The enticing aroma of neubeast steak stopped him outside an eatery. His inhead display flashed an alarm from the medical monitoring system, warning of extreme low blood sugar and urging him to eat immediately. He eyed the glass-fronted restaurant, its well-dressed patrons and human waiters. Not here. He stumbled farther along until he found a quiet self-serve processor court.
He ordered two sandwiches, coffee and a dessert, blinking in confusion at the amount due displayed on the screen until he remembered his credit chip was still in the pocket of the uniform pants he wore under his coveralls. A small table in the corner offered him the privacy to gobble his food like a starving animal, and then he was back out on the concourse, hurrying for the safety of his cubical.
A gift store caught his eye, bottles of liquor lining the window’s shelves. He turned in and bought the cheapest bottle of vilaprim they had, alarmed at the bite out of his finances even this rotgut took. He’d have to reload the chip at a bank kiosk soon. The human attendant at the counter placed the bottle in a sack, but refused to look at him.
He reached the fragile protection of his cubical, shut the door, and leaned against it. The tiny room couldn’t offer much shelter; just enough to clean up, change clothes, and get blind staggering drunk. He popped the cap on the liqueur and drained half the bottle. The green vileness burned down his throat and pooled in his stomach like a chunk of burning ice.
One look in the mirror over the miniscule washbasin told him why the clerk had turned away. Blood matted his hair, crusted his upper lip, and tracked down his chin. The front of his coveralls were dark with dried blood. He scrubbed his face, water running off it and down the drain in swirls of pink. At least there weren’t any open wounds.
Cypher sat on the bed, flopped back, and closed his eyes, just for a few minutes. He lay there, smelling only the chemical solvent from the toilet and the stench of his own body. Within seconds he was back on his feet, pacing. He was so tired, tired of running, of being afraid, but he couldn’t rest now. When he was on board a liner headed out of the system, then he’d sleep, only then. Now he needed to change. He disposed of the bloody clothes and changed into another disguise, the dark robes of a Vedian scholar.
He drained the bottle of vilaprim, disposed of it, and waited for the pleasant glow to envelope him. But it never came; only the ragged pain in his stomach that warned he was hungry again. Despite this vile junk’s reputation for potency, the cheap stuff did nothing to numb his churning thoughts. He snatched up his case and pushed his way out of the cubicle.
The next flight leaving Coronia was an old junker bound for the Tartaglia system, a hellhole of asteroid mining and frozen methane moons. And, being located on the far side of the Alliance, it was the most expensive ticket on the board. He hoped he could link to a bank on the ship, but doubted it. At least he’d be able to buy a ticket out of there later, but for now all he wanted was away.
“You’d best hurry, sir. The ship is currently boarding at Gate 83, level A,” the ticketing computer warned him as it dispensed his boarding pass.
He dashed to his gate, dark robes flapping behind him, and tucked into the end of a line of rough-looking miners. If anyone wondered why a scholar was headed for a frontier mining system, they chose not to comment. The computer scanned his pass and he hurried down the ramp.
He stumbled and caught himself with a hand against the wall, angry at his clumsiness. When he started after the knot of passengers disappearing down the ramp, his legs refused to move. He focused all his will on making one foot slide in front of the other, the resistance making sweat bead on his face.
Not now. Not again. Leave me alone.
He screamed at The Other in the silence of his mind, then drew a deep shaking breath and began moving again. Now it was easy.
He realized that he’d turned around and was headed back into the station. Cursing, he reversed direction, retreating toward the ship, but the resistance returned. As he drove himself against it, pain lanced into the back of his skull, just above his spike. With each step nearer the liner’s open door, the agony increased, fire skittering across the surface of his brain like burning insects.
No, No, No. He knew this. The compulsion that rode inside the computer housing his consciousness. Not The Other, but the tool the Smiling Man used to control him. He looked toward the open hatch. If he could get aboard; they’d seal the lock and he couldn’t be pulled back, not unless the madness was so great it drove him out the airlock in his need to return to his tormentor. He begged The Other for help, but for once the voice was silent.
