so even his momma wouldn’t recognize him.”
Another of her partner’s talents she didn’t know about, and one that could be a major complication tonight. “Jumper, can you circulate around the room and try to pick up his scent again? If you do, get back to me as quickly as possible, or can you reach me mentally?”
Jumper scanned the crowd. “Through this bunch of drunks, losers and toadies? I doubt it.”
“But I can,” Faydra padded to her mate’s side.
“Let me know the second you suspect someone, and I’ll come check them out. And be careful, you two.” Fitz watched the pair melt into the crowd, and caught the end of their conversation.
Cypher (The Dragon's Bidding Book 2) Page 9
