Mech Girl

by Kate Donovan

  Cover

  Books by Kate Donovan

  Time Travels and Paranormals

  Timeless

  Time Weaver

  A Dream Apart

  A Dream Embraced

  The Untamed Beast

  Historical Romances

  Game of Hearts (A Mail-Order Bride Series)

  Carried Away (A Mail-Order Bride Series)

  Meant to Be (A Mail-Order Bride Series)

  Night After Night (A Mail-Order Bride Series)

  Fool Me Twice (A Mail-Order Bride Series)

  Love Passages

  Action-Adventure

  Identity Crisis (The SPIN—Strategic Profiling and Identification Network—Series)

  Exit Strategy (The SPIN Series)

  Spin Control (The SPIN Series)

  Parallel Lies

  Charade

  Romantic Comedy

  Harmless Error

  Stolen Kisses

  Space Opera Novellas

  Space Fever

  Star Fever

  Title Page

  Mech Girl

  Kate Donovan

  Copyright

  Mech Girl

  Kate Donovan

  Copyright © 2012 by Kate Donovan

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  Published by Beyond the Page Publishing at Smashwords

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  ISBN: 978-1-937349-31-8

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to

  Jessica Faust and Bill Harris,

  my editors at Beyond the Page,

  without whose help and

  support I couldn't have made

  this robot dance.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Earth: A.D. 2070

  “Hey, Grandpa Q, happy birthday!” Zia Quito smiled up at the towering mechanical giant before her and waved in playful greeting. “Surprised to see me? I know I’m a foul-up, but somehow I always remember, don’t I?”

  The grim face of the sixty-foot robot was designed to intimidate, but Zia wasn’t fooled. She knew her grandfather was looking down at her with love from wherever he was. Heaven? Nirvana? Or more fittingly, Valhalla. He was a war hero, wasn’t he?

  In fact, he was the war hero—the man who saved Earth from the Alluvans. Wherever he was now, he undoubtedly owned the place.

  “Everyone else celebrates the day you won the Battle of the Canyons,” Zia reminded him. “But I like your birthday better. The day we would have spent together—eating cake at the beach—if you had lived long enough to meet me. And when everyone else was telling me what an embarrassment I was to you, you’d be telling me I was perfect. Right?”

  It was her favorite fantasy—the one where Quito the Great loved her just the way she was.

  “I’d better get back to the Hacienda, Grandpa. It’s kind of creepy in here, no offense.” Zia pretended to shiver as she studied the cavernous metal hangar that had been built to store the giant robot. There was no other building on White House or Hacienda grounds big enough to accommodate the titanium-and-steel monster that had been given to her grandfather to commemorate his bravery.

  On national or global holidays, the public would shuffle through this place, murmuring respectfully, and listening as guides retold the stories that everyone already knew by heart. They weren’t allowed too close, but occasionally a child would break free of a parent’s hand and run up to touch the gleaming metal, causing a wave of disapproval among the military and guests.

  Those were the moments Zia loved best, mostly because it was nice to see someone else getting into trouble for a change.

  With a final wave of her hand, she turned to leave, then on impulse walked farther into the hangar, where a smaller robot stood in silence. It was forty-five feet in height, and unlike the giant, this one had actually seen battle. Her grandfather had piloted it so skillfully, its creators—the Malarans—had left it behind when they had returned to their planet after helping him save Earth.

  The sixty-foot colossus had arrived later, and thankfully, there had never been any need to deploy that one.

  “I guess I should have talked to you here, Grandpa,” Zia told the smaller robot. “This is the real you, right?”

  Unlike the giant, this “skirmish mech” had some serious dents, and while it was well cared for, it didn’t gleam the way the larger one did. Still, it seemed to Zia that this was the robot people should honor, since it was the one that saved Daniel Quito’s life.

  “I bet you could tell me such stories. Oh well . . .” She shook off the uncharacteristic nostalgia and laughed at herself. The last thing she needed was more indoctrination about the war. Or about her illustrious family—her great-grandfather Dez, who went from peasant to general; her grandfather Daniel, a.k.a. Quito the Great; or her mother Elena, who had ruled with an iron fist and the military savvy to back it up for twelve years.

  “Well, I’m pretty good at sky paddle, at least,” Zia joked to the robot. “If I had my air boots with me, I’d fly up and kiss you right on the mech-mouth. But I guess you’ll have to settle for this.” She stepped up to the skirmisher’s mechanical leg and kissed the dented metal lightly. “Happy birthday, Grandpa. I’ll try to do better this year, I promise.”

