"Seventh Son -- The Beginning" by Garon E. Whited

                “I think I’m learning to hate this job.”

                The speaker appeared to be a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and was hanging by his ankles from the crossbeam of some sort of equipment.  His arms were crossed on his chest, and he was performing vertical sit-ups.  His sweatshirt was soaked, and his dark hair would have been matted to his head, except for gravity.  Clasped about his left wrist was a very wide bracelet; it covered nearly half his forearm.

                The listener looked somewhat older, with the beginnings of grey hair, and wore a dark suit.

                “If sir is certain, sir can quit.”

                “Fat chance,” the younger man grunted.  “You can’t quit when you’re born in the position.  Besides, it’s your job to see I don’t.”
                “Not quite, sir.  You could say our job is to see that sir does not get fired.”

                The only reply was a grunt.  A few more vertical curls went by, then he grasped the crossbar, unhooked his ankles from the brace, and slowly rotated to place his feet on the floor.

                “What’s next, Bob?”

                “Chinning.  Get back on the bar.”

                “Are you guarding my body or trying to break it?” he groaned.  But he grasped the bar and began.

                A servant entered the cavernous space of the gymnasium.  The older fellow glanced at him, and pointedly did not glance at his own partners; bodyguards need to know their job and rely on their co-workers.

                “My lord Zachary?” asked the servant, from a good six paces away.

                “Yes, Albert?” Zachary grunted.

                “You have a visitor.”

                Zachary lowered himself from the bar and accepted a towel from his bodyguard.  “Who is it?  And call me ‘Zack’, Albert.”

                “Of course, Lord Zachary.  The Contessa Belinda Minaur is here.”

                Zack sat down and mopped at his face and hair with the towel.  “Any clue what she wants?”

                “My lord, she claims to have been invited for tea.”

                Zack looked startled, then thoughtful.  “I confess that I do not recall such an invitation.”

“I have confirmed it with the palace schedule, sir.”

Zack tapped on the bracelet he wore.  “Diogenes!”

                “Yes, Sir?” the bracelet replied.  It sounded like an older man, with a gentle baritone and lots of voice-and-diction lessons.  A shimmering effect began above it, vaguely man-shaped, perhaps six inches high, slowly seemed to solidify.

                “Is the Contessa Belinda Minaur scheduled to have tea with me today? And cancel holographic interface.”

                “Yes, Sir.  Your father arranged it last night.”  The forming image winked out.

                “Why didn’t you tell me?”

                “Sir specifically stated that he did not wish to be disturbed with ‘any of that blasted court claptrap’ today,” Diogenes replied, replaying a recording of Zack’s own voice for the quote.

                Zack looked at the bracelet named Diogenes sternly.  “Thanks.”

                “Sir is most welcome.”

                “Sarcasm is lost on computers,” he muttered.  More loudly, he said, “Inform the Contessa that I have been avoidably delayed and will attend her directly.”

                “Very good, my lord.  Will there be anything further?”

                “No.  You may go.”

                Albert bowed and backed away several paces before turning and walking away.  Zack toweled at his hair and frowned.

                “Something wrong, sir?”

                Zack shook his head.  “Not exactly.  This makes the fourth time Dad’s decided to have the Contessa over in the past,” he paused for thought, “oh, about two weeks, right?”

                “I believe so, sir.”

                “You think he’s trying to throw us together?”

                “I couldn’t say, sir.”

                Zack grunted and headed into the showers.  Bob followed him, but another man stepped into the shower area well before they arrived.  The man in the shower area came out, nodded, and stood aside.  Zack and Bob entered without breaking stride.

                Zack slid out of his clothes and stepped into the booth; water and ultrasonic waves pummeled him clean, then a whirlwind of air sucked all the water from him.  Bob had a fresh set of clothes laid out for him.

                “Are you a bodyguard or a valet?” Zack asked, slipping into a one-piece body suit.

                “If the Contessa is kept waiting, your father might kill you. Better safe than sorry,” he replied, smiling just slightly.

                “Hmmm.”

                Zack dressed quickly and regarded himself in the mirror.  Not too shabby, he reflected.  Dark hair that could probably use a trim half-concealed deep-set eyes of dark blue.  The bodysuit was a tight fit, showing off a lean, muscled figure without revealing anything between wrists, ankles, and neck.  The bracelet around his wrist had enough room for the material of the sleeve beneath it.  He posed for a moment and grinned at Bob.

                “What do you think?”

                “Very handsome, sir.  You look much like your father did in his youth.”

                “I suppose I do.  All right, let’s go see the Contessa.”

                “May I suggest something more formal, sir?”

                Zack sighed.  “Oh, all right.”

 

                The Lady Belinda Minaur was seated on a flagstone patio, watching the wind move through the distant treeline.  It was always pleasant to watch the tendrils of the trees waving lazily in the air; when the occasional bird came to close, however, they tended to whip around it and snatch it out of the sky.  It was one of the hazards of the planet.  Still, she had to admit that it was a beautiful place for a ducal palace.

Zack came out of the glassite doors and onto the patio; he moved immediately to the small table.  He was dressed somewhat more decorously in black boots, loose slacks, ruffled shirt, blue-and-gold sash, and a tooled leather vest.

                “Good afternoon, Lady Minaur,” he offered.

                She glanced at him, then rose, extending her hand.  Zack took it, bowed over it, smiled.  She withdrew her hand and gestured to the chair opposite herself.

                “Do be seated, lord.  I trust that your delay was nothing too serious?”

