Cypher (The Dragon's Bidding Book 2)

by Christina Westcott

  Once again, Ian Chorickus answered the door. “You’re early,” the red haired augie said.

  “I was late last time; just trying to even things out.” Cypher pushed past the big man. The room was empty. “What, Smiley couldn’t make it?”

  “I thought the Director said you were a hotshot. Looks to me like you screwed up, boy.”

  Cypher unclenched his teeth before he answered. “Yeah, well, it turned out to be more complicated than your crappy intelligence led me to believe. But then, if it had been simple, he could have just sent you.”

  “Don’t be a dick.” Chorickus gestured for him to follow.

  They traversed a long hallway, then up a flight of echoing metal stairs until they reached a thick armored door. The augie punched in an access code quickly, but not so fast Cypher couldn’t capture the sequence and store it in memory.

  This had to be the warehouse he’d noticed behind the row of stores. Before the door clanked shut and plunged them into darkness, he had the impression of an enormous, echoing space with such oppressive heat and humidity that sweat ran down his cheeks before he managed half a dozen steps. Even with night vision, he could discern little more than shrouded shapes and rows of shelves on the floor below. Cranes and gantries hung from the overhead, and the stench of dust, cockroaches and old oil fouled the air. As he followed Red, he counted his own footsteps so he’d know how far back to the exit in case he had to leave in a hurry.

  “You better not screw up this time, boy.” Chorickus pulled open a door and the flare of light from within sent a spike of pain through Cypher’s dark-adapted eyes. Afterimages floated in his vision as he stepped into an office that could have been the setting for a historical drama.

  A row of ancient metal desks lined one wall, but they were covered with what appeared to be military grade comm equipment and computers linked together with a rat’s nest of cables and data links. A pair of techs, cocooned inside their cyber-yokes, were oblivious to his presence.

  Chorickus grabbed his shoulder and pushed him into an adjoining office. The thin man at the room’s wall cabinet turned, an ornate bottle of liqueur in his hand. His face furrowed in that toothy grin Cypher had come to hate.

  “Care to join me in a couple of glasses of vilaprim, Old Friend?” The smiling man held up two shot glasses.

  Cypher dropped into the chair facing the antique desk, aware that the augie had remained behind, leaning against the door and blocking any escape. His threat assessment computer marked the man’s position with a flashing red icon, feeding him proximity and tracking.

  “Sure. I could use a drink about now. It’s Cypher, by the way. My name is Cypher, and I’m not your old friend.”

  “Interesting choice of names, and quite descriptive, don’t you think?” Smiley poured three fingers of the syrupy green liqueur into each glass, and slid one across the desktop.

  “A toast. To our continuing enterprise.” He held his drink up and tossed it back.

  More cautious, Cypher sniffed the liqueur, catching only notes of fruit and spices that he couldn’t name. His empty memory supplied him little about the drink beyond a faint recollection of pleasure. He took a sip. His tongue went numb and his breathing locked up.

  Chug it. Just chug it.

  He took the disembodied voice’s advice and downed the drink in one gulp, feeling its heat surge all the way to his stomach.

  “Perhaps you’d join me in a round of Interstellar Campaign?” Smiley extracted a pair of VR headsets from the desk’s side drawer.

  “You want to play a frickin’ game?” Cypher asked.

  “Interstellar Campaign is far more than a game. It’s a test of reasoning and logic, of courage and performance under pressure. It’s been quite some time since I had a challenging opponent.”

  “Can’t you get Red to play with you?” Cypher nodded his head over one shoulder at the augie lurking behind him.

  “I’m afraid Ian isn’t well versed in the intricacies of stellar fleet strategies. Please, indulge me.” He passed the helmet across the desk.

  “You’ll have to explain it to me. I’ve never played this before.” Cypher slipped the VR unit over his head, and the shabby office dissolved into an immense interstellar vista filled with stars, nebulas, and vast formations of starships that appeared no larger than insects. At the center of the field of play, midway between the ranks of the two opposing fleets, hung a golden pavilion. On a throne at its heart rested a jeweled crown and scepter.

