My Cyborg Savior
Honoria Ravena
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Honoria Ravena
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6984-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6984-5
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6985-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6985-2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
For Lindsey, who has always supported me. The gas station guy still asks me about my “sister.”
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
About the Author
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Also Available
Acknowledgments
Thank you so much to Debra, you’re always there to help me out. Thanks to Megan for being a great friend and beta reader. A special thanks to Jess and everyone at Crimson Romance. I’m so pleased to be working with you all. And lastly a thank you to Candace Havens. Without Fast Draft this would have taken a lot longer to write.
Chapter One
“Jamila.”
Jamila turned over and brought one of her pillows along to cover her ears. The intercom was stuck on one volume: loud. It also caught some kind of awful static from the latest and greatest SkyTemple stabilizers. But the stabilizers were necessary. The planet Larus was prone to terrible windstorms that brought a house crashing to the earth at least once a year.
“Jamila,” her father’s voice carried through the intercom again, “if I send a servant to check on you, and you’re asleep, I’ll take your shopping allowance away for a week.”
That wasn’t a big threat, considering she had enough allowance saved to last her a year. And that was if she shopped at the finest tailors in New Kent. If she chose to wear peasant clothing she couldn’t begin to guess how long it would last.
Jamila sighed and released her pillow. She hated it when her father was home. He was one of those early risers, while she usually slept till noon. But then, she’d kept one of the servants up till five in the morning flying virtual combat missions over Dramam. Her father would never play games or associate with the “lower” classes.
“Jamila Christianna Clearborne!”
She flinched at the high-pitched squeal of faulty electronics as her father concluded the call. One day she was going to shoot the ’com.
The floor was ice-cold when she rolled out of bed. Another thing that was malfunctioning because of the constant remodels. When father was home, he seemed to think the place needed fixing.
Jamila slipped her feet into her self-heating slippers and pulled on a silk robe before going to see what her father wanted. She took her time, just to be a pain in the ass. It was an awful day out. In the summer the open, villa type architecture was beautiful. The SkyTemple could be closer to the ocean, so the warm sea breeze could waft through the windows. Now the Temple was higher in the air to avoid waves, and closed up tighter than a tomb. Rain lashed the windows and lightning lit the dark sky.
She tried to shake her case of the bored-as-hell blues. Six more months of this. Luckily, her father was due back at the Senate next week, so she would be able to leave the villa again. He always insisted that it was dangerous outside these walls, and when he was home he had the ability to make her stay … for the most part.
She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand and stretched as she entered the large dining room. She came to an abrupt halt. Father sat on one end of the table and a strange little man with pinched, rat like features sat on the other. To the left, against the wall, a line of dirty, haggard slaves stretched down the length of the table.
One man stood out. He was the tallest, most muscular man she’d ever seen. She was used to being around noblemen, who were usually varying degrees of short and shorter, and tended to be quite thin and frail from the pollution of the cities. At six feet, Jamila was a grotesquely tall woman among the rich, towering over them all. But this man had her by almost a foot.
His hard forearms flexed beneath the thick slave bands he wore. He had dense sleeves of tattoos down his arms. Nobles had given up tattoos long ago as a perverse, disgusting form of body modification. She usually felt the same way about them, but on him, they were extraordinary. Detailed tropical forest scenes with vibrant colors and animals she’d never seen. He only wore loose pants, showing off his chest and tattoos.
When she could close her gaping mouth, she asked, “Father, what’s going on here?” She kept her voice as neutral as possible. Disagreeing with her father was never a good idea. If he knew how much she abhorred slavery, he would probably surround her with slaves.
“You need a bodyguard. Someone to protect you and keep you in the house while I’m away.”
She swallowed, and tried to think of a good way to wiggle out of this little disaster. “But Father, what could possibly encourage a slave, a criminal most likely, to defend his captor?”
The weasel man spoke. His voice was high pitched and squeaky. “Simple. If you die, they die.”
She raised a scornful eyebrow. “For some, slavery is a worse fate than death. I’ve met many slaves who would die to escape their torment.” She turned to her father. “Daddy, I don’t think this is a good idea. It could get me killed.”
Jamila resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She doubted she was in enough danger to need a bodyguard. This was probably a ploy to get a spy on the senator’s side. He didn’t want her going out and partying. Last year he couldn’t have cared less but this was election year, and he was more paranoid than ever about their image.
He shook his head, his stubborn chin set. “If you die, it would be a fate worse than death for them. The poison that would be released into their system would eat at their insides for over a month before it finally killed them. There is no cure. It’s a very slow, agonizing way to go. But if they accept, and keep you alive, they get a warm, soft bed, as much food as they can eat, baths, new clothes, and any entertainment they escort you to. All they have to do is follow a child around. It’s not a bad deal.”