                “Alas,” Zack replied, “I am afraid I was so lost in anticipation of our afternoon together that I completely mistook the time.”

                “Flatterer!” she declared, smiling.  She was, Zack thought, actually rather pretty; light hair with curls, a dimpled smile, and twinkling eyes combined to make her quite attractive.  And her curves were in all the right directions.

                “Perhaps, but only in a small way.  I am certain that the Contessa has dozens of admirers who may flatter with more charm and wit.”

                Those pretty eyes twinkled.  “Perhaps.  But can we not avoid titles?  We’ve known each other . . . how long?”

                “Since I was thirteen standard years, I believe.”

                “Has it really been that long?”

                “Well, you were born about then, and we’ve known each other through the Court, of course.  I think we were formally introduced, now let me think . . .

                The skin of his arm tingled and prickled as the inductance units in the computer bracelet came to life.

Diogenes, he asked, silently, When did I first actually meet the Lady Belinda Minaur?

                Sir, your first official introduction was at your twenty-first birthday celebration.

                Ah, thank you.

                “I believe it was at a birthday party.  Now, whose was it?  Mine, I think?  The details are fuzzy, but that is only because my memory dwells so upon your radiant presence.”

                She blushed, slightly.  “Oh, do stop it.  You know very well that you barely passed a dozen words with me.”

                “Ah, yes, I was rather tongue-tied, wasn’t I?”

                “A far cry from today, Zack!  May I call you Zack?”

                “But of course, Contessa.”

                “And call me Bel.  My friends do.”

                Zack hid the pang in his heart.  Friends!  The heir of a Countess could claim friends!  How bitter it is that I have no real friends and I do not even stand as my father’s heir . . .

                “I am honored, Bel,” he replied, sincerely.  “Have you had tea?”

                “No, I have waited for you.”

                “I would offer to pour, but I fear I am not permitted to do so.  The tyranny of servants.”

                One of the ever-present servants wheeled a small cart out, as though he had been waiting for his cue—which he had.  He served them deftly, and both of the nobles tasted lightly.

                Zack nodded.  “Good work, James.  Just right.  Bel?”

                “Perfect.  A pity he’s spoken for; my father would hire him in a second.”

                “I understand perfectly.  I don’t know how I’d get through an afternoon tea without James.”

                Belinda smiled impishly.  “Do you even know how to pour?”

                “I think I’ve had a lesson or two.”

                “Oh?  Father won’t even allow me to touch a pot.  He claims it’s beneath us.”

                Zack chuckled.  “The perils of noble birth.  My father is less fussy; he maintains that a good Duke should know a little bit about everything as quickly as he can learn it—and the more as he can find time.”

                “Really?”

                “Really.”

                “I wasn’t aware you had studies.”

                Zack shuddered in mock horror.  “Oh, yes.  Sixteen hours a day in school and a machine that whispers the day’s lessons to my neurons as I sleep so I don’t forget.”

                “You can’t be serious!” she declared, laughing.

                “Well, perhaps it’s not that bad.  But Father is a devil for education.  I have it easy compared to Edward; I’m not the heir, thank whatever gods there be.”

                Belinda looked thoughtful behind her smile.

                “True.  Then again, I am an heir, even if only to a Count.  Why do you suppose that my father is not so concerned with my fitness for the title?”

                Zack hesitated.  “I would not presume to guess.”

                “Oh, stop it, Zack.  I think you know what I think.”

                Zack arched an eyebrow.  “Do I?”

                “You know my father and yours don’t get along very well, and that a marriage between our Houses would help matters enormously.”

                “And you claim not to keep up with these things,” Zack muttered.

                “Not if I can help it!  But I’m rather in the middle, now aren’t I?”

                “So we are.”

                She sipped at her tea again, eyeing him over the rim of the china cup.  “As I see it, the Duke Laertes wants to see his seventh son married off to a title.  The Count Minaur wants his daughter married respectably—possibly to offset her sullied reputation!—to a noble of a Great House.  And one, incidentally, who will probably do a good job keeping the Count’s own House afloat when he’s gone.”

                Zack chuckled.  “You have a remarkable ability to cut through the diplomatic idiocy and get down to it, don’t you?”

                “I hate being a court flower and being kept under glass.  And I have ears.  I speak my mind when I can.  So, yes, I prefer to get the fluff out of the way.”

                “Good job.”

                Belinda laughed, quietly.  “Thank you.”  She sipped at her tea.  “So, what do you think?  Am I right?”

                Zack sighed.  “Undoubtedly.”

                She looked at him, tilting her head, slightly.  “Why the sigh?”

                Zack shrugged.  “I find that I do not appreciate being a dynastic pawn any more than you do.”

                “You may as well get used to it.  It’s the nature of the beast.”

                “That, my dear, is where we differ.  I dislike court games as much as you do.  Possibly more, because I am more deeply wounded by political necessity.  But I do not accept that I must knuckle under and accept these decrees as fate.”

                Belinda reached out a tiny hand and held one of his.  “Then they will make your life miserable.”

                “Probably.  But I cannot escape the feeling that I would like to do something, rather than inherit it.”

                “If you inherit something, is it not your duty to do with it what you can?”

                Zack chuckled.  “Which would make me a dutiful son.  Indeed.”  He turned his hand and held hers.  “I love my father, Belinda.  I love my brothers, too.  If all six of them were to expire today, I would become the Duke.  Not because I want the job, but because of an accident of birth.  And, yes, I would do the best I can in the position; I believe that I would do well.