  “The goal is to claim the crown. I think you’ll pick up the rest as we go along. As my guest, the opening move is to you.”

  Unsure of what to do, Cypher sent the central element of his fleet forward toward the pavilion.

  Wrong bloody move.

  Within a few moves, his ships were broken and burning. Every move he’d made had been countered; every stratagem led to disaster. His only consolation was that they’d taken a large portion of his opponent’s forces with them when they died.

  Before, when he’d needed a skill, the memory had been there, inside of him, as if it were his muscles, his body remembering how to fight, how to plan, and not his mind. Would that work now?

  He licked dry lips. “Now that I know the rules, what about a rematch?”

  Smiley nodded, resetting the board. His hated grin broadened.

  Cypher took a deep breath, letting his mind empty of all thoughts of self. The Other uncoiled inside his head. Without his volition, his fleet moved, skittering across space in odd disjointed patterns, a feint here, a smashing blow there, one that caught his adversary in a pincer. His ships seemed to appear from nowhere, popping out of hyperspace to spring an ambush and then disappearing again. He watched it all as a spectator until Smiley’s fleet lay smashed and scattered as he closed on the enemy’s remaining flagship.

  Cypher heard his voice say, “I’ve destroyed your fleet and captured your Triumvir.”

  “And once again, Old Friend, you have forgotten the objective of the game—to seize the crown.” Smiley’s avatar stood at the center of the field, in the golden pavilion, wearing the crown, the scepter in his grasp.

  Bloody hell.

  Cypher ripped off the VR helmet and flung it across the desk. The augie surged toward him, but jarred to a halt at his boss’ upraised hand. “No problem, Captain, my opponent can be somewhat volatile when he loses.” Smiley refilled both glasses.

  “I expected a bit more from your performance yesterday.”

  “I expected better intelligence. I was frickin’ lucky to make it out of there alive. I’m wondering if me not surviving was part of the operation from the beginning, like the fat Admiral. That would save you a bunch of money. Tie up loose ends.”

  A look of mock contrition replaced the smile. “Old Friend…Cypher, the thought that you might be killed never entered my mind. Perhaps you failed to take into consideration Ransahov’s new Chief of Security, Colonel FitzWarren. I know from experience that she can be most formidable, but next time she won’t be a problem.”

  The smell of Gray Eyes’ hair wafted through his memory. “Next time? There’s not going to be any next time.”

  “Might I remind you that you weren’t able to complete your agreed-upon assignment?”

  “Only because you neglected to tell me I’d be going up against Ransahov’s little augie attack dog. If I hadn’t put a back-up escape plan in place, I wouldn’t have made it out of there alive.”

  “Be that as it may, you still failed.”

  “Only part. You gave me two jobs—whack Ransahov, and create mayhem. I did a damn good job of the latter, judging from what I’m seeing on the Tri-Ds, so how about you pay me half the agreed on amount, we call it quits, and I walk out of here.”

  The smile disappeared from the other’s face. “We had a deal and you have not lived up to your end of the bargain.”

  “I’ve changed the deal.” On Cypher’s inhead, the red icon superimposed over the position of the man behind him began to flash, warning tha
t the augie had edged closer. It upgraded his threat potential.

  “That’s not the way it works,” said Smiley.

  Cypher leaned forward, shifting his weight onto his feet as he slapped the desk’s metal top. “It does if I say so.” His inhead lit with warnings as the augie lurched closer. He threw up a hand and shouted, “Stop.”

  The office grew uncomfortably still and quiet.

  It was Cypher’s turn to smile. “This body has the latest modifications, and I’m betting that means I’m faster than Red. Are you willing to bet he can get to me before I rip your head off?”

  Smiley signaled for the augie to withdraw, and the alarms inside Cypher’s head subsided.

  “See how much easier it is when you play nice? If you want me to do this job, it’ll be on my terms. I want twice what you promised me for the last fiasco—and that’s in addition to the rest of the fee I’ve got coming from it. I want half of it up front, in a numbered account in a Willcommin bank, and I want it immediately.”

