Claimed by the Cyborg (Cy-Ops Sci-fi Romance Book 5) Read online

  Naimo confirmed what March had suspected: Jules had been sowing a few wild oats. He’d meant nothing to her.

  Association of Planets policy cautioned against prejudice. Each planet’s values and culture merited equal value. Live and let live. Other than condemning acts of terror—such as that perpetuated by Lamis-Odg—the AOP considered right and wrong relative and avoided judgment. Except Jules’s culture and his had collided. While he’d been falling in love and envisioning a shared future, she’d been exercising her sexual recreation rights.

  March pushed his plate away.

  “The fruitmeat isn’t to your liking?” Kur asked. He’d finished all of his.

  “My apologies. It’s excellent. I had a large midday meal, so I want to save room for the main course,” he lied. He wouldn’t be able to eat.

  A servant replaced their plates with bowls of steaming broth. A fish of some sort, six legs and head still attached, bobbed in the thick liquid. He guessed it was seafood—he couldn’t be sure. On Xenia sea creatures could crawl. Many “land” mammals sported feathers, if not actual wings. Birds had scales and sharp teeth; and felines trilled like canaries.

  The twins tucked into their soup with gusto. Avoiding the floater, March spooned some broth into his mouth. At the end of the table, a servant removed Julietta’s full plate. She waved away the soup. He couldn’t eat either. He pressed a fist to his chest and set his nearly full bowl aside.

  “Are you all right?” Naimo asked.

  March thought he was speaking to him, until he turned his head to find Naimo leaning over, peering at his brother.

  Blinking rapidly, Kur dabbed at beads of sweat on his forehead. “I’m fine. It’s warm in here, and the soup is hot.” He gulped down some water and then resumed his meal, as if nothing had happened, although he remained pale.

  Eight courses later, the feast ended to March’s great relief. He couldn’t wait to leave.

  “I wish you all the best tomorrow,” he said to Naimo. “From what I saw at the practice, I’m sure the Sha’A’la will impress the princess. You two will be very happy together.”

  * * * *

  Got any more bright ideas? March stomped into his quarters. He removed his borrowed formal attire and flung it more or less neatly over a chair. Coming to Xenia had been the stupidest thing he’d ever done. He should have left well enough alone.

  At least now I know where I stand, where I always stood. Though his aching heart protested, confronting his past had been enlightening. He realized he hadn’t entered into his other relationships unencumbered; his heart had remained foolishly linked to Jules. He’d never had a chance with her. He wasn’t Xenian. Hell, since being transformed to cyborg after the explosion, he wasn’t fully human anymore. A lot had happened in the five years since he’d last seen her.

  If she hadn’t wanted him when he’d been a twenty-four-year-old hopeful, optimistic graduate student/teaching assistant with plans to become a professor, she damn sure wouldn’t want a jaded, war-weary twenty-nine-year-old cyborg who needed a computer chip in his brain and nanocytes to keep his remanufactured body functioning.

  It would take every nano he had to keep his cool and watch while Jules bonded to Naimo. He had nothing against the guy. Hell, he liked him—and Kur, too. He could never live by their cultural dictates, but if the situation were different, he’d enjoy hanging with them in a space pub and knocking back a couple of shots. But watch another man claim the woman he loved? Not happening.

  Maybe he could skip the Sha’A’la and the bonding ceremony. Failure to attend could be perceived as a snub after he’d been personally invited by the emperor who happened to be Dale Homme’s number one customer. And Carter had hired him to eavesdrop on the guests.

  Would anyone know if he didn’t go? The guest list numbered more than ten thousand people. Would a single no-show be noticed?

  Possibly. When he’d entered the banquet hall, his name had been checked against an electronic list. The same would likely occur at the Sha’A’la and the bonding ceremony, so there would be a record of who had attended. However…no one had tracked him when he’d departed the banquet hall. Maybe he could put in a brief appearance, do a quick recon for Carter then slip away before the ceremonies started.

  There might be a receiving line, but he couldn’t imagine all ten thousand guests would move through it. That would require—his microprocessor crunched the numbers—27.7 hours if each person took ten seconds to say “congratulations” and kiss the future empress. If bonding ceremonies were anything like Terran weddings, many people would take much longer. So probably no receiving line.