  * * * *

  As soon as he heard the hangar door slide shut, Cadet Rem Stone pushed a release button to open the lower door of the skirmisher. But he didn’t exit the vehicle right away. He was still a bit stunned at having overheard the tribute Quito’s granddaughter had just paid her ancestor. She would be mortified if she knew. And on a more practical note, she could get Rem into a world of trouble for entering the hangar without permission.

  He had done this so often, he had almost forgotten it was illegal. Then Zia had burst into the building, looking every bit the hot-bodied, undisciplined brat Rem knew her to be. Still, she had surprised him with the respect sh
e had shown Quito. And so he had listened, when he knew he should have shut down the audio and given her some privacy.

  It’s strange, he told himself now. If Quito had lived longer, Zia’s life might have been a lot different. For one thing, her mom might have gotten married and had more kids. Then she wouldn’t’ve seemed like such a mess. She could have been the goofy one—pretty and selfish and as apolitical as she wanted to be.

  Still, Rem was offended by the granddaughter’s attitude toward her legacy. She had been given great wealth, great stature—and great responsibility. But she treated everything like a joke, or at least that was how it seemed to the public, not that they seemed to mind it.

  Unlike Rem.

  But Quito isn’t a joke to her, at least. She really loves the old guy.

  Rem shrugged, dismissing the kindly thoughts. He revered Quito as much as anyone. Why else did he sneak in here every chance he had to learn the controls for the skirmisher when he was already an accomplished pilot on conventional vehicles and aircraft?

  But his feelings for Daniel Quito did not extend to the great man’s descendants. Not to his daughter Elena—Zia’s mother—who had driven Rem’s family out of power, dishonoring their name; not to Zia’s “uncle,” the current president, who was unfit but still electable, thanks to his bloodline; and not to Zia—the real heiress apparent, who had chosen to party rather than follow in her grandfather’s noble footsteps.

  Just remember the plan, Rem told himself as he exited the skirmisher and headed back toward his hotel. Be glad Zia’s such a lightweight. If she wanted to rule, the people would support her without question. But lucky for you, she abdicated everything to her uncle, and the people are getting sick of him. No way will they grant him a life term like they did Quito and Elena. You’ll overthrow him and recapture leadership one day, and you’ll have pretty little Zia to thank for it.

  Glancing up at the giant commemorative robot, Rem gave a playful salute. “Happy birthday, sir.” Then he added sincerely, “When the time comes to oust the tyrant and restore my family to the presidency, I’ll make sure your granddaughter doesn’t get hurt. We’ll banish her to a shopping mall or country club, and she’ll live happily ever after, safe and oblivious. You have my word on that.”

  Chapter 1

  Despite her fondness for her grandfather’s birthday, it had serious downsides for Zia. For one thing, it signaled the end of summer. Worse, it warned that a brand-new school year was looming, and school had always meant leaving home, thanks to Elena Quito’s insistence on sending her only daughter to boarding academies, even in her elementary years.

  Elena had insisted that Zia would receive a better education at such prestigious institutions, but the strategy had backfired. By the time the daughter was twelve years old, homesickness had morphed into resentment, and finally, full-blown rebellion. Skipping classes, running off, hanging out with other rebels—those tactics had made life more than palatable. They had given Zia years of fun and friendships that she treasured even now that she was preparing to enter the university, where she planned to continue her pattern of taking lightweight classes and earning mediocre grades.

  She knew those grades didn’t matter, any more than her reputation as a foghead did. Thanks to her grandfather, she could fail miserably at every task put before her, and the people would still clamor for her to lead them, vainly hoping to recapture the glory of the old days, when the brilliant scholar Finn Stone had been their president and when Quito the Great had been their military leader.

  What a combination.

  She stared through a window overlooking the orange groves that dotted the landscape at the Hacienda. This beautiful ranch had been given to her grandfather as a tribute to his heroism and had become known as the West Coast White House after Quito became president. It was the only home Zia had ever known—other than school and an occasional stay at the original White House—and she loved everything about it, from its balmy climate to the three-mile stretch of beach along its western edge.

  In particular she loved this room—a sumptuous media center with state-of-the-art audio and vid equipment, cozy furnishings, and a well-stocked refreshment island. It was her refuge from the outside world—a world that seemed intent on following her, vidding her, and worst of all, judging her.

  “Zia?”

