by Cara Bristol
“This afternoon, we serve as witnesses to the Sha’A’la and the bonding ceremony of Princess Julietta and her consort, Naimo.”
The arena erupted in shrill whistles. After the crowd quieted again, the officiant shouted, “The honorable and valorous Naimo!”
Fists raised high, her soon-to-be mate strutted into the arena to supportive, deafening trills. He wore flowing dark-purple and gray pantaloons, set low on his hips. Under the hover spotlights, Naimo’s oiled, bare torso gleamed, defining wiry muscles. He radiated confidence and virility. The seer had chosen well. Any woman would want him. The crowd cheered for him. Why couldn’t she?
He is noble and kind, the perfect man to be my consort, stand by my side, and help me rule. I must trust the seer’s judgment. She is wise like the ancients. She would not have matched us if it wasn’t meant to be. I do not have to love him, I only have to accept him.
Her mother was right. Love offered a poor foundation upon which to build a future. Look at the way emotion had knotted her stomach, made her yearn, caused her to question her duty, undermined her potential for happiness. Love didn’t solve ills; it caused them.
March would go home to Terra, and once he’d left, she would forget him.
It hadn’t happened in five years, but she would work harder at it. She couldn’t spend her life longing for what could never be. If her people had managed to subdue their violent tendencies, she could conquer the yearning in her heart. When she held a babe in her arms, she would find satisfaction in the bonding.
First, she had to become pregnant, which would require engaging in sexual relations with Naimo. Julietta pressed a knuckle to her mouth to hold back a choke. She would have to fake it, pretend an interest. Hopefully, with repeated couplings, her body would be swayed by her chosen’s many good qualities, and pretense would become real. Once pregnant, she might be fortunate enough to experience carrying sickness and would have an excuse to avoid relations.
This is how I approach my bonding, wishing to become ill? Naimo deserves a mate who is as committed as he. I must overcome this.
Naimo mounted a block and stood, hands clasped behind his back, ramrod straight and still. Cheers and trills quieted.
“Men and women. All is not assured,” the moderator said in a heavy, gloomy voice. “Naimo faces competition for his bride. From a tribe far, far away, meet his challenger…Marchand Fellows!”
Julietta sprang to her feet. This can’t be happening.
March strode onto the floor, and the crowd echoed her shock. Uncertainty rumbled across the arena in a wave.
Marji hissed and booed, swept into the moment.
“A Terran?” Her mother snapped her head to glare at the emperor. “This is your solution? Where did you find him? He doesn’t follow our customs. He could be injured! Surely someone else would be better.” For all her admiration of Terran culture, her mother believed in the Xenian way. “This is highly irregular and improper.”
Julietta agreed. Anyone would be better. How could she watch this? What if Naimo hurt him? Her stomach roiled, and she feared she would be sick.
Her father pressed his hands downward in a calming motion. “Mr. Fellows knows the steps to the ritual. In fact, he is the only one who does. Getting another substitute would necessitate starting from the beginning, delaying the bonding ceremony by a couple of months at least. Guests have arrived from all over the galaxy. Many would be unable to return. More importantly, time is running out for Julietta to become bonded and produce an heir. If she has not borne a child by her twenty-sixth birthday, she cannot accept the scepter, and the empire will fall into chaos.”
“His blood will be on your hands if Naimo fatally wounds him,” her mother said. “Those sabers are not for novices to wield. Without the precision that comes from practice, the Sha’A’la is dangerous.”
The emperor cocked his head, and his expression turned speculative. “You seem to be unduly worried about this Terran.”
Julietta’s heart thudded in her throat as if her father were speaking to her.
“I would worry for anyone unfamiliar with our rites.” Her mother pressed her lips together, refusing to be goaded.
“It will proceed,” her father said.
As March strode to the dais he raised his gaze to the balcony. With a jolt, Julietta realized she was still standing. She dropped back onto her throne. Her heart hammered.