                “But I abhor the idea.  To be given a massive House to rule . . . is . . . repugnant.  I would willingly go out to the Fringe and unite a hundred worlds to make my own, but the odds of being permitted to do so are slim, indeed.  I do not want to rule.  I want to build.”

                She smiled at him, sadly, and squeezed his hand.  “You could never be happy in this time,” she said, softly.  “You belong a millenium ago, when the Empire was still writhing and squalling, busy being born.  You would have been a great Duke, because, I think, men would have followed you.  I would have.”

                Zack chuckled and released her hand, taking up his tea again.  “I thank you for your endorsement.  Perhaps I will take the Great Leap and see if I can’t make another Empire.”

                Belinda settled back in her chair and smiled.  “Another galaxy?  Rather a lonely prospect, I should think.  Spending a few decades in transit, then awakening to hope that you’re not in some other empire’s shipping lanes.”

                “True.  It is something of a one-way trip, too.  That’s why they call it the Great Leap, I suppose.”

                “Rather like one, yes.  Try not to do anything irreversible without at least letting me know?”

                “I’ll make certain that you are informed.”

                “Beforehand?”

                “Why?”

                Belinda hesitated a moment.  “So I can have a chance to persuade you otherwise?”

                Zack nodded, sagely.  “Ah, the dynastic manipulation of our respective parents.  Of course.”

                “Not—not entirely.”

                “Oh?”

                Belinda was having trouble looking at him, although her pose and poise were casual.  “I dislike the idea of being married off at my father’s whim,” she stated.  “That does not mean that I disapprove of his choice.”

                Zack blinked.  “Oh.  I see.  Thank you.  In that case, yes . . . I will make sure you have a chance to talk me out of it if at all possible.”

                “Thank you,” she replied and set the cup in its saucer.  “I really should be going; I would not wish to overstrain my welcome.”

                “Have no fear of that.  Simply stop in and say hello.”

                She rose; Zack rose with her.  “I may do that,” she stated, and looked him in the eye.

                “Good.  Elgin will show you out.”

                “Zack?” she asked, hesitating.

                “Yes, Belinda?”

                “Would it . . . would it be so bad, do you think?”

                He cocked his head, thinking.  “I do not think so.  I am sure that we would manage.  I do not know if we would be happy, but I believe we would avoid being miserable.  You are likable, Belinda.  And I do.”

                She nodded, blushing.  “Until next time, then.”

                “Adieu.”

* * *

                Zack held the glass of champagne in his left hand and kept his right in his trouser pocket.  All around the room, couples were dancing to the slow strains of the Fairies’ Waltz.  Several wallflowers were in small groups, chatting, while a number of singletons simply watched the room.  With wry amusement, he wondered which of them were bodyguards—and who they were guarding.  He spotted one of his own guards, but failed to recognize any others.  But there would be others.  There were always others.

Adjusting his collar slightly, he did some mental math, totaling the times he had been trapped at such a function in the past month and doing an extrapolation to guess how many he had attended in his life.

                “Diogenes?”

                “Yes, Sir?” said the bracelet.  Still covered by his sleeve, it did not emit a holographic image.

                “How many formal occasions have I been to?  As a representative of my House, that is.”

                “One thousand, eight hundred and twelve, Sir.”

                He muttered an ungentlemanly word.  “I was guessing closer to two thousand.”

                “If Sir considers occasions wherein he was not the sole representative of his House, such as when traveling in company with his older brothers or the Duke, then the number is two thousand and ninety-one.”

                “Ah.  Good thinking.  Thank you.”

                “Of course, Sir.”  

                Zack finished the champagne and quietly cursed the internal modifications that forced him to remain sober.  Genetically engineering a human being was outlawed, proscribed; altering one through gene therapy, however, was merely frowned upon and extremely expensive.  But it helps to survive an assassination attempt when the target ignores most poisons, resists shock, has lungs that filter his air, his a few extra organs of various but highly-practical nature, and carries a few genetically-engineered symbiotic organisms in his bloodstream.

                If the Duke Laertes had one major worry, it was assassination.  Not from disgruntled subjects of the House, but when used as a political tool.

                Zack snagged another glass from a passing robot waiter and sipped.  At least it was good champagne.  A passing tray of finger sandwiches provided a few calories to go with it.

                “I beg your pardon, your Grace,” offered a quiet voice.

                Zack glanced around, replying, “Yes?” automatically.

                The speaker was an older man, looked to be in his late fifties; with Regenex treatments, he might have been as much as four hundred, so that was no guide.

                “I wonder if I might speak with you, your Grace?”

                “You are.  What do you want?”

                “Perhaps a word in private?”

                Zack looked around the ballroom, sighing.  There was really nothing here that required his atten—

                “Excuse me,” he murmured, and handed the man the champagne glass.  Without another word, Zack walked away.

                His target was a fetching young lady halfway around the floor.  Lustrous black hair tumbled down in waves over her bare shoulders; the low curves of her dress directed attention to her small but perfectly-formed breasts.  The material clung like a lover to her narrow waist and flaring hips before billowing again into a skirt that concealed her legs down to mid-calf; what was visible was equally flawless.  But her face was a study in porcelain and sculpture.  Narrow lines and smooth curves, symmetrical, like an artist’s image of a face brought to life.

                Makeup, mostly.  Surely.  Isn’t it? Zack thought, approaching.  And where is her escort?  Surely she isn’t here alone!

