by T. S. Ryder
The human tried to keep herself still as the temple acolytes buzzed around her. Their shiny metal skins flashed in the bright light cast by the sun rods, long tubular lamps that were charged in the sunlight and released their warm glow indoors. She was so excited that she couldn't stop herself from beaming, although she knew this was a solemn occasion.
The acolytes painted her lips red and braided her golden hair into a crown around her head. The black gown she had been put into was tighter than anything she had worn before. It accentuated all her curves, although the seams strained at the waist. Probably a reminder from Priest Quincy that she hadn't dropped the twenty pounds he had told her to lose by this date.
Well, no matter. She'd be away from the priest soon enough, and he couldn't remind her again and again that she was fat. She knew that she weighed more than she was supposed to, but she didn't care. She knew in her gut that her king wouldn't mind, either.
"Are you excited?" one of the acolytes asked, tinny voice reverberating in its metal shell.
"Deliriously happy. I love my life in the temple, but I am eager to see what the world is like. And to meet my husband." Cheryl ducked her head and blushed, a small smile on her face.
She was more excited about her wedding night than she cared to admit. The only man she had regular contact with was Priest Quincy, but late at night, she liked to indulge herself in imagining what her king would be like. Cheryl had known from the time she was a little girl that her destiny was to be the next queen of the Temadian people. She had been selected from among the slaves purchased from Earth by the Demante System when she was just a baby.
The Temadians were a society built by men. Their women had left eons ago, although nobody knew where they had gone. For centuries, the only way for the Temadian people to reproduce was to take their massive starships and steal women from other systems.
Although that custom had long since died, the coronation of the new queen was a remembrance of those days. She was always a temple-slave obtained through trade with another species, and her king was selected through a series of battles. The Gods selected one of the champions to survive the tournament, and once he was married to the queen, he was king.
Cheryl's king was rumored to be the previous king's nephew, Bjorn, but she wouldn't know for certain until she was presented to him. Her heart pounded with excitement as the acolytes put the finishing touches on her hair and rolled back to inspect their work. The dim, gold light of their eyes turned red, a sign that they approved of what they saw. The human took a deep breath, grinning widely.
"Remember, child, not to expect too much from your wedding night," one of them said. "Just close your eyes and imagine yourself somewhere else."
Cheryl nodded meekly, although her mind was always full of dirty thoughts when she thought about her wedding night these days. She imagined intense pleasure, both for her and her king. Would he tear her dress right off her skin, the way she liked to imagine it?
She smoothed her skirt as she stood, following the acolytes to where Priest Quincy waited. As head of the Queen's Temple, he was responsible for the ceremony today, as well as Cheryl's upbringing, although her teacher for most of her life had been her mother, until her early death. He shook his head when he saw her, a look of distaste coming over his face. Cheryl's heart dropped, though she tried to suppress it.
Since she was a child her genes have been altered little by little so when she became pregnant with the king's baby, a pure-blooded Temadian would be born. It would take a lifetime to replace her, and the Demante system could not last without a king to rule over the dozen planets and order the fleets of warrior-slaves in their defense. No matter what Quincy thought, he would not take her destiny from her.
"Our king will need nerves of steel to bed you. I told you to lose weight." Priest Quincy squinted his eyes at her. "A queen must be regal, not round. Well, you are your king's problem now, not mine."
He turned and walked away, clearly expecting Cheryl to follow. She did so. Deep down, she knew she should be sad about leaving her temple and fearful about her future. But she was the queen. The only luxury was in her future, and a lifetime of giving her king beautiful, dark blue babies.
Priest Quincy led her outside. Cheryl winced as a roaring cheer echoed in her ears. As she stepped onto the platform at the top of the temple steps, it rose into the air, a slight hum all that was indicative of the hover engines beneath the slab of stone. A sea of people spread all around the temple and they chanted her name as she floated over them. After a few minutes, the platform set down at the top of the palace steps.
This was it. Cheryl eagerly looked down the steps, to the courtyard below. It was full like the temple grounds had been, but her king would be waiting for her on the bottom step.
Her brow furrowed. There were two men standing below her.
"I should have said that you are the kings' problem," Priest Quincy whispered in her ear. He stepped forward. "Bjorn of the house of Leshire."
The man to the right stepped towards her and bowed. His brown hair was trimmed neatly around his ears. He wore the sleek, ruby-red armor of the noble houses. It was molded to his body, made from nanites that would detect coming pressure and thicken the armor at points of impact. It also showed off his impressive shape. He was muscular and lithe, like the panther in the Earth storybook her mother used to read to her. His skin was midnight blue, indicating that he was a pureblooded Temadian–or as pure blooded as was possible these days. The crowd chanted his name.
"Maskin, Hero of the Apdratee invasion."
The second man's most prominent feature was the fierce scowl he wore. His hair was long, braided down his back. He was larger than Bjorn. His black studded armor was clearly meant for heavy battles, rather than the ceremonial skirmishes Bjorn's nanite armor was designed for. His arms were naked and bore scars, both of blade and blaster. Dark diamonds were tattooed under his eyes. Judging from the sky-blue of his skin, he was born a warrior-slave. A mix of insults and cheers rose for him. He did not bow.
