Cypher (The Dragon's Bidding Book 2)

by Christina Westcott

  “Thorsson Colcheck Corporate Headquarters coming up on the left,” Lizzy said, swinging around the spire like it was a pylon on a shuttle-racing course. Fast, but not so fast that Fitz couldn’t scan the building and store all the critical details in memory. The office on the top floor boasted a landscaped terrace with pools, potted trees and a bar for business cocktail parties.

  “I want you to maintain this holding pattern, but increase air speed.” She stood and began a final check of her weapons and equipment. “Randomly stop and hover, as if you’re looking for something.”

  “Am I?” ask Lizzy.

  “No.” Fitz didn’t elaborate. “Send the surveillance feed of the landing pad to my inhead, and any communications with the Praetorians will be bounced through you. I want them to think I’m still aboard for as long as possible.” She pulled on her helmet and headed aft to the airlock.

  Jumper intercepted her. “I’m coming too, Boss Lady.”

  “No, you stay on board; it’s safer.” She opened the inner lock.

  “I don’t give a gerbat’s rump about safe. If Faydra’s in trouble, I’ve got to be there for her.” The cat climbed her body like a tree, hooking his plexisteel claws into joints in her armor and her harness until he hung from her plastron, nose against her face shield. “I. Am. Going.”

  Fitz had learned early in their relationship that arguing with Jumper could be an exercise in futility. “Then you’d better hang on.” She wrapped one arm around the cat, then slapped her palm on the release for the outer door. The slipstream tore at them, whipping Jumper’s fur. Rain splattered them and he plastered his ears against his skull in protest. Fitz heard him growling over his comm, but he said nothing.

  Perhaps a quarter klick of forested park separated the office building from the Citadel, with an open security perimeter around the former DIS headquarters. Her enhanced vision picked out two white-armored guards pacing at the rear of the building. Weiland had probably posted sentries on all four sides, so no matter which approach she took, she’d have to deal with them.

  As soon as she judged the spire of the building obscured Lizzy’s actions, Fitz felt the breaking thrusters engage hard, slowing the ship until the airlock door was next to the terrace’s railing, so close a wing clipped the top of a potted tree. Fitz leapt across, her feet barely leaving the hatch’s edge before the ship accelerated again. The Praetorians should not have been able to see her directly, but she scurried under the portico in case, like her, they used satellite surveillance.

  Fitz tried the armorglass doors, but they were locked, the office beyond still dark this early. Their security system was good, but not good enough to keep her out. She hacked in, shut down the alarms and unlocked all the doors. A few minutes later, she exited the lift in the lobby.

  Behind his desk, a guard frantically queried his computer, trying to figure out why all of his security systems had crashed at once. He looked up, open mouthed, as she raced across the lobby.

  “Imperial business,” she yelled as she pushed through the doors and dashed out of the building.

  Across the walkway, she plunged into the stand of trees, staying beneath the canopy of leaves and avoiding the open paths. Branches snagged her harness and leaves dripped their moisture across her face shield, distorting her vision, but her armor kept her dry. Not so for Jumper. By the time she neared the edge of the trees, his fur stuck out in wet spikes. She didn’t need her comm to hear his growls and hisses. She crouched behind a tree to observe the two guards pacing out the length of the DIS building.

  “You didn’t tell me there would be water involved.” Jumper struggled from her grip and shook, sending up a spray of water. He started licking his wet fur back into place, but stopped and stared off into the trees.

  Fitz would have to take both guards out at once, quickly and quietly, before they had a chance to warn their comrades. She crept to her right, closer to the point where they would pass each other as they walked their patrol. Her inhead counted off the seconds it took them to make a circuit.

  On her comm, Jumper’s complaints grew louder. “So you’re wet; deal with it.” As she looked back, the cat wasn’t beside her, but she caught sight of his fuzzy rump disappearing into the undergrowth. What is he up to now?

  Lizzy’s call pushed thoughts of Jumper out of her mind. “Looks like we’re getting some activity up here. Weiland just came out of the building.”