He sobbed and turned away, letting the compulsion carry him away from any hope of freedom. Barely enough credit remained on his chip to buy a shuttle ticket back down to Striefbourne City, and to his own personal hell.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Another winter front flowed across the Warren. Shivering, Cypher stood in the cold rain on the walk in front of Tritico’s warehouse. Ever since he had saved them both on the ship, The Other had been silent, pushed to the darkness at the back of his mind. Cypher doubted he could survive another loss of control, but as long as he held his emotions in check, the fear, the anger, he could keep Youngblood at bay. He didn’t understand why The Other hadn’t ended it yesterday. He’d taken back his body. All he had to do was pull his spike. He would have been free to flush Cypher’s existence from his mind and go back to his comfortable life. And his woman.
Youngblood must be using him as some kind of Trojan horse to get to Tritico. One more person who saw him as nothing more than a tool, a means to their ends.
He wouldn’t be a pawn any longer. Cypher hunched his shoulders, put his hands in his pockets and walked away, but with each step the squirming inside his skull intensified. He wavered to a stop, breathing labored and his mouth too dry to swallow. Only retreating to climb the stairs and knock at the door relieved the burning itch inside his mind.
Red opened the door, seized him by the collar, and dragged him inside, then slammed him against the wall, pinning him with an iron grip around the throat. Cypher tried to shove the augie away, but froze as he felt the touch of cold steel against his face.
“Tried to run, didn’t you, boy? I figured. Just like the small time thief and liar you used to be. I told Tritico to let me handle this, but he’s got this hard on about forcing you to do it. I can only hope, when this mess is over, that he lets me clean up after you. I’m going to enjoy seeing you crawl.” Red punctuated his rant with a fist to Cypher’s gut.
Too busy trying to breathe, Cypher was only dimly aware of the augie dragging him into the warehouse and tossing him down the stairs. He tumbled head over ass, struggled to seize the railing to break his fall, but smashed his face on the treads and ripped his nails against the metal. At the bottom the augie hauled him up and propelled him toward the single source of light in the echoing darkness. Shrouded forms littered the floor. Shelves, cages, and piles of metal tangled in wire turned the space into a stygian labyrinth. Temperature and humidity hovered at oppressive levels, forcing sweat to stream down his face and mingle with the raindrops. He couldn’t identify the oily stench of the place, only knew it presaged death and terror.
Three men clustered around a desk, silhouetted in the single light. One figure, tall, slender, and elegant, he identified as Tritico. The others had the watchful posture of bodyguards.
Cypher picked his way through the maze, passing a half-shrouded cage. His threat assessment computer erupted in alarms and warnings as his ears identified a sound like chunks of rusty iron grinding together. He threw himself to the right with all his augmented strength and speed. Metal bars twanged as a heavy weight plowed into them, and a blade scythed down centimeters from his face.
Red laughed, the sound high-pitched and bordering on madness.
From his position flat on the floor, Cypher looked up at two meters of horror, gibbering, whistling, and squealing in a voice entirely too human. Only the barrier of the cage separated them. The clawed hands strain
ed against the bars, while the bladed arms slashed the air and beat against the floor, trying to reach him. The creature appeared vaguely humanoid, except for the double set of arms. The face revolted him most, a mélange of reptile, insect, and human. Scales of black chitin armored its cheeks, and the skin exposed between them bore a soft copper-colored fuzz. A pair of emerald eyes watched him with hungry intelligence.
Red continued to cackle.
“Ian.” Tritico’s voice carried an edge that froze the augie’s laughter. “If you’d got him killed, you’d have your chance to dance with our new friend.” He jerked his head toward the imprisoned monster, then pulled Cypher to his feet and steered him toward the light, wrapping an arm around his shoulder in an easy gesture that made Cypher’s skin crawl.
“What happened up there, on board that ship? What when wrong?”
