Ember by James K. Decker Page A

a clear path to the hallway outside.
    â€œGo!”
    The two men held Dragan while the woman stepped in. A round red stamp stood out on her armor’s right shoulder plate, marking her as the ranking soldier. She took two steps toward Dragan, and as he struggled against the men she fired the heel of her boot into his chest. His eyes bugged, and his face turned purple as blood coughed from his mouth and his legs dropped out from under him.
    I looked to the open doorway again and then back at Dragan, bouncing between decisions like an ignition that wouldn’t quite catch. Fear cut deeper and deeper through the Zen fog until my brain felt like a fuse inside was threatening to trip.
    Do something.
    Spotting Ling’s bottle of shine on the floor in front of the wet bar snapped me out of it. I snatched it up and stormed toward the woman, wielding the bottle like a club. She looked over just as I swung the bottle into the blur that covered her face. The glass broke, splashing liquor, and several scaleflies buzzed away from her shoulder plates as she staggered back. I whipped the jagged neck around, spraying alcohol and blood as I slashed at her again.
    Dragan spat and managed to suck in a breath. He ripped one arm free from the guy behind him and then turned and delivered a vicious head butt. His forehead disappeared into the dispersion field and I heard a solid crunch. When the soldier fell back, blood squirted from out of the blur.
    â€œControl them!” the woman barked.
    One of the soldiers unclipped a graviton emitter from his belt and aimed it at Dragan. A low hum made the furniture vibrate as the field washed over him and he staggered, legs folding underneath him. The hum went up in pitch, and Dragan fell to his knees, struggling to keep his head lifted.
    I dropped the bottle neck and took the knife out of my pocket, flicking the blade out as I made a beeline for the guy holding Dragan with no idea what I would do when I got there. I used the little blade to scrape stubborn residue off windows; it would never penetrate combat armor. . . .
    The guy used the emitter to drag Dragan toward him, ready to hit him once he was in range, and I stabbed the point of the knife through the seam at his knee. It didn’t go all the way in, but enough to make the guy yell and spin around. When he did, the emitter’s field moved off Dragan and sucked the end table next to him across the room. It crashed against the wall as he reached down and jerked the knife out.
    â€œYou little—”
    Dragan was back on his feet and hammered the guy in the face with one fist. He had reached back to hit him again when an armored fist closed around my arm and jerked me away.
    â€œStop,” the woman said.
    Dragan stopped in midswing, his eyes going wide as she put her other hand over my throat and squeezed, just a little.
    â€œShe doesn’t know anything,” Dragan gasped. “Just let her go . . . please.”
    She stepped toward him and I followed desperately, toes barely touching the floor.
    â€œGet his wet drive,” she ordered. Two of the soldiers held Dragan, one of them pushing his head down until his chin touched his chest while the other parted the spiky hair at the base of his skull.
    â€œIt’s not there,” he said. “He ditched it.”
    â€œSearch him. Find the twistkey.”
    One of the soldiers stood back and aimed a scanner, running it down the length of his body. I caught a glimpse of bones and soft tissue moving across the screen, along with buttons and equipment standing out in sharp relief.
    â€œHe doesn’t have it,” the soldier said. “Just the standard-issue security override.” The hand squeezed my neck a little harder.
    â€œWhere did you take him?” she asked, her voice an electronically altered crackle. Dragan looked around the room at the soldiers.
    â€œIs this how it is?” he asked them. “You’re going to just