  “Get in front of him and as close as you can without spooking him and keep relaying my comm signal. As long as he thinks I’m aboard, he won’t be looking for me to come up his backside.”

  Her inhead showed the Captain’s face, relayed by Lizzy. His eyes flickered from side to side, assessing the situation, then he turned and waved his people out.

  Ari came first, holding Faydra, her face almost as red as her hair, and her mouth a thin slash of rage. White-armored guards flanked her, close as a carrier’s group in hostile territory. Between the last two soldiers hung a limp Bartonelli. Pike tried to reach her, but one of his minders clubbed him with a rifle butt. The Praetorians dumped the sergeant and turned away, dismissing her as a threat. A foolish move, since Bartonelli wouldn’t be as injured as she looked for long, thanks to the symbiont. Pike crawled to her side and huddled with her.

  When Fitz commed Weiland, his gaze went to the ship facing him. It was a natural instinct to turn and face your opponent when you talked, one a good security agent had to force herself to unlearn.

  “You and your people are ordered to lay down your weapons and return to your barracks where you will consider yourselves under voluntary confinement until such time as this case is adjudicated under a military court of law. My team and I will assume responsibility for the Emperor’s safety.”

  “I’m through taking orders from you, bitch. You come in here with your wireheads and your mercenaries and think you can run this show. You ain’t done squat, if you ask me. How many assassination attempts have there been in the past week? And what have you got to show for it? Nothing. Not one arrest, not even a body. That assassin’s been running circles around you, making you look like an inept little girl. It’s past time for someone who can do the job to step in and take over.”

  Fitz unclenched her teeth before she spoke. “That assassin has been neutralized, Captain.”

  “That’s not what your merc here says; she claims there’s some kind of monster after Ransahov, some unstoppable boogieman. I think it’s all a figment of your imagination.” Weiland laughed, the rest of his words lost as a furry weight plowed into Fitz, knocking her on her butt.

  Jumper howled and hissed and growled, only incomprehensible cat noises pouring out of him as if he’d lost the ability to form human words. A mental wave of terror rolled off him, chilling her in its intensity. She pulled him against her chest, rocked him, soothed him, and slowly he came back to himself.

  “It’s here, Boss Lady, here. Right over there. I saw it, touched its mind. Nasty. Terrible. So much pain and hatred. All it knows is death. The only way it can end its pain is to kill Ari.”

  “Listen to me, Captain. There’s no time to argue. The bug assassin is here. Get the Emperor on board your ship and out of here as quickly as possible. Take her off planet, to Coronia Station or any of the other orbitals—anyplace. I don’t care where, just away. With her safe, I’ll be able to take care of this creature without worrying about her. We’ll sort this situation out later before a board of inquiry. Now do your goddamn job and—”

  Screams and weapons fire overrode her remaining words. The creature, black as the nightmares it had been born from, erupted from the trees and attacked the Praetorians. Its blades flicked out, slicing through their white armor as if it were made of paper. The speed of the encounter stunned Fitz. She knew Tzraka were quick, but this thing moved like an augie, maybe faster.

  Faster than her.

  __________

  Cypher’s inhead flashed a question, almost lost among the blizzard of alarms and warnings: Disregard det
onation command two?

  Detonation?

  The second breaching charge. That’s what the blinking red icon represented. Youngblood had armed both of the explosives, but only used the one on the outer door. What had he done with the other? Cypher tried to dredge the information from his memory, but he’d been concentrating on entering the combination on the key pad and hadn’t noticed. Youngblood had pulled it from his belt pouch. Had he put it back there?

  As he released his hold on Chorickus’ fingers, the pressure on his throat intensified, crushing his larynx. Darkness swept in, reducing his sight to a single bright dot. He’d have only seconds to do this.

