Coronation: A Kid Sensation Novel (Kid Sensation #5) (3 page)

“Certainly,” he said. “The satellites and other surveillance devices are still functioning, and I can still interface with them.”

I smiled inwardly. “Great! Give me a picture of something live!”

“Of course, Prince. What in particular would you like to see?”

“Anything! As long as it’s live!”

“Perhaps another scene from the House Nonpareil?”

“Yes!” I screamed, lowering my body temperature as the heat started to rise. “Whatever! Just show me something
now
!”

A second later, Sloe was once again projecting an image of the banquet preparations on the lawn. From what I could see, additional progress had been made in that plates were now set on several tables, along with glasses. However, I focused more on the scene, visualizing it in my mind as if I were actually there…

“Everybody crowd in!” I yelled to no one in particular. “Get close!”

Nobody had to be told twice. I’m not sure if they knew what I was going to do, but they were keenly aware of the fact that I was about to try something. (And with the walls starting to get hotter, they didn’t need much egging to move collectively towards the center of the room.)

I glanced around, making sure I got a lock on everyone there with my power (and at the last second including the DNA Luck Sequencer, almost as an afterthought). Then, taking a last look at the holographic scene being displayed, I teleported us.

I learned later that my suite-cum-escape vessel got blasted out of the sky mere minutes before it was about to crash. (Apparently it had been headed for a populated area, and when no one aboard answered any hails, some official somewhere made the decision to blow it to pieces.)

As to those who had been aboard, I managed to teleport us safely to the grounds of my ancestral home, the House Nonpareil. (In fairness, it was less than a pinpoint landing, and half of those in our little group ended up falling on their keisters.) Our sudden appearance scared the dickens out of the servants there, and if not for Berran (who was known to them), they quite likely would have called security on us. In fact, Berran essentially took charge once we arrived: dismissing Sloe (much to my surprise), making arrangements for a transport to come for the ship’s crew, and calling for a medic for me.

They must have had a physician on staff, because a few minutes later, a slight fellow of medium height came racing toward us from the direction of the castle, followed by a floating contraption that turned out to be some kind of mobile, all-in-one, medical and surgical kit. He wore a tunic of deep purple emblazoned with a golden emblem depicting a binary star system, which I understood to be the equivalent of a caduceus symbol among my grandmother’s people.

The doctor headed straight for me. When he was a few feet away, he stopped and made a weird gesture with his hands that I recognized as a sign of obeisance. For a moment I wondered how he knew who I was, and then I realized that I was still wearing the crown, among other things.

“Prince J’h’dgo,” he began, “I am Mabazol of the Royal League of Physicians. Will you permit me to examine you?”

I hesitated only a moment before answering, “Yes,” which Mabazol acknowledged with a short nod. He then turned to the side and flicked his wrist, tossing something onto an open, grassy area nearby.

I focused on what the doctor had thrown to the ground. It appeared to be a tiny cube of clear plastic. Without warning, it began to expand in size, seeming to unfold and swell, like an inflatable jumper at a kid’s birthday party. As it grew larger, its coloring began to change – becoming darker, as if the material it was made of was polarized in some way.

When it was roughly ten-by-ten feet in size (as well as height), the cube ceased expanding. By this time, its growth spurt had caused one side of the cube to almost reach the spot where the doctor and I were standing. Out of curiosity, I reached out to touch it; to my surprise, it felt a lot harder than I would have suspected after watching it unfold, almost like steel. At the same time – as if triggered by the contact – an opening suddenly appeared in what had been the smooth and seamless face of the cube.

Not quite sure what to make of all this, I turned to Mabazol, one eyebrow raised. He stared at me expectantly for a moment, then held up a hand in my direction in which he gripped an unusual, octagonal device that seemed to be nothing more than a thin piece of metal with various diodes dotting the surface on one side. With his other hand, he gestured for me to enter the cube, saying, “If you would be so kind, Prince.”

I assumed that the object Mabazol held was some kind of medical scanner, and with that observation came sudden insight as to the purpose of the cube: it was to provide me with privacy while the doctor checked me out. (We were still outside, where numerous servants, among others, were still bustling about.) Thus, it seemed safe to go inside, but I glanced at Berran for reassurance. The courier gave a brief nod in response to my inquisitive look, and I was just about to enter the cube when I noticed the ship’s crew over Berran’s shoulder.

“No. Them first,” I said, nodding in the direction of the crew.

