Burning for Love (Kindred Tales)

They all wore fake hair too—wigs, James believed they were called. They were styled elaborately and both the men and the women wore them. He wondered if everyone on Regalia Five was bald. But why had Commander Sylvan not mentioned that fact to him? Probably because it didn’t make any difference tactically, he supposed. At any rate, the Regalian Nobles were staring at him as avidly as James was studying them. They were also beginning to whisper behind the long, feathered fans they all carried.

“Go on—walk ahead to the guards at the midpoint,” the herald hissed at him. “Hurry up, man! You mustn’t keep the Royalty waiting!”

Having satisfied himself that there was no immediate threat among the assembled Nobles, James did as the male said, walking down the long crimson carpet to the midpoint where two guards were standing with long, golden spears gripped in their hands. From the tip of each spear-point, electrical sparks fizzed and spat—clearly they were some kind of pain-conduction devices which would immobilize an intruder without the guards actually having to stab them.

The electrical sparks didn’t worry James in the least. He had electrical dampening insulators in his enhanced right arm and hand. Therefore, he paused in between the two guards, waiting as the Head Butler had instructed, without fear.

He was about to go on past the guards when a high, cracked voice called, “Stop! Guards, do not let him pass!”

At once, the guards stepped forward and crossed their spears, the electrical sparks hissing menacingly as they barred James’s further journey down the carpet.

Looking up, James saw that the voice came from an older male sitting at the end of the carpet on a raise dais. He had an improbably black wig settled somewhat askew on his bald head and was slumped on what could only be called a throne—a richly scrolled and bejeweled chair with a black velvet cushion. His white stockings bunched around his skinny ankles and his gold and silver waistcoat was stretched tightly over an ample belly.

“Stop!” the male, who must be the Steward, exclaimed again. He was frowning at James, his small, muddy eyes narrowed to slits of suspicion. “I was promised a robot by Commander Sylvan himself,” he said, glaring at James. “You are no robot, Sir!”

“I am more akin to what you might call a Cyborg,” James said coolly, unconcerned by this outburst. “In that parts of me are organic and parts are enhanced, or mechanical in nature.”

To demonstrate, he activated the silver scope on the right side of his head. It extended and came around to fit to his right eye, giving him a detailed view of the Receiving Hall.

It was then that James saw her. Standing beside and a little behind the throne, wearing a pure white gown and the largest, and most elaborate wig of all, was a most striking-looking female. A female he was certain he had seen somewhere before.

She had creamy brown skin with a pearlescent sheen, large amber-brown eyes, and a kissable pink mouth—which was a strange thought for him to have, James acknowledged, since he had never thought of any female’s mouth in terms of whether he would like to kiss her or not before.

The little female was staring at him, a look he couldn’t read on her lovely features, despite all his practice in reading emotions and expressions. Strangely, there were lights imbedded in the front of her white gown, right over her breasts—two pink points which glowed and showed through the fabric.

She’s beautiful, James thought as they locked eyes and their gazes held. Fucking gorgeous! Is she the Princess? Where have I seen her before?

He had no answers—he only knew he wanted to get to her and be by her side at once and the guards were in his way.

Casually, he reached out and knocked the hissing, sparking spears apart with his enhanced right arm.

“Here, stop him!” shouted one guard, and both of them jumped in front of him, trying to block James’s way.

Nothing would deter him, however. He caught the spears that were pointed at his face and twisted them together, wrapping their thick metal shafts into a knot with no more difficulty than another male might tie two pieces of rope. Then he crouched low for a moment and used the bionics implanted in his legs to spring fifteen feet in the air, over the still-struggling guards—who were trying in vain to get their spears apart.

A gasp went through the assembled Nobles as he landed neatly at the very head of the carpet, and made a deep bow to the Steward. He made certain that his head was lower than the older male’s—which wasn’t easy since, even though he was sitting on a raised dais, the Steward seemed to be exceedingly short and was shrunken in on himself.