by Cara Bristol
The PeeVee pulled into the unloading zone on the fifth level of the Regional Space Port. “Destination reached,” the computer stated.
She hauled her bag from the PeeVee’s storage compartment. “Do you wish a pickup?” the computer asked.
“Not at this time,” she replied. While the Summit lasted a finite number of days, some of the best connections occurred outside the assembly chamber. She wanted to leave her options open to further cement negotiations or friendships. After she completed her mission, she could signal her PeeVee with her PerComm when she got back. Going through customs always took a long time anyway.
“Return home,” she instructed the vehicle, and watched as it merged into traffic and zoomed away.
A baggage droid approached. “Flight number?”
Penelope tapped a code into her PerComm and transmitted the info to the droid’s device.
“You’re headed for the International Shuttle Port in Sector Five, connecting to Diplomatic Charter Flight zeta rho nine five nine seven zero.” His simulated voice sounded more computerized than her PeeVee’s. Although the robots smelled like plastic, because they could appear so lifelike, the Department of Artificial Intelligence had mandated the stilted voice programs as extra assurance no one would mistake them for human.
“Correct,” she replied.
“Checking your luggage through?”
“Yes.”
The droid attached an electronic tracking marker to her bag and slung it onto a conveyor. It disappeared into the building, where it would be scanned for explosives and contraband before being sprayed with decontaminant to prevent the possibility of spreading a Terran contagion to an alien planet. “You may proceed,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Gratitude is not required. I am a droid. I am performing the function for which I was programmed.”
“Oh, well, all right then.” She hefted her carry-on more securely over her shoulder. “Have a nice day.” Penelope dismissed the droid.
“I do not understand.”
Penelope felt like an idiot. Of course, he—it—didn’t. “You may return to your duties.”
The droid spun on its heel and marched to an arriving PeeVee.
Inside the terminal, passengers hairpinned in a huge line.
“All shuttle port personnel and passengers stand clear,” announced a computer voice over the audio system. “Prepare for detonation in five seconds. Five, four, three, two, one.”
Pufft!
A muted boom could be heard as someone’s luggage was blown up.
That explained the lines. If a baggage scanner detected contraband or anything suspicious, the computer sealed the scanner chamber and destroyed the luggage. No questions asked. Not before detonation, anyway. For minor contraband, the passenger simply lost his or her possessions. If a serious breach occurred, he or she would be detained, interrogated, and charged.
Diplomatic credentials allowed Penelope to skirt the backed-up general passenger lanes. In Dignitary Express, she transmitted her ID and ticket numbers. The gate opened, and she entered the security hall.
She shoved her PerComm into her carry-on and placed it on the conveyor leading to the combined weapons/decontamination imaging unit for inorganic materials. With unease, she recalled the pufft. Had a terrorist been caught with an explosive device, or had some gray-haired grandma going to visit her grandchildren tried to smuggle unauthorized baked goods aboard?
Penelope had carefully followed the packing rules. Reportedly, scanners erred only .01 % of the time, but, with tens of millions of passengers, that still meant many innocent people had their bags blown up. Her PerComm contained all essential professional and personal data. She shuddered to contemplate the chaos if the machine blew up the device.
Diplomatic status couldn’t help her avoid the security checks. A droid motioned for her to proceed, and she stepped into the organic matter unit. She placed her feet on the marks and raised her arms shoulder height. “Please remain still,” the computer voice ordered. A whirring ensued as the machine conducted a full-body scan to detect known weaponry.
Whirring stopped.
Penelope closed her eyes. Though she’d braced for it, she flinched when the decontamination spray hit. Her semipermeable one-piece travel uniform, which all passengers, regardless of status, were required to wear, allowed the mist to pass through to her skin. Formfitting, the unitard had no pockets of any kind, and the composite fibers rendered it invisible to the X-ray eyes of the weapons detector. To the machine, she was naked. Humans and other living creatures couldn’t see through the fabric, but she often wondered if electronic-eyed droids could. Not that a robot would care.