  He groped down the side of his armor, but found the augie’s knee blocking him from searching lower. If Chorickus was sitting on the pouch, he was finished. His hand shook, and he could barely force it to follow his dictates. He reached around the leg and brushed against the pouch, fished around inside. His fingers closed over the angular shape of the breaching charge. Afraid he’d fumble it, he clenched it in his fist so tight its edges drew blood.

  Not certain how the charge attached, he stuffed it behind the augie’s belt, careful to place the flat side inward. He smiled at Chorickus and thought-clicked on the explosive.

  The soft whomp sounded deceptive, but it knocked the augie away, blowing out his back in a red fountain. Blood splattered Cypher as he rolled over onto his knees, forehead on the floor in an ungainly parody of prayer, while his breath rattled like a blown thruster. He fought to suck in air but the smoke seared his throat, driving him into a fit of coughing.

  Smoke blind, he crawled until metal bars stopped him—the cage that had housed the hybrid Tzraka assassin. He huddled against it. A great black emptiness filled his mind, an aching hole where part of his being had once been. It seemed as if his personality had suffered a stroke and a part of him had died.

  “Youngblood?”

  Nothing answered him; nothing stirred in that mental emptiness. He screamed the name again, but nothing—no aristocratic voice ordering him around, no self-assured personality taking over the situation. Youngblood was gone.

  Had that augie’s blow killed this body? Was his program the only thing animating this shell, keeping it moving until it began to decay around him? Panic tightened Cypher’s throat. His heart pounded in his chest, breath wheezed in and out of his lungs. No, he was alive, but alone.

  Always before, he’d thought of Youngblood as The Other, separate from him, another individual sharing this body, one who sometimes took control away from him. But now, in his absence, he realized that the being he’d come to think of as Cypher was a gestalt, an amalgam of Youngblood and the person he had once been. He even had a name for that person, Jack, and with that came a welter of memories, of a short and miserable life.

  Only a few days ago all he had wanted was to control this body, a chance to live a life with no one ordering him to kill, controlling where he went, and perhaps, if he was lucky, a few hours alone with Gray Eyes. Fitz. He remembered the taste of her kiss, and her plea for them to come back to her, both of them.

  He pulled himself up using the bars of the cage, ignoring the pain in his fingers. He might not be able to return Youngblood to her, but he could bring back his body, and maybe that would be enough for her to forgive him.

  A wordless chorus howled inside his head, and pain erupted in more places than he could count, pounding in time to his galloping heartbeats. The pharmacopeia menu flashed across his inhead and he activated it, dumping all the elixir and stimulants in a single rush.

  He felt the familiar surge of energy coursing through him as if he’d grabbed a live wire, then again and again until the system pinged on an empty reservoir. Every cell in his body buzzed, moving, humming, vibrating. The bones in his fingers and skull shifted back into position and knitted together. The agony across his back and over his ribs subsided. He clung to the bars to stay on his feet, savoring the ecstasy of his body putting itself back together.

  A blizzard of burning embers settled across his hands and face, jolting him out of his lethargy. He had to get out of here before the building collapsed, but he had no idea where to go. All around was smoke, choking him, blinding him, burning his eyes until tears ran down his face. Which way?

  As he staggered away from the cage, he kicked an object on the floor, sending it skittering away. Youngblood’s long-barreled pistol. At first he ignored it, but some fragment of his old personality forced him back to pick it up and slide it into his holster.

  The infrared. Damn it, he was an augie, think like one.

  As he activated his IR, the warehouse swam into view through the smoke. Flames boiled across the ceiling, whiting out the image with heat, but they hadn’t reached the door into the shop. Seconds remained before flames closed that exit to him, but to reach the stairs he had to navigate a labyrinth of storage shelves, shipping crates and dilapidated loading bots.

  He ran, the maze slowing him, keeping him from hitting hyperkinetic speed. Flames licked at the wall around the door, but he thought he could make it. As he charged up the stairs three at a time, his threat assessment howled a warning at him. Wrapped in blazing insulation, a roof beam fell, caught the edge of the railing and buckled it. He jumped back as the stairs shuddered and collapsed, but he landed wrong, one foot coming down on a piece of pipe and twisting under him. He surged to his feet and limped to the rear of the warehouse, the last spot free of flames, but that sanctuary grew smaller by the second.