“Naimo, Naimo, Naimo!” The crowd chanted.
March stepped onto the block next to their native son, and instantly her future consort became less-than. Less muscular, less masculine, less of a warrior. When she’d met March, he’d had a young man’s healthy physique. In the long years of absence, he’d become more defined, broader, stronger. Taller, impossible though that seemed. Compared to him, Naimo appeared pale, inconsequential. But only to her.
The crowd favored the chosen, their hero.
No one cheered for the challenger. They never did, but they would not have hissed at Kur, one of their own, the way they did at an offworlder. She could hear gleeful enmity in the sibilance. They hated him, and they loved hating him. Her father’s surprise may have dismayed her and her mother, but it pleased their guests.
The participation of an alien in their revered rite had unlocked and refocused their sublimated aggression. They no longer fought clan against clan, tribe against tribe, but suspicion toward outsiders was encoded in their DNA. If she’d harbored any secret, ridiculous notion of possibly choosing a mate from another race, the crowd’s reaction shattered it like a collider breaking apart an atom. She would never survive the fallout. Neither she, nor her family, nor the empire.
The crowd chanted and hissed until the referee quieted them with a signal. “Choose your weapons and assume your positions,” he instructed the participants.
Naimo selected a saber with a hilt in imperial huber, leaving a gray-handled one for March. A servant darted out and dragged away the daises upon which the men had stood. Naimo and March strode to center court and faced each other. The officiant raised his right arm, and the men tapped blades. The crowd had fallen so quiet, the clink of metal could have been heard without the hover mics.
The moderator dropped his arm. “Begin!”
Chapter Seven
Jules was watching. Human and cybersenses prickled with awareness. What ran through her head? Did any part of her still care for him? Had she ever cared? Or did she share the animus of the hissing crowd? Their vocal animosity seemed so hostile, he feared if Naimo lost the competition, people would rush from their hover seats and rip him apart limb from limb with their bare hands.
A message from Brock shot into his head. What the hell are you doing out there?
The challenger got food poisoning, and I got to experience the art of persuasion Xenian style.
Dusan had made it clear if he didn’t do this, severe repercussions would result, including the cancellation of the ZX7M contract, cutting off talks with Carter, and withdrawing from the Association of Planets. Just a little pressure. Dale had warned the genial, benevolent emperor negotiated with an iron fist.
The emperor hadn’t been the only one to do an about-face. What the hell had gotten into these people? Wasn’t this supposed to be a friendly competition? There wouldn’t be any surprises. How could they get so emotional over a theatrical performance when they already knew the outcome?
Did they hate him because he was the challenger or because he was Terran? Even in silence, animosity fogged the arena like a heavy cloud.
At the officiant’s cue, March pivoted. The Sha’A’la was only a dramatic spectacle, but turning his back on a participant armed with a saber caused the hair on his nape to prickle. On the sixth step, as he’d seen practiced, he whipped around and charged, surprised to see Naimo closer than expected. Had he turned a step early?
Their blades connected and showered the air with sparks.
The crowd trilled with satisfaction.
His feet moved through the choreographed steps as h
e swung his blade to parry the thrusts of Naimo’s sword. Without a cyborg’s memory, following the routine would have been difficult. Though smaller, his opponent was strong and agile, his facial tension conveying a startling ferocity.
Naimo attacked with power and precision. Blades engaged in a loud clang of metal and a fiery glitter of sparks. From a foreigner’s viewpoint, March had misjudged the danger. One slip of the foot, one wrong twist of the wrist, and either of them could be injured.
Rocking from heel to toe, they darted back and forth, lunging and retreating. With a series of fast moves, March backed Naimo to the edge of the court and, with a swipe, nicked his arm as he’d seen rehearsed. Before the consort could claim his bride, his blood had to be spilled in her honor. Red spurted from the shallow wound, and the crowd hissed. If they’d disliked him before, they hated him now. He’d wounded their golden boy. That he’d been required to didn’t matter. He might need a protective detail to get off the planet alive.