She tensed. Jamila hated being called a child. It was a sure sign her father was trying to put her in her place and force his will on her. She was twenty-four and far past the need for a babysitter.
It was clear that some of these men were dying for a chance to be a high class servant. Some of the slaves were salivating. Not that she could blame them. They were thin and frail. A few even had bloated bellies — a sure sign of malnutrition. Couldn’t this slaver spare one nutrition bar a day to keep them from appearing like they could drop dead at any second? And they were definitely beaten often.
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“Well, daughter? Examine them. Choose.”
She rolled her eyes. “Most hardly look fit enough for any work, let alone being a bodyguard.”
In fact, there was only one that was fit for that kind of duty. Glancing at his ridged body and the angry set of his jaw, she seriously doubted he’d be grateful if she chose him. However, it was her one chance to save him from some other horrible person. Other nobles would take one look at his handsome, stubborn face and have him beaten.
She walked down the line, pretending to consider them. The men didn’t get better upon closer inspection. They were even more malnourished than she’d suspected. Some could barely stay on their feet, swaying back and forth, their eyes glazed over. Others smelled awful, as if they couldn’t hold their bowel movements.
She stepped in front of the large man, who was chained in the middle of the line. “Tell me about this one? Judging by the others, you must not have had him very long. He’s still fit and not diseased.” She glanced at her father. “Unless you want to spend an incredible amount of money fixing one of these poor creatures, it would have to be this man.”
Her father arched a brow at the slaver, who immediately started his sales pitch. “I don’t know about that one. I brought him at your request, but he’s a recently captured cyborg. Could be trouble. However, he’s been docile. He’s perfect for a bodyguard. A martial arts expert. Intelligent. Obedient.”
The prisoner’s head shot up to glower at the trader, and his electric blue irises seemed to glow. Jamila rolled her eyes. That was the scowl of one obedient criminal to be sure.
“He won’t be any trouble if he hopes to live. He’s lucky he wasn’t executed for abandoning his post.”
The man’s gaze shot to hers and she jumped. No slave should dare to meet his mistress’s eyes. It would get him beaten or executed. Her reaction caught her father’s attention.
“What are you doing? Don’t you dare meet my daughter’s eyes.”
The glare he gave Jamila’s father was enough to send a shiver down her spine. It was the expression of a killer. A dangerous man. The slaver stomped down his line of pitiful souls and shoved his electric guard stick in the slave’s belly. He grunted and doubled over but didn’t go down. She gaped at him. Those things had enough voltage to knock a man unconscious and he barely moved. She shivered. Cyborgs were powerful. It wasn’t a good idea to keep one as a slave. Especially one that had escaped before.
They were genetically engineered to be faster and smarter than humans and were immune to almost any illness. But unlike normal genetically engineered people, most of a cyborg’s joints and bones were reinforced with metal and they were supposed to have some sort of computer enhancing their brains that could put even gen engineered intelligence to shame. Their nanobots helped to speed healing even further. None of that should have increased his ability to resist pain. In fact he was probably more sensitive to everything. What was done to them to make them so resilient?
It wasn’t a question she could voice in this room. Her father was against genetic engineering and body enhancements. She couldn’t believe he’d considered this man to guard her. Though, he was a slave, and her father probably figured that was a cyborg’s rightful place if they had to exist.
“Well, Father, this has to be the one. He’s the only one fit for any kind of work.”
Her father snorted. “A bit of a stubborn creature. You’ll have to tell me if he exhibits any willfulness. He’ll have to be punished for it.”
Jamila nodded, but couldn’t manage to say anything. If she opened her mouth she’d probably tell him he was a bastard for wanting to beat a man who had every right to be “willful.”
“How much?” He and the slaver started haggling over the price. Her father was a cheap man, and a hard bargainer. He’d likely get the slave for less than he was worth.
She examined her new acquisition while they bickered. He gave off dangerous vibes that set the hair on the back of her neck on end. No one would mess with this man without facing death. He shifted his stance and rolled his shoulders, displaying fine muscles in his chest. He definitely wasn’t what she was used to. There wasn’t a feminine feature on his face. His angular jaw was clenched as he stared arrogantly forward, instead of looking down at the ground as he was supposed to. Though, that rule probably wouldn’t apply to him. A bodyguard couldn’t stare at his feet all day.
Jamila’s gaze fell to his tattooed arms and she couldn’t resist touching the colorful flesh. Would it feel different than normal skin? She’d never seen anyone with tattoos up close. They were beautiful. She ran her hand along his warm forearm, examining them, and he tensed. When her gaze moved back to his face he was staring down at her and flashed her a crooked smile that made her stomach flip. She removed her hand and stepped away.