                But it seemed that she was.  She saw him approaching and looked startled, then nervous.  But she did not glance around for someone else; she merely stood her ground and waited, watching him.

                Zack stood before her in a moment, smiling.  “Good evening.  Enjoying the occasion?”

                “I am not certain I even know what the occasion is,” she admitted.

                “I believe it is the Baron Yinsee’s birthday.  This is his birthday party.”

                “Oh.”

                “Allow me to introduce myself.  I am Zachary Laertes, seventh son to His Grace, the Duke of House Laertes.”

                She nodded.  “I know who you are, your grace, and am pleased to meet you.”  She curtseyed, shallow but graceful.

                Zack smiled wider.  “Good!  And may I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”

                “Aviras Parmentalium, your grace.”

                “Well, Aviras—may I call you Aviras?”

                “Of course, your grace.”

                “Excellent.  Well, Aviras, please call me Zack.  I am not the heir to the ducal signet; I will be fortunate to have a quiet continent to myself.  So, please, be informal.”

                Flustered, she nodded.  “As you say, your—Zack.”

                “So, do you have an escort?”

                “No . . . Zack.”

                He smiled at her pauses.  “It’s difficult to call me Zack?”

                She hesitated and then smiled, slightly.  “I am not used to addressing nobility by a nickname.”

                “Why should you not?  When requested, of course.”

                “No reason.  It simply isn’t something I find requested.”

                “You do not attend these functions often, then?”

                “Yes, I do, actually.  But I am seldom permitted such familiarity.  It is not my place, your—Zack.”

                Zack chuckled.  “I think I’m forcing you to be disturbed and ill at ease.  Would you prefer to call me ‘your grace’?”

                “Yes, please, your grace.”

                “Very well.  Do so.  And what are your titles?  You have me at a disadvantage.”

                She glanced about the room, briskly.  “I have none,” she demurred.  “I am not noble.”

                “Fair, though.  Then why are you here, if you have no escort?  A favorite of the baron, perhaps?”

                “No, your grace.  I am here because it is part of my duties.”  Her eyes flicked over his shoulder.

                “Ah,” he replied, nodding.  “A courtesan in the baron’s service?”

                “Hardly.”  She ran her hands along her skirts, adjusting the thigh-level folds of material, front and back.

Zack looked thoughtful.  “Then I confess I am at a loss.  Aside from ornamentation, what is your function?”

She drew out a pinbeam from the folds of her skirts.  Zack held very still as she smoothly stepped close to him in an embrace.  Her chin came to rest on his shoulder, the hand with the pinbeam slid around his hip.  There was a soft sound, almost a chirp, then a wail of pain.  It was all done with such speed that Zack knew that she was not fully human; her movements were, almost literally, faster than the eye could follow.

Zack felt vertigo; he was suddenly on the floor with a fragrant, warm woman lying on top of him, covering him with her body.  Around the room, several men closed in on the older gentleman who had spoken with him earlier.  The party continued, although a bit more subdued, while the wounded man was removed from the room; his weapon, a medical injector, was handled with great care.  Aviras rose and two large men helped Zack to his feet.  Others at the party, in accordance with modern good manners, ignored both the assassin and his target for a few minutes, pretended not to see.

“Are you hurt, your grace?”

“Not at all,” Zack replied, brushing at his sleeves, flustered and slightly shaken, but hiding it..  “In the future, I expect to be kissed before you throw me to the floor.”

Aviras smiled and tucked the pencil-sized pinbeam away in the folds of her skirts.  “As you say, your grace.  But why didn’t you try to stop me?  I had a weapon in hand.”

“And you would have shot me immediately if that was your intention.  Besides, your eyes were on something behind me, not on me—you were looking at a target, and I wasn’t it.  I take it that you were using me to conceal your actions from my supposed assassin?”

She nodded.   “Yes, your grace.  I apologize, but there was no time to do anything else.”

“So who do you work for?”

“The Duke Laertes.”

“I don’t recall seeing you around.  I would remember.”

“I’ve been on your sister.  She no longer wishes my services.”

Zack developed a line between his brows.  “Why not?  Madeline is quite easy to get along with.”

Aviras hesitated, then answered, “I broke the arm of Sir William Orven when he put it around her shoulders.”

“Oh.  Roughly?” Zack inquired.

“Romantically.  But His Grace was quite specific about what was and was not permitted with his daughter.”

“I see.  And he had you reassigned . . . ?”

“Exactly, your grace.  You require less supervision in regard to your paramours.”

Zack smiled his best diplomatic smile.  “Lovely.  Thank you.  Well done.  Is there anything I can do for you in return?”

“Try not to get stabbed, your grace?”

“I will make a note of it.”

* * *

                The Duke was an older man, despite his doctors.  Grey streaked his temples and salted his hair, although his hands were still strong and his bearing powerful.  He wrapped the room about him like a cloak; simply entering was enough to give visitors the feeling that they were intruding on the great man’s space.

                His family, however, tended to be more resistant to his commanding presence.

                “Father,” Zack repeated, “I do not want to marry.”

                The Duke’s eyebrows rose like wings.  “If there is a problem with Belinda, of course, I can certainly find someone you find more to your taste—”

                “That isn’t it, Father.  Belinda is nice enough, and we agree on most things.  She makes a good companion and friend.  But I do not want her as a wife.”

                “She will make a fine mother, my son.  And you a formidible Count.”

                Zack gritted his teeth behind closed lips, his face expressionless from long schooling.