As practiced, Naimo rebounded from the wounding with a vigor that elicited cheers. Blood ran down his saber arm, the transfer staining his chest. The wound looked gory, but March’s cyberbrain-controlled thrust had limited the injury to a mere scratch. He’d inflicted far less damage than Kur would have.
He retreated into a defensive position as he was supposed to, giving the impression he wearied and had to struggle to parry the realistically appearing vengeful thrusts of Naimo’s blade. He dodged to avoid having his arm sliced open. A right feint circumvented a jab to the neck.
March lunged and extended his blade in a grand, showy planned move. Naimo whirled out of the way, recovered his attack position, and bared his teeth with such menace March could almost believe the man wanted to kill him. Had the Sha’A’la overtaken his sensibilities the way it had the crowd’s? Had the fight become real?
Naimo’s chest heaved with exertion. “You will never claim her—Julietta is mine,” he panted. Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran in rivulets down his temples. He blinked as it trickled into his eyes. Flinging his head back, he charged.
Naimo stumbled, throwing off his aim so that it went left instead of right as it was supposed to. March leapt out of the way. The other man rebounded but didn’t fully recover his timing and precision. Though he swung the weapon with fury, his moves seemed wild. Was he tiring or faking weariness to psych him out? The man couldn’t be trying deliberately to hurt him, could he?
In a few more strokes, the denouement would occur. For the Sha’A’la to end as it was supposed to, March would have to take a stab to the chest. Like the nick to his opponent’s arm, the killing blow was a symbolic scratch, after which he would feign a melodramatic death, handing victory and the bride to Naimo.
In the dressing room, he had promised he wouldn’t injure him unduly. What gave March the sense something had changed? His gut was telling him he should defend himself for real, not leave himself open to the strike, not take the fall. But if he did, a stalemate would result. No win. No bride. Naimo, the crowd, Julietta, and Dusan would be very unhappy. He had gotten a glimpse of the iron fist beneath the velvet glove and didn’t care to experience the full wrath of the sovereign. But he wasn’t going to let someone drive a saber through his heart, either.
If this were a real battle, March already would have won. His recent fatigue notwithstanding, his opponent’s skill and prowess couldn’t compete with a cyborg’s strength, precision, and speed. However, the Sha’A’la was only for show—not actual hand-to-hand combat. Thus far, everything had followed the rehearsal, except for the bad feeling and Naimo’s waning stamina. He’d performed much better in practice sessions.
Julietta’s chosen raised his blade in preparation for delivery of the killing blow. He would fake a right then whip around and nick March’s left pectoral.
Take it or dodge? A cyborg’s instincts rarely were wrong.
Black eyes, normally expressionless, reddened and narrowed, focusing on the target. Naimo lunged.
The saber flew out of his hand, and he fell face forward at March’s feet.
The collective gasp of the crowd rocked the arena.
This scenario had not been rehearsed. March glanced at the officiant referee for direction, but the man didn’t look concerned. Did he assume this was part of the choreography? When Naimo got up, maybe they’d return to their former positions for a “do-over.” Take two! Would the crowd notice if they repeated the exact same moves? If they’d hoped to make the Sha’A’la appear authentic, they’d botched it.
Naimo wasn’t moving. March shifted his gaze to the audience of thousands then to his fallen opponent. “Naimo, get up!” he whispered.
The officiant jogged toward them. In the emperor’s box, the ruler, his mate, Julietta, and her sister leaned over the rail. The crowd rumbled.
What’s happening? Brock messaged.
Hell if I know.
“Hey, are you okay?” he said a little louder. “Grunt or something.” He knelt to shake Naimo’s shoulder, but the referee stopped him. “Don’t touch him. It’s not permitted.”
Well, okay. They could try to ream each other with swords, but touching was not permitted. March retreated.