“If you don’t gain some manners, my father is going to have you beaten. I can’t stop him,” she whispered.
His gaze slid down her body, male appreciation showing on his face as he scanned her from head to toe. She rolled her eyes. He was sure to get hit often. Would he try to hurt her? It wouldn’t surprise her. The man was a criminal, arrogant, and impossibly stubborn. He would probably think her father would free him if he could gain an advantage over him. Such as holding his daughter hostage. Did the slave know what his bands could do if he vexed her father? They could cause more agony than any whipping.
“I’m not afraid of a little pain. It’s worth it to watch such a fine woman.” His gaze rested on her nipples, hard from the cold. She had the absurd impulse to cross her arms over her breasts. The gods only knew why. The sheerness of her robe was indecent to annoy her father, but plenty of men had seen her topless. Her breasts were probably the most famous ones in the galaxy. That’s what happened when you became a drunken party girl who flashed nosy paparazzi while stumbling out of a courtroom. She suppressed a flinch at the memory. She lived to rebel, but the year after her mother’s suicide had been a horrible one. She didn’t remember most of it.
Jamila shouldn’t have been surprised that he spoke to her. He wasn’t a normal slave, and clearly hadn’t been in the trade long enough to know any better. Most didn’t speak at all unless they were asked a direct question. She’d been in some households where slaves’ tongues were removed if they broke the rule. She shuddered. She’d have to teach him some hard and fast rules or he was going to end up dead.
Maybe her father would let her free him some day. As soon as the notion came she dismissed it. It wasn’t done, and even if she did, as a cyborg he’d go right to one of the Haven districts where the genetically engineered and enhanced people were forced to live. If he wasn’t detained or executed by the government. He’d probably have a better life with her.
“Father, if we’re done, I’d like to take this man to bathe.” Her gaze slid to the slave. “Sorry, but you stink, I’m sure due to these others and the terrible conditions you’re likely kept in.”
The slave nodded. She was sure he could smell himself, and the people around him. Cyborgs were supposed to have a heightened sense of smell.
Jamila’s father flashed a tight lipped smile. “Not yet, daughter. We haven’t settled on a price, and I must speak to your slave alone before he begins his duties. He needs specific instructions and some knowledge of how this household is run. I can’t have him being as blatantly offensive as he’s been so far. Then I will call a servant to take him to you. You’re dismissed.”
Great, she could go back to bed.
• • •
After what seemed like hours of haggling, the senator had finally settled his price with the slave owner. Galen stood there the whole time, attempting not to yawn and roll his eyes. Why had he agreed to do this? Of all the missions, on all the planets in the galaxy, this was what he’d picked. But he was one of the best at subterfuge, so it made sense. The job hadn’t even begun and he already regret
ted taking it. Though the senator’s sexy daughter would probably make it more fun. There was something about her. Galen couldn’t quite explain it.
She was sad. And clearly fed up with her father. Not that Galen could blame her. The man was a blowhard. The classic politician. But why was she depressed? No immediate answer came to mind. What could possibly be wrong in the spoiled, little, purebred girl’s happy life?
The slaver pulled a remote from his back pocket and hit the release on the chains that bound Galen to the others. There was a crash as they hit the floor and Galen stepped out of the line. None of the slaves tried to flee. They stared at the ground, silent and subdued. Had all the fight been beaten out of these people? He hadn’t been among them long enough to know. The trader had been instructed to sell him as soon as possible. That he was dangerous.
Not that the creep was going to mention that to the senator. Even authorized cyborg dealers were greedy little fucks. One day it would be his downfall. If he sold a slave he claimed was perfectly well behaved and it happened to kill someone, the trader would likely go to trial and be executed. But it didn’t seem to matter to him as long as he made plenty of money to feed his expanding waistline.
The senator didn’t even spare him a glance as he pressed his thumb to the credit scanner. “Sit down, cyborg.”
It was on the tip of Galen’s tongue to tell him where he could shove his uppity attitude. Thankfully, he’d learned that thinking before you spoke was a better idea. So he sat.
The slaver and his remaining product filed out of the room. “Odious toad,” the senator murmured under his breath.
Galen arched an eyebrow. Maybe Cyrus Clearborne did have some good qualities. Or at least knew what made a person a son of a bitch.
He finally looked up. “What is your name?”
“Galen.” He didn’t add anything more. Most low born people no longer had last names. Identification was so instantaneous that the government felt it was a waste. They were all numbers to them.
My Cyborg Savior (Crimson Romance) Page 1