  Smiley’s jaw worked as he considered the deal. He nodded. “See to it, Captain.” The augie muttered a litany of curses as he exited the office.

  “And I want a small, hypercapable, unregistered ship.” There was someone he planned to take with him when he fled the Empire.

  “Don’t push it, Old Friend. For the money I’m paying you, you can buy your own ship.” He poured two more glasses of vilaprim. “Shall we toast our bargain?”

  Cypher tossed back the shot and offered the glass for a refill. He could get used to this stuff. The money in that account would set him up for life on any world in the Back of Beyond. Somewhere light years from the political machinations of the Empire, where he’d never have to look at this smiling face again.

  Smiley pushed a reader and a datachip case across the desk. “This is everything you’ll need. Background information, your new identity, and all the details for your assignment, along with all the necessary credit chips and IDs.”

  “Wouldn’t pulling all that together right after an assassination attempt raise a lot of red flags?”

  “No. We’ve had this information in place for several weeks.”

  “Sounds like you expected me to fail.”

  “Let’s just say I gave myself options. It’s better to have a back-up plan in place that never gets used than to rush around after the fact without alternatives. You taught me that.”

  So, there was history between these two, Smiley and The Other. Perhaps at one time they’d been friends, or more, but now all that remained was a simmering hatred. He’d felt The Other nipping at his consciousness when he’d threatened Smiley, sensed his desire to feel his fingers tighten around the man’s throat.

  Now Smiley had the upper hand, and Cypher sensed he planned not just to kill his opponent, but to hurt him, discredit him, to make him suffer in as many ways as possible. And the battleground for this private war was the body he inhabited. He would have to proceed very carefully if he didn’t want to end up collateral damage in their personal vendetta.

  Chorickus returned and dropped a Fleet off-ship case beside his chair, then threw a bank-key bearing the logo of a large Willcommin private bank on the desk.

  “I take it that is sufficient?” Smiley gestured toward the bank-key.

  Cypher picked it up and discreetly checked the balance, fighting to keep his eyebrows from climbing toward his hairline. More than sufficient. “When does the hit take place?”

  “Lister Shiplines delivered the first of their new corvettes to Fleet as part of the Founder’s Day celebration.” Smiley chuckled. “The Mad Dog, as her crew has taken to calling her, is docked on the military side of Coronia Station. Ransahov will be coming aboard for the Captain’s mess tomorrow night, at which time Chairwoman Lister will officially transfer ownership over to the Empire. My hackers have arranged for you to get onboard before her arrival, and leave her a little gift.”

  Smiley leaned back in his chair, steepling his slender fingers. “As close as we can ascertain, no one aboard the ship knows your cover on sight. Your face, on the other hand, is rather more recognizable. You’ll have to keep your exposure to the crew to a minimum.”

  Cypher stood, slipping the bank-key into his pocket. “This for me?” He placed the luggage on the desktop and unsealed it. Inside he found a pressed and folded black uniform, some inexpensive civilian clothes, toiletries and underwear.

  “You have a lot to accomplish before tomorrow night. I should let you get to it. You’ll probably want to freshen up when you reach the hotel we have reserved for you, and might I suggest you do something about your hair. It looks ridiculous.”

  And you bloody well look like a pile of gerbat shit yourself, Jan.

  Cypher coughed to stifle his laughter. He capped the bottle of vilaprim and slipped it into his case. “You don’t mind if I take this, do you, Jan?”

  A muscle in Smiley’s cheek twitched at the use of his first name. Let him wonder just how much of his old adversary might be breaking through.

  Outside on the street, Cypher realized how tempting a target he made with the case slung over his shoulder. He scanned the shadows and found no one lurking, but let his threat assessment computer go active. There were several klicks to cover before he could locate a terminal to call an aircar to take him to the hotel downtown. He set off at a brisk pace.