                “And if I do not wish to be a Count, Father?”

                “Name any title short of Duke and I will find one, my boy.  I will not see you impoverished.”

                Talking with my Father, Zack reflected, is like talking with a favorite book; certain passages are known by heart.  Seething inwardly, he rose.

                “Might I be excused to think on it, Father?”

                “Of course,” the Duke replied, leaning back in the antique leather chair.  “Take your time, but have an answer for me by the end of the week.”

                “As you say, Father,” Zack acknowledged, bowing slightly.  He turned and left his father’s office chambers, breezing past the servants without even noticing them.  Shadows of people, like paintings that move; images that impinged upon his universe to accost, annoy, or fawn.

                Or simply be shadows.

                He ignored the unobtrusive figures that followed and preceeded him.  There was little enough that he could do about it, aside from shooting them.  Guards.  Always guards.

                I live my life in a palace, going from classroom to court, gymnasium to gravity room, piloting simulator to dojo.  My meals are planned for me, my schedule arranged for me—and in defiance of Imperial law, even my genes were carefully selected and engineered.

                Zack paused by one of the high, open windows that faced onto the north gardens, regarding them.

                I am like the garden, he thought, morose.  It is beautiful and perfect—and useless.  Watching the small robots creep along the pathways, trimming, he smiled.  It was a sad, rueful smile; a private man’s slow tears.

                More like a garden than a man, he reflected.  The garden has tenders to keep it; I  have hundreds of people whose only duties are to see to it that I am kept immaculate and perfect.  But without its caretakers, what would the garden become?  A place of wildflowers and weeds, overgrown and chaotic.  Without my jailers, what would I become?

                He shook his head and walked on, still thinking, footsteps echoing from the marble floor.

                A soft chime interrupted his thoughts.  “I beg your pardon, Sir,” said the voice of his bracelet.

                Zack pulled back his sleeve.  “Yes, Diogenes?”

                “Your noon luncheon will be served in ten minutes, but you have not specified where you will take it, Sir.”

                “I’m not hungry.”

                “I regret that Sir has no appetite.  Where shall the luncheon be served, Sir?”

                Zack glared an Et tu?  at the wristband.  “All right.  Have it served on the west terrace.”

                “Very good, Sir.  Sir also has a guest.  One Marcus Hamliton awaits Sir’s convenience.”

                “Marcus?  What’s he doing here?”

                “His stated objective is to see Sir.”

                Zack shook his head.  “Invite him to today’s luncheon.  I’ll meet him there.”

                “As you say, Sir.”

                “What’s the weather like for this afternoon?”

                “It has been set to clear skies with a high of twenty-nine, Sir.”

                “Thank you.”

                He hurried upstairs, impishly making his guards hustle somewhat faster than usual.  He changed quickly, despite his new guard’s presence; normally, he never noticed female bodyguards—they were just there, like statuary or portraits.  He had spoken with Aviras, looked at her as a woman, not a guard, and found it somewhat disconcerting to have her in the room while he changed.

                Luncheon waited on him.  It always did.

* * *

                Robert “Bob” Carter was the most senior of Zack’s bodyguards; he reported to the Duke’s security chief.  The rest of Zack’s bodyguards reported to Bob.  Bob was a capable, intelligent man with excellent people skills, as well as a knack for being in the line of fire.

                But dealing with Zack was sometimes like wrestling with jell-o.  No matter how you pushed, pulled, or squeezed, it kept oozing out of your grip.

                Take the summer on Taperia.  Zack decided to go for a walk on the beach, so four guards went with him at a discrete distance.  Upon encountering other beachcombers, they closed in, but tried to remain inconspicuous.  All well and good.

                Zack, however, had taken it into his head that a refreshing dip would be nice.  He peeled down to his skin and went straight into the water—leaving a small pile of clothes and four very unamused guards on the beach.

                It wasn’t that the waters were unsafe; Taperia had no life-forms inimical to man.  The point was that anybody with a boat and the desire could simply have picked him out of the water.

                When Bob had heard about Aviras’ difficulty with Sir William, he had immediately requested her for his own staff.  Upon seeing her, he had been even more pleased with his idea.

                Aviras had been blunt:  “Don’t get me wrong.  I thank you for asking for me; I was pretty sure I was going to be job hunting.  But I don’t understand . . . why do you want me?”

                “Zack, the Duke’s seventh and youngest son.”

                “What about him?  He’s not likely to have problems telling his girlfriends ‘no’.”

                “Probably not, unless the little darlings gang up on him.  But he has absolutely no regard for his personal security.  I want you to be his shadow and the primary liaison between his careless attitude and our duties as his security personnel.”

                Aviras frowned.  “How so?”

                “You’re female.  You’re beautiful.  I think he might listen to you.  At the very least, he should be more courteous to you than to any of the rest of us.”

                “So you needed eye candy to make your job easier—and I’m it.”  She made a statement, not a question.

                Bob took it as such.  “That’s right.  That is exactly right.  I think that you are arrogant, vicious, and needlessly overzealous in manhandling and skullcracking.  You have a long record of overkill.  While that is not always a bad thing in a bodyguard, you also tend to go off on a hair trigger and break some bones in perfectly innocent bystanders.”

                Aviras shrugged.  “Better safe than sorry.”

