This new mission of Maxtin’s should weigh on him more heavily than the past one. Delivering weapons, even deep into Mokarran space, lacks the diplomatic tact dealing with royalty will require. Never in his entire childhood had Reynard ever envisioned meeting someone of royal blood, let alone having a private audience with the ruler of an entire planet.
Even at Maxtin’s behest he’s not sure why the queen of Aurora desires to meet him alone. The request would be less bizarre if his crew were a better-known mercenary group, but they’ve done little more than smuggle weapons, which will get them in the graces of less-than-scrupulous individuals, or at least those the Mokarran felt were criminals. Most of them were revolutionaries or insurgents just protecting their species from oppression, but none renowned enough to draw the attention of a queen, even with the added deaths of a few dozen Mokarran.
Somehow eliminating giant fish with legs…Scratch that. His high school biology teacher would have pointed out sharks aren’t exactly fish. He has no moral dilemma about ending them. It could be their committed atrocities or just their multiple attempts on his life.
The queen of Aurora allowed only Reynard to transport to the planet. Not wanting to reveal his advanced transporter system, he allowed the palace transporter system to move his molecules to the surface.
They reach the end of the paper wall corridor. Wafts of perfume or soap lather hang in the air. Tufts of steam and other noises behind the opaque paper door hint at bathing pools.
The soap hides drafts of sulfur. Behind the paper door beyond pillars of steam about eye level, water bubbles in a volcanic rock creator.
Naked women lounge in the pool, but what catches Reynard’s attention first is the female nearly in a parade rest stance covered in a chain-mail bra and double-slit dress. Protruding over her shoulders, ink stains reveal a tattoo. He doesn’t know her name, but she’s Calthos in blood. The women of his sword brother’s species only have two arms, but that doesn’t stop them from training and learning a fighting style to subdue their male counterparts. The queen’s personal bodyguard—only the stupid would dare attack and face this deadly temptress.
Reynard bows to her, folding his right hand over his left fist in the symbol of respect Joe’s clan offers. She ignores his gesture. Clearly beneath her dignity to acknowledge, Reynard knows how to correctly bow. If he were Calthos born, this insult would require a violent response.
Maybe he should prove that he earned the sword on his hip and understood her customs when he became a member of Joe’s clan through honorable means. Joe explained it was better for off-worlders to avoid engaging in a test of wills with the Calthos-born.
Reynard ignores the woman, hoping his sword brother advised him correctly, and addresses the naked queen using all his mental faculties to view her eyes over her exposed plump, wet, breasts.
“Admiral Maxtin informed me you require the assistance of my crew.”
“I haven’t spoken to the good Admiral in decades. Only a select few even know of my connection to a Zayar.”
“I was only recently made aware of it, Your Majesty.” Reynard wishes he would have checked with Australia on the proper way to address the ruler of Aurora.
“The Mokarran insisted on making all security arrangements for the royal wedding since they support the prince about to unite with my daughter. I don’t need a private security force.”
“Then the Admiral was misinformed.” If that was indeed his intentions?
“Or you are here in guise.” She waves her arms. The two escorts swing partisans. Reynard only avoids one blow as he leaps the lower-swung poleaxe, accepting the shock across the chest of the second. The leather jacket has interwoven Kevlar threads in the lining that absorb enough of the impact to prevent all of the air from being forced from his lungs. He flips sideways, his right hand dancing above his magnum, unsure if he should draw.
Admiral Maxtin sent him here to be in the queen’s charge. Now his actions will determine his employer’s standing reputation as well as his own. The armored men stab the curved axe heads at his abdomen. Reynard flinches. His quick spin between them allows him to draw the blade on his left side, and in three perfect swift movements he severs the end of one pole arm and embeds the blade in the chest of the second guard.
The man melts into a pile of gray gelatinous goop, dragging the sword from Reynard’s hand. Before he has time to be shocked by the melting humanoid, he draws his magnum and fires into the chest of the second attacker. He joins the pile of slop congealing on the ground. Before he twists the barrel toward the queen, a hand fan tears the weapon free from his finger, securing it to the wall by the trigger guard.
The Calthos female flashes her finger, and two more folded hand fans spread open. The beautiful landscape images decorate the fabric and the bladed spokes. Reynard stands a chance to match her speed if he reaches his katana.
“Enough!” The queen stands. Servants rush to cover her dripping wet body with dry robes.
Reynard notices, despite her age, the queen still has a magnificent frame. Along her right hip he spots a red inked tattoo of vertical and horizontal lines. He pulls himself into a parade rest stature, but keeps one eye on the Calthos female while wondering why a woman of such status would have such a faded tattoo.
“You are quite skilled,” she compliments.
“Synthoids aren’t designed for combat. It wasn’t a valid test of my skill.”
Synthoids—cloned forms of humanoids made of congealed cytoplasm to create an unstable life form able to accept programming.
“I don’t pander the ego of Osirians. Your warrior skills and Maxtin’s trust are what concerns me.” She waves all her servants, except the Calthos female, from the chamber. “My