“Either they knew I was coming, or they guessed. Security upped their timetable. Took the ship out and I was trapped. I escaped…”
“You mean you ran,” said Red.
A glance from Tritico forestalled any further remarks from the augie.
“She must have found the bomb and defused it after I, ah…left.”
“What about Costos?”
“Who?” Cypher tried to shift away from Tritico, but the grip on his shoulder was iron.
“The assassin I sent to take care of Colonel FitzWarren while you did your job.”
Cypher looked down and to the right. “She killed him.”
Tritico released him. “You don’t lie any better than Wolf does. What really happened?”
“He attacked us, me. I had to stab him.”
Red snorted. “And then you should have pulled out the blade and stuck it in that pretty little black jacket, but I suspect your problem is you’ve got something else you’d rather stick into that augie bitch.”
Cypher snapped his head around to snarl at the augie. “You shut up. There was no time.”
Tritico raised a quelling hand. “Gentlemen, let’s not squabble like a pair of children, shall we? This unexpected run of failures has forced me to make other arrangements regarding Ransahov. I have another job for you.”
“No. I’m through. I want out.”
Tritico’s smile widened. “And how do you propose to do that?”
How indeed? With that compulsion buried in his mind, how could he ever be free of this madness? He drew in a steadying breath.
“The same pay you promised me for doing the Emperor?”
“No. No more money. I’m offering something far more important to you. Your freedom.” Tritico stroked his fingertips along Cypher’s face. “I’ll have my techs remove your leash. You’ll be free to leave, if that’s what you wish.”
Freedom. Of course he wanted to run. As fast as he could. Cypher closed his eyes and nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
Tritico opened the long box on the desk, folding back the lid to display the weapon inside. “You often said the Warfield Ninja was the finest sniper rifle ever produced, and this one has been modified to fire the type of ammunition you’ll need.” He indicated the box of black-tipped slugs.
If the Emperor wasn’t his target, there could be only one other person Tritico wanted dead. Gray Eyes.
“It seems that when I did not succeed in killing Colonel FitzWarren on Baldark, I gave my old friend the opportunity to forge her into a weapon every bit as formidable as himself. All I’m asking of you is to remove that threat,” Tritico said. “Isn’t that worth your freedom?”
Could he kill her? Grey Eyes wasn’t his; never would be his. Her heart belonged to the man whose body he wore, and she’d never stop trying to bring her lover back. She’d happily see him dead, deleted, gone, to make that happen.
He nodded. “Let’s get this over with.”
Tritico indicated two of the augies. “I’m sure Red and his friend would be happy to assist you, just in case you run into any problems.”
“No, I can do this.”
Red closed the rifle case, picked it up, and rammed it against Cypher’s chest. “Then let’s go, boy, and you’d better get it right this time.”
As he followed the two augies through the warehouse, Tritico spoke, and Cypher turned back, thinking the words were for him.
What he thought had been a tangle of pipes in the twilight behind Tritico moved, unfolding into an angular form, half insect, half reptile, but no less hideous than the creature in the cage. It chittered, leaning its narrow face down so that its faceted eyes were on a level with the man’s. Tritico smiled, his words so soft only Cypher’s enhanced hearing picked them up.
“Tell your hive-mates to be ready. We will begin shortly.”
__________
Fitz eavesdropped on the argument between Ski and Logan Von Drager as the two walked toward where she sat nursing a cup of coffee.
“I don’t know why you did an autopsy,” he said. “We know what killed the man.”
“It’s official procedure.”
“But why you? It was too dangerous. That body was teeming with the Tzraka virus. You should have let an assistant do it,” Von Drager said.
“I don’t have an assistant who’s privy to information about the symbiont, so until I do, I’m the only one who can do it. I used all the standard biohazard procedures.”
“You could have accidently nicked yourself.”
Ski stopped and glared at her companion. “I’m very careful. I am a real doctor.” The remark shut down Von Drager’s argument.
“Logan, for a Lazzinair, you’re awfully scared of death,” Ski said.
“I wasn’t worried about me. Just you.”