                “In your case, the safety of passerby becomes an issue.”  Bob got up from his desk and began to pace.  “I’ve spoken with my chief; Marina, your old boss, also spoke with him.  He has had a discussion with the Duke.  I don’t have to tell you that it doesn’t get any higher than that.  It boils down to this:  You are his bodyguard, as well as his eye candy, leash, nose ring, and cattle prod.  You’ll stick by his side like a Vetaxian leech, and the rest of us will keep our distance to keep him—and you—out of arms’ reach of people if at all possible.  We all protect him, we also protect the passerby from you.  I think it will work.”

                Bob stood behind his desk, put both fists on it, leaned forward.  “Your other option is to walk.  You’ll have a nice severance package and a bonus.  But you won’t have a good reference as a bodyguard; as a mercenary, certainly.  Their profession is violence, attacking and killing.  Ours is supposed to be guarding and protecting.  So take your pick.”

                Aviras stared at him for long seconds, lost in thought.  Bob let her have the time.

                “I’ll try it,” she answered.  “I might quit, but I’ll try it.”

                “Good enough,” Bob had said.  “You’ll be meeting him at the Baron Yinsee’s birthday party.  Look him over.  I’ll see to it that you are introduced, afterward.”

                Now he reflected that it had gone rather wrong.  The meeting had come much quicker than anticipated, and not in a fashion at all to his liking.  And the way that assassin had gotten in past the Baron’s security!  That was suspicious and very concerning.

                I’m suspecting the Baron Yinsee of conspiring to kill one of the Duke’s sons.  I guess I must be doing my job.

                Still, the assassin had been wounded, disabled, and captured; what he knew would be extracted.  It was doubtful that he would know anything useful.  The number of his payment account, perhaps; who hired him would be unknown.  But it had to be done . . .

* * *

                Zack whistled as he walked out onto the launch strip.  Aviras followed him, carrying a helmet of her own.

                “Did I say you could come along?” he asked, not slowing.

                “No, your grace.”

                “I’d rather fly by myself.”

                “I know, your grace.”

                Zack paused next to the sleek fighter.  “Then you stay here.”

                Aviras looked at him for a moment.  Zack stared back.  When she finally spoke, she was direct.

“Two things.  First, you’ll have to hit me and break a bone or two before I’ll stay behind willingly.  I know you’re a buzz saw on legs, so you probably could break a couple of my bones if they weren’t reinforced.  And I’m required to not hurt you. 

“Second . . . I love to fly.  I would really like to get some air time in a Laertes fighter.  Please, Zack?”

                Maybe it was the “please.”  Or the “Zack.”  Maybe both.

                Zack nodded, grudgingly.  “All right.  Come along, but don’t expect much in the way of lessons.  I’m a lousy teacher.”

                “Okay.”  She mounted the side of the cockpit, finding the springloaded toe-covers easily enough, then settled down into the gel-filled seat.  Zack climbed up forward of her and belted in.  He went through the preflight, checked the fusion bottle, thruster controls, and warmed up the particle beams to make sure they were functional.

                “Planning on hunting a dinosaur, your grace?” she asked, noting the alert-ready light on her console.

                “No.  But I like to know that it’s all available if I want it.”

                “I can’t argue that, your grace.”

                “Ready?”

                “Roger that, your grace.”

                Zack pushed the thrust lever forward, swung the nose around into line with the runway, and then shoved it.  Five gravities of acceleration pressed them both into the couches as the fighter sprinted down the runway; in a few hundred feet, it was fast enough that Zack pulled back on the stick and began a vertical climb.

                “Why . . . not . . . just vee-tol?” Aviras asked, panting out the words.

                “Not . . . near . . . as much . . . fun,” Zack replied and grinned like a rictus.  The altimeter passed a thousand meters and kept climbing.  Two thousand.  Three.  Five.  Eight.  At ten thousand meters, he leveled off and dropped the thrust down; he took the craft into normal flight, cruising.

                “I thought for a minute you were going into orbit,” she admitted as she took in her first deep breath since takeoff..

                “I could.  These are sweet ships.  I could land on one of our moons and come back, no trouble.  But it’s a long trip, two hours, and I hate skew-flip turnarounds.  They always make my stomach try to crawl out my nose.  Not good.”

                Aviras made a face.  “I can imagine.  I think.”

                “Better not.  It’s nasty.”

                “Too late, your grace.”

                Zack laughed, then started banking, gently, left and right.

                “So what are we doing up here?” Aviras asked.

                “Well, I haven’t had a chance to fly one of these things in a while.  I thought I’d see if I remembered how.”

                “It looks like you do.”

                “Maybe.”

                He went vertical again, then eased over backward, flying upside-down.  He rolled into normal flight, then rolled upside down again.  He pulled back on the stick, pitching the nose downward, making the ground swing from overhead to dead forward; diving straight down for several seconds, laughing, he then pulled out of it into supersonic flight as the craft shattered air and passed over the ocean.

                “Everything all right back there?” he asked.  He was smiling like the devil.

                “Great!” Aviras replied.  “I love that!  Can you do it again?  But faster and harder?”

                Zack turned his head, but it was impossible to see her with the cockpit architecture.  She’s not complaining about that being too dangerous?  I thought bodyguards were supposed to be fanatical safety people?

                “If you like, yes.”

                “Do it!  —your grace.”

                Zack laughed.  “I had wondered where that went.”  And he climbed again, rapidly, to repeat his performance.  As she requested, faster and harder.  He did it again.  And then again, each time a little bit quicker than before, until yellow warning lights blinked on his panels.