  Maybe he could sneak out unnoticed.

  Brock and Penelope, with whom he’d be seated, would know he’d bugged out, but they would keep his secret.

  That’s what he would do.

  I’m such a fucking coward. No wonder Jules had left him.

  Though it wouldn’t do any good, March poured himself a Cerinian brandy, thoughtfully provided, and got into bed. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Five

  “Hello, March.” Penelope greeted him with a warm smile as he scooted between the rows of floating seats.

  “Hi, Penelope. Nice to see you, again.” He kissed her cheek, and, after shaking hands with Brock, slid into the spot next to him.

  “I hear you watched the Sha’A’la practice,” she said.

  “I did.”

  She grinned. “So you know who’s going to win, then.”

  March pressed a forefinger to his lips. “I’m sworn to secrecy.” He feigned lightness.

  Brock and Penelope laughed, both aware of the ceremonial nature of the Sha’A’la.

  “Seems like a lot of rigmarole to go through when the outcome has been determined,” Brock commented.

  “Fighting to claim his mate. It’s romantic.” Penelope poked his arm. “And why is the rite any stranger than a bachelor party?”

  An Association of Planets ambassador, she often adopted an open, accepting view of alien traditions. She might be right this time, but March tended to agree with Brock—although he knew better than to say so.

  “Anyway…” Her features lightened. “Perhaps we can all agree Princess Julietta looks beautiful. I saw her arrive. She is stunning in that beaded tunic.”

  He’d avoided the emperor’s box, but his gaze shot there now as if drawn by a magnet. With her father, mother, and sister, Princess Julietta sat calmly, her hands folded. The distance across the arena was too great for Penelope to see her face, but he and Brock could. The sister jittered with excitement, but whatever Jules’s thoughts, she betrayed none of them in her composed expression. Every bit, she resembled the empress she would become. She wore a plum crystal-beaded tunic, matched by an intricately adorned headdress.

  He swallowed over a lump in his throat. “Beautiful.” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as hoarse to the others as it did to his own ears.

  “Very lovely,” Brock agreed, and looked at his wife. “But not as beautiful as you, Pia, on our wedding day.”

  Despite the gloom pervading him, March laughed. Smooth, he communicated to Brock via secure wireless.

  I’m learning, his fellow cyborg shot back.

  By the way, I’m going to leave soon, March informed him. I’m not staying for the Sha’A’la or the ceremony.

  Why not?

  Well, I’ve already seen the Sha’A’la…

  Brock’s eyes narrowed. Aren’t you on recon for Carter?

  It’s a personal matter. I’ll figure out something to tell Carter.

  “I wonder what’s taking them so long.” Penelope peeked at her PerComm, the small unit most everyone carried. “The bride fight was supposed to start thirty-six minutes ago.”

  “For an Earth wedding that wouldn’t be a long delay,” Brock pointed out.

  “For a Xenian, it is. They’re very punctual,” she said. “The arena is set up.”

  Glowing floor markings lit by the hover lights outlined the figh
ting court centered in the arena. Outside the delineated area, a tall rack held two gleaming sharp sabers. No safety tips this time around. A liveried attendant stood beside them as if guarding the swords. Everything was ready to go—except the consort-to-be and his challenger. Where were Naimo and Kur?

  Across the arena, an aide entered the balcony and whispered in Dusan’s ear. Julietta remained composed, but her mother and sister eyed the private conversation. Moments later, he stood and followed the aide out.

  “Odd,” Brock murmured.

  “I’ll bet he’s going to find out what the holdup is,” Penelope said. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “You’re assuming the emperor’s departure is related to the delay in the Sha’A’la. It could be coincidental,” March said. “He rules an empire, an entire planet. Anything could have happened.”

  “Like Naimo deciding he didn’t want to be bonded to the princess after all. Maybe he’s jilting her. The runaway consort,” Penelope said.

  “Pia!” Brock chided her.