  Hand in his pocket, he let his thumb rub against the edge of the bank-key. There were no memories in his mind—not his own anyway—but he was willing to bet he’d never possessed so much wealth. With this kind of money, he could run far enough that he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.

  Maybe he would buy that ship, and not some broken down tramp freighter, but a yacht, small but comfortable—and heavily armed. Gray Eyes might look at him differently if he had one of those fancy Lister Pulsars, but all the credits in this account would barely make a down payment of one of those toys.

  As soon as he reached the hotel, he’d transfer the money into a series of smaller accounts located outside the Empire. Maybe in the Alliance, or even the Landers Federation, somewhere Smiley’s data-snoops would never be able to track it down and snatch it back.

  After a shower and a quick meal, he’d catch a shuttle up to Coronia Station and buy a ticket on the first passenger liner headed out system. He reached the closest public terminal and called a ride, whistling as he awaited its arrival.

  In the aircar, the lights of Striefbourne City spread out beneath him, Cypher dug the bottle of vilaprim out of the case and took a drink. The liqueur’s bite set him to coughing. This was an acquired taste, one he planned on cultivating, along with all the other trappings of wealth.

  He seemed to recall that augies had only a limited life span. Something about the modifications to their bodies killed them early. If that was the case, he planned to pack as much living into the time he had, but that took money. Would he have enough?

  He had a chance to double his money. All he had to do was kill an Emperor and survive. Double or nothing. The odds looked pretty good. Perhaps he’d check out Smiley’s plan before he made his final decision. Another long pull on the bottle spawned a warm buzz inside his chest that dissipated almost instantly, boiled away by The Other’s seething hatred for Smiley. He’d be a fool to trust the man. He had nixed the idea of including a ship, but that was probably only to appear like he was actually negotiating. On the money, Smiley had agreed to his demands readily. Too readily.

  Almost as if he didn’t expect Cypher to survive to collect.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Fitz clenched her fist, opened it, and touched each fingertip to her thumb in turn, moving faster and faster until her digits blurred in hyperkinetic speed. At least her hand operated normally again, even if the incision continued to bother her. The auto-doc’s patch job would have to hold until the techs finished their check of every system on the cyber-tank and gave it the all clear. She couldn’t risk having her mind subverted, not with the lives of so ma
ny people she cared about riding on the outcome of this crazy game of cat and gerbat.

  Favoring her shoulder, she slipped on her armorcloth undershirt and sealed it up. Ski held up the jacket for her. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “That your symbiont is not reacting normally.”

  “Do we even know what’s normal for an alien organism that makes you nearly indestructible? I’m fine, perfectly fine. In fact, compared to six months ago, I feel wonderful.”

  “Come on Fitz. Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter. You know something’s going on, and so do I. Now, what is it?”

  Fitz raked her fingers through her hair and winched as the incision pulled at the still-healing muscles. “This thing with Wolf has me running a bit ragged and I told you, I’m not getting enough sleep. I’ll feel better when this is over.”

  Ski held up a fist. “You’re telling me if I smacked you on the site of that incision it wouldn’t hurt.”

  Fitz shifted back a step. “It’s a bit sensitive.”

  “It shouldn’t be.”

  “Doc, I had late stage TKS. The symbiont might be having a little trouble coping with that.”

  “No. I checked you on Baldark right after you received it, and again here during the surgeries to replace your damaged implants, and both times the reactions were exactly what I’d expect. When did it change?”

  “A few days, a few weeks later. I don’t remember. Is it important?”

  Ski growled in exasperation. “Why the hell wouldn’t it be? Something could be going wrong with the symbiont that will eventually affect all of us, and you’re the first to show the symptoms because of the complications from TKS. You need to come in for a complete work-up.”

  “Out of the question, Doc.” She moved to defuse the protest building in Ski’s eyes. “Ari’s heading up to Coronia Station this afternoon, where Miah Lister is turning the new corvette over to her. When she gets back, that’ll end her public participation in the Founder’s Days’ celebrations. Garion Ransahov is arriving from Baldark in a couple of days to spend some time with his mother. That should keep her occupied, and out of trouble.”