                “That looks like about the limit,” Zack said.  “Much as I enjoy getting my eyeballs sucked into my head, I’d rather not have to bail out because my ship came apart.”

                “Awwww.”

                She really sounds disappointe!, Zack realized.  “We’ll find something else to do, I’m sure.”

                “I hope so!  This was fun!”

                “I like your attitude.  How long have you been a bodyguard?”

                “Twenty-nine years.  I’ve worked for your father for almost six.”

                “Why did you leave your previous employer?”

                Aviras hesitated.  “You could just look it all up in my file, your grace.”

                “Aviras?”

                “Yes, your grace?”

                “When we’re alone, you will call me ‘Zack.’  Call me anything else and I’ll do my best to take you over my knee and spank you.  I’m not sure I can do it, but you’ll have the choice of either assaulting your principal or taking it, so I might.  Are we clear?”

                “Yes, Zack,” she replied, deliberately sounding meek.

                “Good.  Now, I could look it up in your file, but I’d rather hear it from you.  Why’d you leave the last employer?”

                “He didn’t like my methods.”

                “How so?”

                Aviras hesitated long enough that Zack wondered if she wre going to answer.

“I like hurting people.”

                There was a long pause.

                “Go on,” Zack said, his tone expressing nothing.  Aviras wished that the inner canopy of the cockpit hadn’t been coated to eliminate glare and reflection.  His expression was of intense interest at that moment.

                “Well . . .” she hesitated again, gathering her thoughts.  “When someone is obviously a threat, I get to . . . do pretty much what I please.  I like it.  I like the freedom to grab some bloke and tie his arms in knots.  Or shoot him in a kneecap.  Even killing . . . there’s something personal and wonderful about killing another human being with your own hands.  Guns are okay, knives are better.  But barehanded . . . that’s the best.  And sometimes—” she bit her lip, falling silent.

                “And sometimes?”

                “. . . sometimes they even hit me,” she whispered, and shifted in her seat.  “I like that, too.”

                “I see.”

                “Do you?” she asked, skeptically.

                “I think so.  I may have as much freedom as a thoroughbred horse, but I’m not ignorant.  I take it that wholesale slaughter—say, irradiating a planet full of people—would be no fun?”

                “None at all.  It’s just button-pushing.  The light show might be nice.”

                “And waving your hand through a fire isn’t, either?”

                Aviras was silent for a moment.  “No.”

                “Because you’re doing it to yourself, right?  It’s only good when someone else does it, isn’t it?”

                “Yes,” she whispered.  She could feel herself growing warm at the thought of Zack hurting her.  Maybe it was the idea of him, a powerful, wealthy man—or the way he looked, handsome and confident, in control.  Or just her relationship with him; a powerful servant, yet a servant nonetheless.  It made her tingle, a pleasant tightness in her body.  But his voice was carefully neutral, schooled, ruled, controlled.  A tight knot of fear stayed lodged under her heart; his opinion was still in doubt.

                Zack went on, “I venture to guess that you would do well as a personal killer, as well.  Does it appeal to you, the idea of being ordered, ‘Kill that man’—and doing it?”

                Aviras bit her lip and nodded, knowing that he could not see her.  She clutched at the armrests, licked her lips.  “Yes.”

                “Good.  Next time someone irks me, I’ll have you remove him.”

                Anticipation and gratitude flooded through her as the knot of fear dissolved into a heightened tightness in her body.  Until that second, she had been afraid of how he would feel about it, how he would react.  It shocked her a little to discover how profoundly she had been afraid of his rejection.

                “Thank you, your grace.”

                Zack began his final approach for landing.  “And that, dear lady, earns you one spanking.”  He grinned as he said it, his tone light.

                Aviras smiled as well and replied, “Thank you again, your grace.”

                “Don’t push it, wench.”

* * *

                Zack was quiet after the landing.  He spoke not one word after they climbed out of the cockpit; Aviras respected his silence.  There was a subtle tension between them, indefinable, nebulous, but definite.  Something had changed.

                They boarded the robotic hovercar that would take them from the airstrip to the Ducal Palace.  They sat together in the vehicle, watching the road roll along for some time.

                “Aviras?” Zack asked, breaking the silence.  She did not flinch, but her heart leaped up into her mouth.

                “Yes, yo— Yes, Zack?”

                “Come here.”

                She licked her lips and unfastened the safety harness; the road was smooth and level, so the vibration from the skirts was minimal.  She slid across the seat to sit next to him, touched the control that darkened the windows.

                “Yes?”

                Zack raised his arm and put it around her shoulders.  “Aviras, do you recall our flight?”

                “Vividly,” she replied, relaxing into his embrace. 

                “Good.  And do you recall what I said as we came in for a landing?”

                She swallowed.  Her heart began to race and that pleasant, tingling tightness returned.

                “Yes.”

                Zack pulled her forward and down, across his lap.  She made only a token resistance, more of a stiffness than fight.  Once she was face-down over his lap, he lifted his hand and smacked her smartly across the buttocks.  One, two, three, then a pause to switch to striking single cheeks.  One-one, two-two, three-thee, alternating.

                Aviras shuddered with each blow.  That tingle in her flesh enhanced and magnified, multiplied by the hard strokes.  And they were hard strokes; he struck with the full force of his arm, making the firm muscle ripple with each blow.  She twisted on his lap, ineffectually, as he continued to strike with unerring accuracy, over and over, until she felt the tingle grow to an uncontrollable discharge of warm lightning all through her body.  She cried out, softly, and went rigid, muscles locking as he smote her backside.  Then she collapsed, relaxed, even as he continued to spank her.