“All clear,” announced the voice, and a panel spun open, allowing her to step out of the chamber.
Flight Authority insisted the spray left no residue, but Penelope always felt icky after being hosed down. However, she was relieved to be reunited with her carry-on, handed to her by an android. “Have a good flight,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Gratitude is not required—”
“Just say, ‘you’re welcome.’” The Department of Artificial Intelligence should reprogram their language banks. Perhaps she should speak to her mother about that! Let the ex-president use her almighty influence for something positive.
“You’re welcome,” the droid parroted.
Penelope waited in the dignitary lounge until they called her flight. A human, this time, not a robot, verified her identity and flight credentials, and she boarded. “Upper deck, Ambassador,” the agent directed her.
On commercial moon jumpers, the first-class passenger pods, which reclined to sleeping berths during simulated night, were tighter and more cramped than those on long distance shuttles or special charters, which she would have been on if she hadn’t changed her travel arrangements to circumvent her mother’s directive. Fortunately, it was mere twenty-four-hour flight to the International Shuttle Port, and at least she wasn’t crammed into economy, where two passengers shared the space reserved for one in first class.
While the craft loaded, she settled in and activated the viewing screen to see outside. Morning had broken, the sun casting a yellow glow on the horizon. No doubt her early bird mother had risen by now. Was she jogging around the health center track? Mikala was a stickler for regular exercise—and time management. She could be reviewing her PerComm messages. With any hope, her meddling parental unit would be occupied with the former. Penelope wasn’t sure when Mikala would be notified of the itinerary change, only that she would. If her mother got the notice before the shuttle lifted off…
Come on! How long does it take to board this thing? Let’s get a move on.
Once they launched, she’d be safe. Until then? Anything could happen. She would die of humiliation if agents arrived and escorted her off the craft. The husband pretense probably would have fooled the Xenians. And if the bodyguard could remain unobtrusive, she could have tolerated his or her presence.
Trouble was, they had a habit of butting in and taking over. As the former First Daughter, she’d been protected up a wall the entire time her mother had been in office and they lived in the executive residence. And some agents took their jobs more seriously than others.
Like Hardass Mann, as she’d nicknamed one of the agents who’d been assigned to her. Though his mirrored dark glasses had hidden his eyes, he’d managed to convey his disapproval quite clearly. He’d never given her a chance; he’d expected her to misbehave from the outset. Of course, previous agents might have warned him of her hijinks, but still. He could have waited to judge for himself.
Tall, muscular, never a hair out of place. Unshakeable confidence. She might have considered him handsome if he hadn’t been so, so, disagreeable. Not that he’d ever said much. No, he’d spoken as little as possible, despite her attempts to engage him in conversation. Agent Brock Mann had personified cold professionalism. Droids had more personality.
That didn’t excus
e the lies she’d told. One rebellious teenager shouldn’t have the power to ruin a man’s career and livelihood. She wished she could forget him—and the wrong she’d committed. She had hated living in the executive residence, being denied all the normal activities young people took for granted. Teenagers were supposed to be impulsive and spontaneous, but she couldn’t even hang out with friends without their visit being prescreened weeks in advance. You couldn’t have normal when you came from a political family. So she’d mutinied against the limitations.
Hardass Mann hadn’t let her get away with anything. Previous bodyguards hadn’t been as diligent. She’d always gotten the impression agents considered her an undesirable detail. Had Agent Mann pissed off a higher-up and gotten her as punishment duty?
Penelope rubbed a hand over her face, but her guilt could never be scrubbed away. She’d heard her mother had intervened on Mann’s behalf, but she’d never seen or heard about him again. Penelope had been grounded for the better part of a year, but with all the usual restrictions her mother’s executive status conferred on her behavior, the difference was scarcely noticeable. It had been an odd mix of relief and shame to be banned from state dinners and other functions.