  “Never,” March said, but his heart rate shot up. What if? What if? No, from what he’d learned of Naimo yesterday, he didn’t see that happening. He studied the princess again. Her mother and sister fidgeted as if agitated, but her composure hadn’t slipped an iota.

  “I’m just speculating,” she huffed.

  What do you think is happening? Brock asked.

  I don’t know. But this is my cue to exit. Better to leave before the Sha’A’la started so he didn’t have to watch Julietta cheer for another man. The emperor’s balcony extended over the arena floor for best viewing. She would see the blood, the sweat. Would she toss a victory flower to her consort-to-be? Blow him a kiss?

  He started to rise, scrambling for a plausible tale for Penelope.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Fellows?” A servant—the same one who’d approached Dusan—scooted through the rows. Automatically, the hover chairs moved to accommodate his passage.

  “Yes?” March identified himself.

  “Emperor Dusan wishes to speak to you,” the servant whispered.

  “Me? Why?”

  “He will tell you when he sees you. Follow me, please.”

  What’s going on? Brock asked.

  I have no idea. He shrugged. He’d been handed an excuse on a platter. Now he could leave, and he didn’t have to lie to Penelope.

  The servant led him to a chamber near the arena. “They are waiting for you inside.” The servant motioned to the tall carved double doors. “Go on in.”

  In a large dressing room, Naimo paced with long strides, his plum and gray pantaloons fluttering with the breeze he generated. The emperor, arms folded, stood off to the side. A servant, brow furrowed, busied himself with a chest of clothing, appearing to fold garments that didn’t need it. There was no sign of Kur.

  “Thank you for coming,” Dusan said. “I have a huge favor to ask.”

  “What is it?”

  “Kur has fallen ill!” Naimo burst out.

  “What’s wrong? Is he all right?” March asked.

  “The healer assures us he will recover,” the emperor said. “But he is quite ill, having ingested something that did not agree with him.”

  That didn’t surprise him. Good call on his part, having avoided the leggy floater in the soup. Kur had dug into it with gusto. Now that March thought about it, Naimo’s brother hadn’t looked very well while he was eating it.

  “I believe it is just a bad reaction, but he isn’t capable of fighting.”

  “So what can I do to h—” Oh no. No. No.

  “You watched the entire practice, Naimo tells me. You, better than anyone, know the choreography.”

  March shook his head. He couldn’t be suggesting…no way…

  “I am humbly asking for a favor. Would you serve as the challenger?”

  “I’m not the right person—”

  “You know the moves,” Naimo said. “I promise I won’t injure you. I must draw blood, but I vow it will be a scratch.”

  “I cannot disappoint my daughter,” the emperor said. “We have ten thousand guests who have arrived from all regions of Xenia, dignitaries from across the galaxy. The seer chose this date as the most auspicious. We cannot postpone the Sha’A’la. It must be held today so Julietta and Naimo can be bonded.”

  How did one refuse a request from the ruler of a planet? Fighting became second nature to a cyberoperative, and he’d watched the drills so many times he’d memorized the steps, so he could perform the ritual, except he couldn’t. “Uh…”

  Everything all right? A communiqué from Brock shot into his head.

  Hell no. But Brock couldn’t rescue him. Just peachy.

  Dusan straightened, and though his black eyes revealed nothing, his face hardened, and all at once he became far less genial, no longer the supplicant, but the emperor. The sovereign of the planet. He might be one hell of a nice guy, but he was about to enforce his will.

  Did the palace have a dungeon? A penal colony? The Xenians were pacifists, but every society produced a few bad apples. They had to have some sort of justice system to deal with people who ran afoul of the laws and customs. What did they do to them? What would happen if he refused the appeal?

  “Once again,” the emperor said, “I am requesting that you fill in as the challenger in the Sha’A’la.”

  Chapter Six

  Julietta’s hands rested in her lap, the left one covering the right to hide that the latter was clenched into a fist so tight her fingernails had dug crescents into her palm. She focused on taking slow breaths. Her neck ached under the weight of the headdress, and the long day had just begun.

  I can do this. I have to do this.