The officiant rolled Naimo onto his back. His limp body thumped the floor. Blood seeped out of vacant eyes.
He looked…dead.
The referee froze, as if he did didn’t know what to do. Fuck the rules. March started to push him out of the way to examine Naimo, when the man’s arm twitched. Next, his leg moved. In the blink of an eye, he went into convulsions, seizing with violent spasms.
Arms and legs flailed. His back bowed with an arch so severe, a spinal injury seemed possible. An unintelligible guttural noise erupted from his throat. He foamed at the mouth.
“Get a healer!” March yelled. “We need a healer.”
Chapter Eight
“Tell us what happened.” The emperor glanced at his councilors before fixing his opaque, unreadable gaze on March’s face. “Did Naimo seem ill?”
“Not at first.” March shook his head. “You saw him. He was fine. The Sha’A’la proceeded as rehearsed. Until he collapsed, he seemed robust. He’d started to sweat a little, but, considering, it seemed normal…although—”
“Although?”
“By the end, his timing was off. I only watched the practice, I didn’t rehearse with him, but his reactions were a tad erratic, alternating between too slow and too fast. He missed the mark once or twice.” He’d assumed his opponent had been trying to psyche him out; now it looked as though he’d been fighting illness in addition to the Sha’A’la.
The emperor drew himself up to his full height. “It cannot be a coincidence my daughter’s future consort and his challenger fall ill on the day of the Sha’A’la. I will need you to remain on Xenia until the investigation reaches a conclusion. You will, of course, continue to enjoy the hospitality of the empire.”
Don’t leave town, buddy. You haven’t been cleared of suspicion. Message received.
“Of course. You have my full support and cooperation,” he said. Carter would kill him. So much for maintaining a low profile. Dale wouldn’t be pleased, and neither would the AOP. He hadn’t wanted to participate in the Sha’A’la—had done his damnedest to get out of it. Forced into the wrong place at the wrong time, he’d stepped into a pile of excrement.
Could the emperor’s hunch of foul play be correct? Young healthy men didn’t keel over for no good reason, but what could be the motive for harming Naimo? Did someone harbor a grudge against him? Did Julietta have a secret suitor who wanted to stop the ceremony? Could it be a protest against the ancient rite itself? Did someone not want her to become empress? Or was Dusan himself the indirect target? Strike his family; hit him.
Cape swirling, the ruler paced.
March sized up the others in the room: the four councilors of wisdom and a few others whose function he didn’t know, including one very old woman. The berobed, expressionless councilors, seated with hands folded in laps
reminded him of jurors. They even sat in a councilory, a segregated area similar to a jury box.
“How is the princess faring?” he asked quietly, hoping the query wasn’t inappropriate. March could have used Penelope Aaron’s diplomatic expertise to navigate this, but when he’d asked if she and Brock could join him, his request had been politely but firmly declined. After Naimo had been removed from the arena, Julietta had fled the viewing box. Had she rushed to her consort’s side in the infirmary? Surely allowances would be made to permit her to be with him.
“She is understandably distraught,” the emperor said. “Her mother is with her now.”
The portal to the chamber slid open, and the healer entered.
The emperor spun around. “Well?”
“Naimo is still alive, but not well,” the healer said.
“Will he recover?”
“It’s too soon to predict. I have injected him with a universal antidote.”
“Antidote?” A councilor leaped to his feet and gripped the front of the box. His knuckles whitened. “He was poisoned?”
“I haven’t reached that conclusion, although his condition is symptomatic of poisoning, and a preliminary scan has identified an unknown substance.” The healer nodded. “I am running an analysis. When I determine exactly what sickened him, I will know better how to treat him.”
“And what about Kur?” the councilor asked.
The healer looked grim. “I am sorry, councilor. I wish I had good news. Kur is…worsening, his condition more dire than Naimo’s. I am treating him with UA until I can isolate and identify the cause. I will do everything I can to save your sons.”