  She jumped up to face her uncle, Jared Quito, the current president of the United States. Not quite a statesman like President Finn Stone. Nor was he reminiscent of his war-hero ancestor, Daniel Quito. Yet Jared, despite his stiff manner and controlling nature, was all the country had.

  Zia felt guilty for even daring to make such comparisons, especially knowing that he was single-handedly responsible for protecting her from having to grow up too quickly. By taking the reins of power when Zia’s mother died, he had postponed the day when Zia would have to announce, once and for all, that she had no political aspirations. And while she didn’t know or care much about politics, she was acutely aware that the country would be devastated, perhaps even panicked, when that happened.

  Jared Quito knew it too. Wasn’t that the only reason he bothered with her? To him she was a nuisance, but he needed her support, at least until the next election. If he received two-thirds of the vote at that time, the so-called Finn Stone Amendment to the Constitution would grant him a life term as president.

  But he couldn’t get two-thirds without Zia at his side. She was the only direct descendant of Daniel Quito, or as Jared’s press secretary liked to call her, “Earth’s most valuable natural resource”—a resource Jared loved to exploit by trotting her out for every public event, while desperately trying to muzzle and control her the rest of the time.

  Moving from the window seat to an overstuffed armchair, she prepared herself for one of his inevitable lectures.

  “Is something wrong, Uncle J?”

  “Not at all.” He cleared his throat, then sat in the matching chair across from her. He was a big man—tall and bulky, with dark eyes and straight black hair. Women thought he was handsome, but Zia knew he’d give his left arm to look a little more like his grand-uncle Daniel, who had been medium in height and lean in build, with golden eyes and copper-brown hair.

  Just like Zia’s natural coloring, although she had chosen to mute the resemblance by lightening her waist-length hair with dramatic streaks of blonde.

  Her uncle leaned toward her now. “It’s a big day. How are you feeling?”

  “Big day?” she began, surprised that he had remembered Quito’s birthday. Then she bit back a laugh. “Oh, you mean the presentation?”

  “Yes.” He scowled for emphasis. “The presentation. It’s an important event, not just for the recipients but for the entire nation. The world, even. You should take it more seriously.”

  “I bought a new dress, didn’t I?” Zia stood and twirled so that he could admire the short, full skirt and elasticized bodice of her pink outfit. “Like it?”

  When he didn’t react, she added soothingly, “I’ll be good. I promised Grandpa I would, so you can count on it.”

  “Talking to the robot again?” Jared’s mouth relaxed into a smile. “He’d love that if he knew.”

  “Don’t worry. He knows.”

  “Right, right. Well, as I was saying, it’s a big day. You’ve always handled this well in the past, I have to admit. The cadets love receiving their medals from you. This is your eighth year, right?” He smiled again. “At first, they were impressed because you were Quito’s granddaughter. Now I think they just enjoy being so close to such a pretty girl.”

  Zia studied her uncle cautiously. He wasn’t usually this complimentary, which told her he was about to ask a favor. Or more likely, make an unreasonable demand.

  Bad timing, given her promise to her grandfather to behave.

  “What’s going on, Uncle J? This isn’t nano-surgery, you know. I mean, if I had to pin the medal on them, there’d be a chance I’d draw blood. But I just put the ribbons around their necks, right? As lon
g as I don’t strangle anyone, we should be safe.”

  His lips tightened, and she knew he was losing patience, but his tone was calm when he said, “There’s more to it this year, Zee. A reporter from OmniVid wants to interview you and the recipients after the ceremony is over.”

  “Really?” Zia licked her lips. “Why this year? Is something different?”

  “The public is always curious about you,” he reminded her. “They only know what they see in the tabloid vids—fancy dresses, outlandish hairstyles, wild partying. For some reason, they still adore you. But I imagine they expect you to settle down now that you’re starting college. It’s possible the reporter will ask you what classes you’ve selected to make up for the easy schedule you took in high school. I don’t suppose . . . ?”

  “Sorry, Unc, but no poli sci or history. I’m taking a literature course, though. That’s good, right?”

  He beamed. “It’s excellent. I don’t suppose it’s Early American Lit, is it? That would really thrill the masses.”

  “The official title is Science Fiction as Literature, but I’ll bet there are one or two early American authors in there, right? Like Ray Bradbury, or the War of the Worlds guy.”

  This time, her uncle didn’t even try to hide his annoyance. “Why am I not surprised? This is all a joke to you, as usual. I should just tell them you aren’t available for the interview. But even then—” He stopped himself and fumbled, finishing with a weak, “It’s more complicated than that.”