  Why, oh why, had March arrived to complicate an already-difficult situation? Across the arena, he sat with Penelope Aaron and Brock Mann. It was too far to see faces, but she’d recognize him anywhere. She’d invited Penelope and Brock, but how had March gotten on the guest list? What cruel act of fate had brought him to her planet at this unfortunate juncture?

  Aware of the scrutiny of ten thousand guests, she schooled her expression into sanguine blankness and allowed her gaze to blur, avoiding the VIP guest area. Don’t look at him.

  Her father had been called away, her mother and sister whispered together, and a questioning rumble was spreading among the guests. Naimo and Kur should have paraded onto the floor already. Had her father left to find out the reason for the delay? A heartsick side of her dreaded the Sha’A’la, for its completion would bring her one step closer to bonding, while a resigned part wanted to get it over with. Once bonded, she wouldn’t have to worry anymore—she would only have to live with the result.

  Movement across the way caught her attention, and her gaze went straight to March. Her father’s aide leaned over him, and March rose to his feet and followed the servant out.

  Why was he leaving? What could the servant have said to him? Would he return? Great Xenia, she hoped not. His presence—even on the other side of the arena—made what needed to be done much harder.

  Her mother reached over and patted her hand. “Don’t frown, dear. Your father is taking care of the delay. The Sha’A’la will proceed very soon, and then you and Naimo will be bonded.” She smiled. “It’s difficult to wait. I have to confess, I got a little nervous when your father fought at our Sha’A’la—and it occurred on schedule.” She gave a little laugh.

  Julietta released a silent exhale. Maintaining a level tone, she asked, “Did you grow to love him?”

  “Who?”

  “Father. Did you ever grow to love him?”

  “Love? It is well and good for troubadours to fill commoners’ heads with romantic frivolity. The bond your father and I share is sounder than any built on love. Our foundation is not based upon ephemeral whims but mutual respect and commitment. We complement each other.”

  “So you don’t think it is possible for love to grow?”

  “Well, I suppose it’s possible, but why would that matt
er when you have an empire to rule?”

  Because I have an empire to rule. That is why it matters. “So you don’t love me—or Marji?”

  “Of course I do! A mother’s love, a parent’s love for a child is a different matter.”

  “Terrans bond for love,” Marji piped up. “I thought you admired the Terrans.”

  Julietta looked at her mother, anxious to hear her reply.

  “I admire many things about Terra,” she agreed, “but their emphasis on love isn’t one of them. Emotion offers a weak reason to bond, as evidenced by the fact that a significant portion of their marriages fail.”

  “Perhaps love is so important they cannot carry on without it,” Julietta said quietly.

  “Which proves it doesn’t last,” their mother said. “Why would you bring this up—” she broke off as the emperor reentered the box.

  “Kur has taken ill. He cannot serve as the challenger.”

  “Great Xenia!” Her mother pressed a hand to her throat.

  No challenger? Julietta’s heart fluttered. No Sha’A’la. No bonding. Not today, anyway. She went weak with relief.

  “But have no fear!” Her father broke into a beaming smile. “I have found a replacement.”

  Julietta nearly sagged under the weight of the headdress.

  “Who could fill in on such short notice?” her mother asked.

  “Someone who watched the practice sessions. He may not perform perfectly, but that will make it more exciting.” The emperor winked. “I think both of you will appreciate the substitute.”

  With that cryptic comment, her father stepped to a dais on their balcony. Conversation fell to silence. He swept his scepter in an arc as he did at every ceremony. “Honored guests and loyal subjects, the Sha’A’la is about to begin.” Amplification modules carried his voice over the arena.

  On cue, an officiant, who would referee and pronounce the winner and, afterwards, perform the bonding ceremony, entered the arena on the right. Her father placed the scepter in its jeweled stand and took his seat again.

  “We are gathered here today to witness one of our oldest traditions, the bonding of two people,” the officiant announced. “It is a three-step process. First, our revered seer selects our mates. Second, in the Sha’A’la, which you will witness shortly, the male proves his ability to protect his woman when she is with child by defeating a foe who seeks to steal his bride. Then, still fresh from battle, with the blood of the challenger on his hands, he claims his mate and the two are bonded for life.” The premise was repeated at every bride fight.