Fitz put down her cup and rose, interrupting them. “No unexpected findings, Doctor?”
Ski shook her head. “The knife wound by itself would have been fatal for a Normal but, like Logan said, there was never any doubt what killed him. I’ll have my written report to your computer by end of day. Is that all you wanted, or are you finally going to let me poke around in those mechanical innards of yours?”
“No, I came by to pick up Jumper.”
“That’s right, he’s having that comm unit implanted. You sure you want to do this? I know that fuzzy little con artist. He’s going to be ragging on you all the time.”
“He already does.” Fitz chuckled.
“He’ll be able to do it from farther away now,” Ski said.
“I thought we’d go home to Sea Spires; give him a chance to recuperate there.” Fitz said. “I think I could use a little time alone. Some place with happy memories.”
“Good girl. Your doctor’s prescription is to take a long walk on the beach, eat all the chocolate cake you want, and go to bed early. And get some sleep. Tomorrow is soon enough to worry about all this mess. Now, how’s the hand?”
Fitz flexed her fingers. “It’s fine.”
Von Drager’s eyes narrowed. “Was there something wrong with your hand?”
“I broke two fingers yesterday in the fight.” Fitz pointedly didn’t say that Wolf had broken the bones.
“The colonel has been a little slower healing up than I’d like, and she’s too stubborn to let me check her out properly.” Ski crossed her arms and scowled at Fitz.
“That shouldn’t be happening.” Von Drager reached a hand toward her face, but halted. “May I touch you?”
Fitz nodded. His fingers were soft and cool against her temple. The chorus inside her head intensified as it did every time she touched another Lazzinair.
“Do you hear that?” He broke contract long enough to seize Ski’s hand and press it against Fitz’s head beneath his own.
“What am I listening for?” Ski asked.
“The symbiont. Singing.”
“Singing?” Fitz said. “Why is it singing?”
“Joy, remembrance, welcome. I don’t know. It does that every time it touches a piece of itself. It’s a single organism, and I think it feels pleasure when it’s back in contact with other parts of itself.”
Fitz thought her face must bear the same baffled expression Ski’s wore.
Von Drager hastened to explain. “The symbiont that each of you carry is a fragment of the original organism I received.” He tapped his chest. “Every time one of you was implanted, be it directly or secondarily, it’s like I broke off a piece of this and passed it on to you. It’s all part of the same whole.”
“What about Garion?” Fitz asked. “He was conceived naturally. Would that make a difference?”
“I doubt it. He may have received differing sets of genetic information from his parents, but what passes for DNA in the symbiont would be virtually identical from both. It shouldn’t make any difference.”
“But what has this got to do with Fitz’s fingers not healing properly?” Ski asked.
“Listen.” He pulled Ski’s hand away from Fitz’s temple and pressed it to her abdomen. “Hear that echo, that second little voice, beneath hers. When we first touched, down in that awful isolation cell, I thought I heard it, but the suppression field had my mind so scrambled that I couldn’t be sure.” His head shifted back and forth between the two women’s faces, as if frustrated they didn’t understand.
“She’s pregnant.”
Fitz jerked back, the symbiont’s voice quieting with the break in contact. She stumbled as her entire universe shifted beneath her feet.
“No, that’s impossible. I was sterilized years ago.”
“And just like a cut or a broken bone, the symbiont saw that as a problem it needed to correct,” Ski said. “That’s why I implanted that IUD back on Baldark. No hormone-based birth control can work for a Lazzinair because the symbiont will only readjust your hormone levels. Only a physical barrier can block conception. When did you have your last period?”
“Over twenty years ago, when I was seventeen,” Fitz said.
“And nothing since? Not in the past few months?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Yes, and when this is over, that’s another nasty little surprise you’re going to start getting every twenty-eight days. I knew I shouldn’t have waited until the next day to put that thing in. Did you and Wolf…? What am I saying? Of course, you and Wolf had sex.”
Cypher (The Dragon's Bidding Book 2) Page 21