"These men fought each other for a day and a night until both fainted with loss of blood," Priest Quincy shouted, more to the crowd than Cheryl. "The Gods have decreed that they are equally worthy of the crown. But which is more worthy of the queen? She must choose now."
Everything went silent.
Cheryl couldn't breathe. This wasn't what it was supposed to be like. She was supposed to be presented to her king, not given a choice between two men. Everything in the temple was decided for her, down to what she wore and ate. How was she supposed to choose between these two men? Her chest started heaving, her hands shaking.
"You have to choose," Priest Quincy said again.
Tears burned in her eyes as she stared at the two warriors. "I can't."
Priest Quincy turned towards her, narrowing his eyes. She shrank back from him but shook her head. She thought she might vomit. Taking a deep breath, she managed to straighten her shoulders and raise her chin. Once more, she shook her head.
"It's the Gods who decide who the king will be. I'm only the queen."
The corner of the priest's mouth twitched. He turned back to the crowd. "The queen has said let the Gods decide. Therefore, she and the two Kings Presumptive will be sent to the shrine of Nethja, Goddess of fertility. There they will stay until the alignment of the four moons. If the queen is with child, the father will be king. If she is not, then both will be put to death and a new king chosen."
Cheryl pressed her hands to her mouth, horrified.
There would be no wedding night for her, but two months in a moon shrine with rivals fighting to impregnate her. She stared down the steps at the two presumptive kings. Neither looked surprised. Maskin returned her stare with a hungry look in his golden-orange eyes. Bjorn's own green eyes twinkled. They both walked up the steps to join her on the platform. It lifted again, this time heading for the shipyard.
In two months, one or both of these men would be dead.
Chapter Two: Maski
n
The moon shrine of Nethja was an ancient place, established when the Temadian people first developed space travel. Maskin stood between two ivory pillars as he watched the sun rising on the northern horizon. The large planet of Thoutle, seat of the Demante System and home to the noble houses, was still visible in the sky like a large, green jewel. Maskin's own home planet was a hardly-visible speck in the morning sun.
The warrior-slave had been on the front lines when the Apdratee attacked, trying to conquer the system. It was he who had led a single ship against their blockade after his Lord Commander had perished.
At the time, he had never seen anything outside the strict barracks where he and the other warrior-slaves were raised and trained to fight. After he had taken control of an Apdratee ship and broken a hole through the blockade, ending their siege, he had been brought to Thoutle to be awarded his freedom and the title of commander.
It was the first time he saw beauty. The planet was breathtaking. Everything was green and lush. He thought it must be paradise.
This moon, however, was even more beautiful. Flowers grew everywhere. There were so much color and such sweet scents perfuming the air that when Maskin first stepped foot on the moon, he thought he had died and had been taken to the nirvana all faithful worshippers went to.
Bjorn's presence had quickly reminded him it was not so.
Maskin scowled as he turned from the sunrise. That man was the final obstacle to all of his plans. If Bjorn became king, nothing would ever change. Warrior-slaves would still be ripped from their mother's arms as infants. They would still live and die without being allowed to see any beauty or have any choices.
So he did not have the time to appreciate the beauty he was in. He only had two months to impregnate the queen, after all.
He looked down as he finished the grass necklace he had been braiding. It was one of the few things that all warrior-slaves knew how to do. They rarely got any downtime, but when they did, they liked to make things with whatever resources were available. Necklaces such as these were used to express affection for one another. They were simple compared to the sapphire that was gifted among the higher ranks, but Maskin found a joy in the simple appearance of things made by hand.
It was his only hope that Cheryl would feel the same. If she didn't, then he had nothing to compete against Bjorn with. Failure was not an option.
Maskin wasn't afraid of dying for his attempts to become king. The odds had been stacked against him from the start, and he honestly hadn't expected to get this far. But he didn't want to be remembered as the warrior-slave who almost became king.
He wanted to be remembered as the king who changed everything.
The shrine itself was a wide space that included gardens, a lake, and several small cabins and pavilions. Cheryl was in a pavilion at the heart. The queen jumped when he entered the building. She gave him a look akin to terror, although she nodded and turned off the holographic view she had been using.
If he were smart, he would just lay her down where she was and lift her skirts. The more times he claimed her, the more likely his child would grow in her belly. He wouldn't be surprised if Bjorn had already had her dozens of times.
But she was so pretty, and in the black dresses, she favored she looked so innocent. Besides, he couldn't bear the thought of even kissing her when she looked at him like that. She wouldn't fight him, he knew that, but he wanted her to like him. He didn't want a queen who feared the times they were joined.
"I made this for you," he said gruffly, holding out the grass necklace.
A pink stain rose in her cheeks. "You did? For me?"