“Prepare for launch,” announced the shuttle’s computer, and Penelope let out a sigh. Now she could focus on her job. She held up her arms as the safety restraints activated and belted her to the seat.
“Launch in ten seconds. Nine, eight, seven…” As the computer counted down, she gripped the armrest until her knuckles blanched. Once you got into space, you were okay, but, even in this day and age, much could go wrong during launch and landing. Breaking through and reentering a planet’s gravitational force still came with risks.
And discomfort.
The shuttle took off, and the G-force flattened her against her seat, as if someone double her weight had suddenly thrown himself on top of her.
Like Agent Mann had done once. The First Family had attended a photo op at a public festival. Shots—or some kind of explosion—had split the air. Agent Mann had pushed her to the ground and flung himself on top of her—all two hundred fifty pounds of masculine, testosterone-infused brawn. Lying beneath him, she’d become aware of him as a man, and not just her omnipresent irritating shadow.
He’d helped her up. His dark glasses had fallen off, and she’d gotten to see his eyes for once. For a moment, she thought they’d shared a special connection, but, if anything, after that moment he’d become colder, more remote, more of a stickler for rules. Nothing she’d tried had been able to crack his hard shell of professionalism. She couldn’t be good enough—or bad enough—to get him to see her as a woman.
How old had he been? Twenty-four, maybe? A year younger than she was now. He had had a good start on his career, only to have it yanked away by a vindictive teenage girl.
Through the viewing monitor, she watched Terra recede as they powered through the atmosphere and escaped the gravitational pull. Only after they entered outer space did she physically relax. Forcing the memories from her thoughts was much harder.
Chapter Three
Different, my ass. At the Interplanetary Shuttle Port, Brock leaned against a pillar outside the arrival gate of Pia’s incoming flight and erased from his face all indication of how steamed he was. Pia had lived up to her former code name. She hadn’t changed a bit. He’d have been really pissed if he’d gotten all the way to Terra and then been informed his protectee had gone AWOL. Fortunately, he hadn’t yet boarded his shuttle when Cy-Ops had received word through a secure channel Pia was headed for the ISP. All he had to do was round her up.
All I have to do. He snorted. Nothing involving Pia was ever easy.
The computerized voice announced the landing, but Brock remained where he was and scrutinized the crowd for potential threats. After the craft taxied to the dock and locked to the terminal bridge, passengers began to disembark.
A carryall slung over her shoulder, a naked Pia sashayed into the terminal. She wasn’t technically nude, but Brock’s cyber-enhanced vision could see right through her travel uniform. Only a cascade of blue-black hair streaming to her waist impeded a full view. As she moved, her hair swung, giving him a peep show of generous breasts tipped by rosy nipples. Nothing obscured the tantalizing mound of her sex, the curls trimmed to a neat vee.
Brock yanked his gaze to her face. Thick lashes framed violet eyes over high cheekbones and a cute little chin that masked her stubbornness. The gonna-be-pretty-someday teenager had transformed into a stunning, breathtakingly beautiful woman with a flawless, creamy complexion.
Blood rushed south, and Brock immediately activated his nanocytes to cool the heat. She had no enhanced vision, and his uniform wasn’t transparent, but his erection would be obvious if he didn’t control it.
She was his current protectee, a former accuser, a spoiled, entitled, vindictive hellion who’d derailed his CPO career, all facts his body continued to ignore. This was Carter’s fault. If the director hadn’t interrupted him before he could avail himself of the services of a Darius 4 pleasure droid, he wouldn’t be reacting this way. If his former friend and current superior officer hadn’t forced this assignment on him, he wouldn’t be here at all.
Fuck it all to hell. Brock shoved off from the post.
Pia stopped dead, blocking disembarking passengers. Her jaw dropped, and her huge violet eyes widened more. “Agent Mann?” She hadn’t gotten any taller—she didn’t even top his shoulder.
“Ambassador,” he growled, mad at her, angry with Carter, and furious with himself.
She licked her lips. “W-what are you doing here?”