                The hovercar turned up the final leg of the drive toward the front gate; Zack lifted her and set her on her tender behind.  She leaned back against the seat, making soft sounds in her throat, shifting slightly; there was no real pain, not after that quivering, electric release—only a profound contentment and warmth.

                “We have about twenty seconds,” Zack said, his voice still smooth and controlled.  He massaged his hand, working out the soreness.  Aviras nodded, taking deep breaths.

                “Yes, Zack.”  She took his hand and massaged it herself, quickly, efficiently.  “I’m ready.”

                “You realize that you are going to have to continue to be an efficient, effective bodyguard if you expect to remain near me?”

                “I do.  I’ll manage.”  She bit her lip, thinking.  “Somehow.”

                “Good.  We’re home.”

                Somehow, that offhanded comment sent another thrill through her.

 

                The Duke Laertes reclined in the suspension field and watched the sun set.  It lifted his spirits, slightly, as it always did.  But tonight it was less than usual.  He floated above the unit, relaxing in the weightless embrace of the field.

                I’m getting old, he reflected.  Four hundred and sixty-one years as of last month.  And I’m feeling it.  It creeps up slowly, despite what the doctors can do.  And it’s crept up on me.

                He sighed and gestured; the suspensor unit wheeled itself away from the window and over to the desk.  With another gesture—the neural sensors read his projected thought—he used the suspensor to lift several thin, clear plates; they hovered before him conveniently.  These activated, showing graphs, text, three-dimensional vistas.  He got back to work.

                He was interrupted by a knife.

                The assassin was cloaked in a multi-layer defense, shielding from or absorbing most of the electromagnetic spectrum; it was quite sophisticated, even for the Imperium.  But it could not prevent the energy signature of a weapon from being detected; hence, the traditional assassin’s weapon.

                The blade came free of the sheath soundlessly.  It struck from behind, three times in rapid succession.  Once for each of the kidneys, a third thrust for the heart.  It moved through the suspensor field without resistance; the field was a gravity damper and pressor beam, not a force field.

                Three bodyguards, taken by surprise, were still quick on the uptake.  Beams lanced out from three directions, intersecting where the assassin would be, needed to be.  Two beams were warped, twisted, spun off in a crazy-quilt pattern of scattered coherent light; the third—a particle beam—impacted squarely and reacted strongly.  A ragged, bloody hole opened in the cloaking suit.

                The hole staggered, then moved rapidly for the open window.  The guard with the blaster fired again, tracking and aiming, squeezing off two shots in close succession.  Both hit the target, low, and brought more of the intruder into visiblity.  It also knocked him down with a wound in his leg.  The two with coherent light weapons closed rapidly to physically engage the target while the third continued to cover it.

                The intruder gurgled and died as they reached him.

                “Get him out of that,” the Duke ordered.  He was quite awake, obviously in pain, but not at all in shock.

                “Your Grace, you require medical attention before—“

                “I know what I need,” the Duke snapped.  “Luckily, you have no idea how hard it is to kill one of my line.  Now get him out of that suit or shell or whatever it is; I want it run through analysis now.  There may be more of them.”

                “Yes, Your Grace.”  And they did.  In the process, they also summoned the House physicians.  The doctors arrived at a run with their equivalent of a crash kit.

                “Your Grace?  May I examine—“

                “Yes, be about it.  Both kidneys and my primary heart, I think.  Feels like it.”

                The doctors closed in and examined the wounds; the suspensor field made it as convenient to treat him as it had been to stab him.  Very little blood had actually been spilled.  They consulted instrumentation to determine the nature, if any, of potential poisons and bioweapons.

                “Well?  Am I going to live?” he asked, sounding irritated.

                “We believe so, Your Grace.  The poisons are fairly standard—cyanide, curare, and strontium-90, nothing unusual.  Your secondary filtraton and augmented appendix seem to be taking care of that.  The bioweaponry appears to be a tailored virus; the full-spectrum workup appears to be similar to one that simply overproduces virulently until it ruptures all the cells of the body.  We think it’s tailored—yes, the readout is coming in now.”  The chief physician consulted the data display.  “Yes.  It was tailored for you, Your Grace, by someone who managed to get a copy of the false gene charts we leaked of your father’s genetic makeup.  It’s good work; not corner-kitchen stuff.”

                “I could have told you that; the method of delivery was unusual enough.  How good is it?  Cutting-edge?”

                “I’m afraid not, Your Grace.  Any competent bioengineer could have created this or something like it in just a few months, given biowarfare facilities.”

                The Duke nodded.  “Very well.  What else do you have to do?”

                “Nothing much, Your Grace.  We’ve sprayed the wounds with antibiotics and sealant; your muscle-layered blood vessels have already prevented any serious internal bleeding.  The enhanced clotting factors have stopped what little remained, and you hypertrophied lymph system has absorbed the internal leakage.  We’ve also stimulated cell growth with an injection.  You should return to the best of health—for your age—within a day or so, Your Grace.”

                The Duke nodded, hiding a frown.  “Then that will be all.”  They bowed and left.

                Hovering in his study, he regarded the empty place on the floor where an assassin had fallen.  Small robots were whirring in circles over the bloodstained hardwood, carefully sucking, buffing, and polishing.

                Cloaking technology.  That’s the key element.  Who do I know that could hide a man from every security sensor in the estate?

                He touched a control and called up his chief of security.