She took it. A small smile graced her face and Maskin was surprised when his heart skipped a beat. He coughed, shifting a little to the side. His reaction was just because he had little experience with women. The only females that warrior-slaves interacted with were the orbots that were gifted to the men who excelled in battle. Even then, they were only gifted for a night or two at most. When Maskin had first seen a flesh-and-blood woman, he had been shocked. They were soft and warm, not cold and hard-skinned like the orbots with their synthetic flesh.
"I don't think anybody has ever given me a gift before," Cheryl said. "What is it?"
"A necklace. Here." He unclasped the turquoise necklace that was around her neck and tied on the grass one instead.
Cheryl beamed as though it was more precious than celestial rubies. Her fingers stroked it. Maskin stared at them, imagining those fingers stroking his skin instead. Heat stirred inside of him. He leaned forward to kiss her. The human turned her head.
Maskin sat back and sighed. "We will have to engage in physical activity sooner or later."
"I know. I just… I don't think it's fair to be with one of you without letting both of you know who will have me first."
So Bjorn hadn't had her already? Maskin was surprised at that, though he tried not to show it. "And is that a decision you will make?"
Her fair, pink skin turned bright red. It made her hair look all the more golden. "Why do you want to be king?"
Maskin sat for a moment, considering her. She had been raised to be the queen, but like him, she was a slave. A temple-slave, pampered, her baby-soft skin indicating she had never worked a day in her life, but a slave nonetheless. She would understand what his goals were, wouldn't she?
"I want to bring about change. Our society is built around precepts that existed when we were still in the age of light speed travel. You and I are proof of that. I was taken from my family the moment I was born and raised by machines to be a machine myself. Not to think for myself, not even to have goals and dreams for the future. You were raised to be the queen, to be given to a man without any choice of your own. We were both meant to be docile and give up our lives in our own ways."
Cheryl's eyes were wide as she listened to him. Maskin couldn't help but smile wryly at her slightly horrified expression. He had seen it plenty of times when he talked with others in his division about rising above the rank he had been born with.
The change was frightening for people who were told society would fall if it were restructured.
"But how would we defend ourselves against outside threats?"
"We are not at war. If anything, we are headed towards civil war. Unrest grows as slaves educate themselves. I want to preserve our society. Things have to change. An empire built on backs that can break has a precarious existence. Besides, if a pampered boy like Bjorn who has spent his life being waited on hand and foot can be king, why not a man like me? I saved our world, Cheryl. What has he done?"
Cheryl ducked her head. "You make a good argument. But if I were not the queen, what would I be? I can't even choose between two men. How could I be trusted to choose my life?"
Maskin sighed. "And that is exactly why I think change needs to be made. We should all be taught to choose, whether well or poorly. Why should our lives be dictated by people in their sapphire chairs?"
"Thank you for the necklace." Cheryl scrambled to her feet. "I need to go."
She ran from him as though he carried the plague. Maskin sighed and leaned back. Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. Perhaps he should just demand her.
But he wanted to be her choice, not the man that was forced on her. Would that happen? He repressed another sigh. He had to decide what was more important, his plans for the system or his desires for himself…
He just wished they didn't seem so far apart right now.
Chapter Three: Cheryl
Cheryl had never had to take care of her hair before. At the temple, the acolytes would pass a hairlight rod over her hair, infusing it with various vitamins to ensure that it grew strong and healthy. The gentle pulses of light would automatically detangle her curls, and the acolytes would style it.
The shrine did not have hairlight rods. There were only these slabs of plastic with stiff spikes that emitted a sonic frequency. It just made her hair stand on end all around her head. In the end, she gave up
trying to tame it and merely clipped it back from her face.
Hardly had she done so when Bjorn and Maskin entered her cabin. They glared at each other as their shoulders bumped.
Cheryl unconsciously began fingering the necklace Maskin had given her the previous day. As much as she appreciated the gift, she wasn't so sure about what he had told her. Changing everything about their society was so frightening… Would it have been better for her to have been raised with choices?
If the choice were hers, she could eat as much as she wanted. She could cut her hair. She could run down the stairs and read for hours.
"What are you doing here, Hero?" Bjorn asked, the title sounding like an insult on his lips.
"I am going to walk with Cheryl above the valley."
Maskin was, as usual, wearing his studded armor. He looked like he was about to charge into battle. The only thing missing were his blasters, but those were not permitted on the shrine grounds. The only technology allowed here were things that had already been developed when the shrine was founded. At that point in history, the only guns available were projectile ones, rather than the energy-based weapons of today's age.
Bjorn, on the other hand, had two fine daggers strapped to his thighs. Even his nanite armor was allowed. But then, nanites were in use before space-flight was developed. Cheryl knew this because of the history that Priest Quincy always made her study.
The prince frowned. "I am going to take Cheryl down into the valley."
"She's coming with me, Prince."
They were going to start fighting if she didn't do something. Cheryl gulped in a quick breath. "Actually, I'm going to walk by the lake."
Both men turned to stare at her with surprised looks. The human blushed. Her hands shook, but she nodded as she stood. She had been wanting to get closer to the lake, anyway. Now was a good time, wasn't it?