Mabazol blinked and a blank look came across his face, as if he hadn’t understood what I’d said. “Pardon, my Prince?”

“The crew,” I said. “Attend to them first.”

Apparently treating commoners was close to verboten among royal physicians, because Mabazol didn’t seem to care for my last statement. In fact, he looked aghast, as if I’d just asked him to French kiss a king cobra.

“My apologies, Highness,” he began, “but my charge is only to treat members of the roy–”

“I don’t care,” I declared, somewhat forcefully. “These people got injured while in service to me. I want them taken care of.”

Mabazol opened his mouth as if to continue protesting, but something in my face obviously conveyed to him that I would brook no further argument on the subject. With eyes downcast, he stepped away from me and toward the crew, with the mobile medical kit following him.

For a moment, I wondered if I’d been too curt with him, and pondered if my brusque attitude was the result of the mental balloon continuing to expand in my brain. I turned to put the question to Berran, and caught him giving me an appraising glance. Emotionally, I felt him emanating admiration and esteem. Apparently he approved of the way I’d handled the good doctor.

Berran excused himself, leaving in order to address an issue of some sort, so I turned my attention back to Mabazol, who was now tending to the ship’s crew. He treated them like a leper colony – acting almost as if he were afraid to touch them – but treat them he did. First he’d release the little octagonal disk, which would float above the head of each crewman, apparently checking for injury and ailments. When it was finished, it would float back to the doctor’s hand. The mobile medical contraption would then produce whatever was needed to treat the patient: a pill, a syringe full of medicine, and so on.

(I later learned that the disk simultaneously transferred data scanned from the patient to the mobile medic, which then came up with a diagnosis and prescribed a remedy. The doctor was basically just there to perform the ministerial task of administering treatment, although technically he was supposed to confirm the diagnosis.)

I had been watching Mabazol in action for a few minutes when a familiar voice sounded a few feet to the side of me.

“Thank you,” said Captain Ventrua, inclining his head towards Mabazol, “on behalf of myself and my crew.”

I gave him a cheerful nod. “It’s the least I could do.”

“It’s more than could have been expected,” he replied. “There are few among the highborn who would allow their royal physician to treat plebians, let alone insist on it. Fewer still would have wasted a thought on saving us from a crashing ship.”

I shrugged. “It’s what I’ve been trained to do, back on my world.”

“Regardless, we are in your debt,” the captain said.

There was a certain weight to his words and a solemnity in his voice that made me realize this wasn’t just idle talk. I was about to comment on it when Mabazol showed up.

“As commanded, I have treated the injured among the crewmen,” the physician said. He then gestured towards the cube once more. “Now, with your permission, Prince?”

I nodded, and then stepped inside the cube, followed by Mabazol and the mobile medic. The door vanished after they entered, leaving the wall bare and smooth once more.

The interior was illuminated by a light source I couldn’t identify – it was if the cube’s interior surfaces were luminescent themselves. Also, while opaque on the outside, from the inside I could still see through the walls of the cube, like a two-way mirror.

Mabazol went to work almost immediately after we stepped inside; a few seconds later, the octagonal disk was hovering above my head, scanning me. In all honesty, this was undiscovered country for me in a certain sense. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d been to a hospital or been treated by a doctor.

Back on Earth, there had been a pretty good reason for being circumspect in that regard: being part alien, I was wary of ending up on a lab table, getting dissected without the benefit of anesthetic. Here among my grandmother’s people, I assumed that my status afforded me some level of protection. At least I hoped it did. (Plus, with the crown apparently affecting my powers and the odd bubble in my brain, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to get a clean bill of health.)

From my perspective, the disk seemed to linger over me for a significant period of time, although it was probably no more than a few minutes. During that time, through the transparent walls, I saw Berran return to where he’d left me. (Captain Ventrua had nonchalantly stepped back when Mabazol returned from examining the crew, and then slipped away so unobtrusively that I almost hadn’t noticed when he’d left.) The courier stared at the cube, clearly deducing that I was inside. Judging from the way his eyes darted about, it was plainly evident that he couldn’t see into the interior.

I shot Berran a telepathic message, telling him it was okay to come inside. He hesitated slightly, as if unsure, and then extended his hand toward one of the cube walls. A door appeared, and a moment later the courier joined us, just as the disk was floating back to the doctor’s hand.

Based on what I had previously observed, I now expected the mobile unit to supply Mabazol with some sort of medicament to administer, even though I felt fine. Once in Mabazol’s possession, however, the scanner let out a trio of small, sharp chirps, and then projected into the air above it a holographic image of numerous strange symbols inside a rectangle.