He took her arm and led her out of the traffic flow. “Is that a question to ask your…husband?” If she was his wife, his real wife, he’d make damn sure she never wore another travel uniform. It didn’t matter that only machine scanners, droids, and cyborgs could see through it.
She jerked and snapped back her head. “You’re my bodyguard? No, absolutely not.” She wrenched her arm out of his grasp. “Despite what my mother believes, I don’t need a babysitter, and certainly not you. You may return to whatever other duties you have,” she said like she was dismissing an android.
“I don’t take orders from you,” he said. “I issue them. You’ll do what I tell you to do.” He leaned in. The scent of her hair swirled around him. “My orders to ensure your safety supersede your assignment. If that means tossing you over my shoulder and putting you on the first flight to Terra, so be it.”
“Y-you wouldn’t?” Those luscious lips parted, and Brock imagined sliding his mouth over hers. Imagined those lips closing around his dick as she sucked him off.
“Try me.” He hoped she would. He needed an excuse to get her as far the hell away from him as he could get her.
Her shoulders slumped with defeat. “Let me do my job.”
“Let me do mine. I’m not any happier about this than you are,” he said, and a spark of hurt glinted in her eyes for an instant. Even though she’d struck the first blow, he felt like an ass—and then a fool for almost falling for her hurt-little-girl act. Watch yourself. She’s no less manipulative, only craftier about it.
“Do you have any luggage to collect?” he said, his gruff voice grating on his own ears.
“No, it’s being checked through.”
“We’ll have to catch a tram. The charter flights are located on the opposite side of the terminal. This way.” He pointed to the right. Before she’d arrived, he’d scoped out the spaceport, noting possible danger areas, potential safe spots where they could hunker down should an incident occur, and the fastest routes to get Pia where she needed to go. His cyborg brain had allowed him to hack into the Interplanetary Flight Authority’s computer system and gain the electronic entry codes for all areas of the terminal. With his list of ID numbers, he could pass for anybody: a first-class passenger, a dignitary, a Terran businessman. An ambassador’s devoted, loving husband. Well, maybe not the devoted, loving part. That would be too
much of a stretch, even for a cyborg.
If need be, he could act the part of a baggage droid, and, right now, being a mechanical drone incapable of emotion seemed mighty appealing.
They marched side by side through the terminal, joining the throng of beings. Some from Terra, most not. Some attractive, others hideous. Some that walked upright, others that slithered, leaving a trail of viscous, slippery liquid for the droids to clean up. Slime crawlers, they were called.
Brock paid the travelers less attention than he should have, and focused on one thought: how the fuck was he going to survive this assignment?
“Are you still with the Central Protection Office?” she asked in a low voice. “I got the impression you’d left…after what happened.”
“I did leave the CPO.” He’d been offered a reassignment, but he’d declined.
She stalled out. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m…freelance now,” he lied. She might be under the protection of Cy-Ops, but she didn’t have a need to know about the organization or him. Would she care that he was part machine? His human mind still made the decisions—foolish ones sometimes, like granting Carter’s request—but the microcomputer implanted between the two hemispheres of his brain enhanced his abilities and picked up the slack for the portion that had been destroyed in the attack.
Would she still see him as a man? Or a robot one step above a baggage droid? And why the fuck was he wondering? She was a job. Nothing else.
“I owe you an apology.” She halted and sought his gaze. “I have no excuse for my behavior, for what I tried to do to you. I’m so very sorry for the trouble I caused.” She appeared and sounded so contrite, she almost fooled his cyber-enhanced senses into believing her remorse was genuine.
His chest ached as if the part of his heart that was still organic was being squeezed in a vise. “Pia, you’ve never stopped being trouble.” He avoided looking at her, but his peripheral vision caught the flash of hurt in her eyes. “Keep moving. We don’t have time for chitchat about old times. They’ll hold the shuttle because you’re the ambassador, but it’s inconsiderate to tie up the runway and delay the other launches.”