  The back wall held no doors, no windows, no way out.

  Overhead, movement at the far end of the catwalk caught his attention. Two men stepped out of an office. Cypher’s fingers clenched into fists as he recognized the slender one by his arrogant bearing. The second man spotted him and pulled his weapon with augmented speed, but Tritico stopped him, pushing the pistol down before the augie could fire. It seemed to Cypher that they argued for several seconds, then the augie holstered his weapon and sent him one last venomous glance before stalking away. He pushed through a door at the end of the catwalk.

  Tritico stayed, leaning against the railing to watch him. There was no wide, triumphant smile like Cypher would have expected, but instead only sadness, an emotion alien on that cold face. He raised one hand in what might have been a gesture of farewell, but quickly aborted it, turned, and followed the augie.

  Jan would never allow himself to be cornered; he’d always have a way out, and he’d just shown it to Cypher. Might as well have written him an invitation. A trap? Did it matter? If he stayed here, he’d be immolated with Chorickus and his buddy. And the bugs. Against Jan and his remaining pet augie at least he’d have chance, pitiful as it was. If he failed…well, he was dead either way.

  There had to be a way to get up to that catwalk.

  The shelves. They ran perpendicular to the walkway; from them a jump to that large packing crate, then a long leap—eight meters across and three up to clear the railing. Not impossible for an augie.

  He raced to the end of the row for as much running start as he could get, and climbed. Unidentifiable parts and electronic components covered the lower shelves, but the top remained clear. He accelerated to HK speed, hurtling over narrow pathways between the units as if they didn’t exist. As his pace increased, his perception of time shifted, slowing until the world crawled around him. Burning debris hung in the air and tongues of flames entwined in a slow-motion ballet.

  He reached the end of the packing crate and leapt, but the rotten wood crumbled beneath his feet, costing him momentum. His trajectory flattened. Too low. He wasn’t going to make it. He slammed into the railing, knocking the breath out of him. Scrambling for a grip, he stopped his fall with one hand, nearly dislocating his shoulder. Legs kicking, he pulled his way up the railing until he rolled over the top and dropped onto the catwalk, coughing and gasping for air.

  Get the bloody hell up.

  Was that his mind partner, or just his own self-preservation, speaking to him?

  “Yo
ungblood, you back?”

  No answer. He pushed to his feet and staggered to the door, easing it open to peer inside. Washed in red emergency lighting, the hallway appeared empty but for a thin layer of smoke. A door on the right led to Tritico’s office, but he couldn’t recall if it had windows or an exit. There had to be a way out somewhere.

  At the end of the hallway, a ladder led up to a hatch in the ceiling. A service exit to the rooftop. That must be it. Once up there, he could make it across to another building, or down to street level and he would be free to melt away into the Warren. With Youngblood gone, he could use his identity to get as far away from Scyr and its murderous politics as possible. There was still that money stashed away in a Willcommin bank. Life would be easy.

  He ran for the ladder.

  Stop, you bloody idiot.

  A grip like steel reached out of one of the open doors and slung him across the office. He crashed into a desk, rolled over it, and thudded against the wall. Before he could rise, the augie vaulted the desk and smashed a boot into the side of his head, then stepped back and aimed one of those damn needlers at him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Get up,” the augie ordered, “and toss your weapon over here.”

  They were in the outer office Cypher remembered from the first night. The two cyber-techs sat at their boards, cocooned in their cyber-yokes, but now they slumped forward with matching holes in the back of their skulls. Tritico tidying up all the loose ends at the point of a gun, like he had with Pettigrew.

  Before he could give up the slug thrower, Tritico stepped from his office. “Deverrill.” His voice carried the snap of command and a tinge of anger. The augie stepped away, but kept the needler trained on his prisoner.