Mabazol stared at the symbols intently, and a moment later they began scrolling up on the holographic display, like a teleprompter. It only took me a second to figure out that this was some type of medical chart showcasing information about the state of my health. From the way Mabazol studied the information – accompanied by occasional grunts of interest (or surprise) – it wasn’t clear whether there was a problem or not.

After about a minute, I began to grow a little concerned. Maybe I wasn’t as healthy as I felt.

“What’s the verdict?” I finally asked.

“Wh–what?” Mabazol asked, my question seemingly catching him off-guard. Apparently, he had become so engrossed in the display that he’d forgotten that he had an actual patient present. That said, he recovered quickly.

The physician took a moment to clear his throat before speaking. “My apologies. From what I can tell, there are numerous genetic markers which are indicative not only of Caelesian heredity, but also high lineage and exalted pedigree.”

I frowned, slightly confused. “Meaning?”

One corner of Berran’s mouth tilted up into a slight smile. “Meaning that you are what you purport to be – a member of the Royal House.”

I grunted in annoyance. “I hadn’t realized it was up for debate.”

Although neither of the two men chose to comment on my statement, I picked up feelings of stress and anxiety – particularly from the doctor. Apparently he was concerned that he had vexed me in some way.

I let out a long sigh, and then – hoping to put him at ease – said, “I’m sorry, Mabazol. Please continue.”

“Of course, Prince,” the physician replied, relief flooding through him. “In addition to Caelesian traits, there is also sufficient evidence in your anatomical structure to identify your Terran origins.”

“Wait,” I said, brow crinkling in thought. “You’re familiar with human anatomy?”

“Of course,” Mabazol announced matter-of-factly. “We studied the people of Earth centuries ago and have a complete understanding of them biologically.”

“So your expertise extends to both Caelesians and Earthlings,” I said deductively. “Well, bearing in mind that you haven’t called for a crash cart, is it safe to assume that there’s nothing wrong with me?”

The physician hesitated for a moment, and then said, “I don’t know.”

I’m sure the incredulity showed on my face, and I certainly didn’t try to keep it out of my voice as I thundered, “What do you mean you don’t know?!”

Mabazol winced slightly at my tone, but responded in a steady voice.

“Frankly speaking, I’m not qualified to answer the question,” he said. “I’m not sure anyone is.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You’re going to have to explain that.”

“Your physiology is singular, to say the least,” the physician said. “The synthesis of Caelesian genes and Terran DNA has resulted in an amalgam that diverges in significant ways from either autochthonous species.”

“Such as?” I asked.

“For starters,” Mabazol answered, “you have organs and systems that I can’t discern the purpose of. I don’t know if their functions help or hinder, if they make you sick or make you well, if they shorten your lifespan or lengthen it.”

“In other words,” I concluded, “you don’t know if I’m going to drop dead in the next ten seconds or live forever.”

“In essence, yes,” the doctor said with a nod. “I have no standard or baseline to serve as an exemplar. That being the case, I can’t even determine what is rare or common with respect to this type of hybridization.”

Amalgam… Hybridization…
I was really starting to dislike the way this guy kept referring to me in the abstract, and it took quite an amount of effort to keep a civil tongue in my head.

“Forgive me,” Berran interjected, “but are you saying that, should he require medical attention, you wouldn’t be able to treat Prince J’h’dgo?”

“I could treat him,” the doctor countered. “I simply don’t know if I could treat him
effectively
because – in his case – I simply don’t know what constitutes the norm.”

“So what you’re really saying is that you’re useless,” I concluded. “At least when it comes to me.”

“I wouldn’t characterize it in that manner,” Mabazol said, frowning. “However, the entire discussion becomes moot if we could establish benchmark criteria for what constitutes your normal physical condition, Prince.”

“What would that entail?” Berran asked.

“Extensive observation of Prince J’h’dgo, to begin with,” the doctor answered.

Alarm bells started going off in my brain. “You mean like a study?”

Mabazol nodded. “Very much so.”

“Forget it,” I said flatly. I wouldn’t even truck with human physicians – whom I’d be much more comfortable with – back on Earth. There was no way I was letting some alien sawbones get his hands on me for a prolonged period of time.

“Please, my Prince,” Berran said pleadingly, exuding uncertainty and concern. “I beg you to reconsider.”