My Cyborg Savior (Crimson Romance)
Honoria Ravena
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2013 by Honoria Ravena
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6984-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6984-5
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6985-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6985-2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
For Lindsey, who has always supported me. The gas station guy still asks me about my “sister.”
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Thank you so much to Debra, you’re always there to help me out. Thanks to Megan for being a great friend and beta reader. A special thanks to Jess and everyone at Crimson Romance. I’m so pleased to be working with you all. And lastly a thank you to Candace Havens. Without Fast Draft this would have taken a lot longer to write.
“Jamila.”
Jamila turned over and brought one of her pillows along to cover her ears. The intercom was stuck on one volume: loud. It also caught some kind of awful static from the latest and greatest SkyTemple stabilizers. But the stabilizers were necessary. The planet Larus was prone to terrible windstorms that brought a house crashing to the earth at least once a year.
“Jamila,” her father’s voice carried through the intercom again, “if I send a servant to check on you, and you’re asleep, I’ll take your shopping allowance away for a week.”
That wasn’t a big threat, considering she had enough allowance saved to last her a year. And that was if she shopped at the finest tailors in New Kent. If she chose to wear peasant clothing she couldn’t begin to guess how long it would last.
Jamila sighed and released her pillow. She hated it when her father was home. He was one of those early risers, while she usually slept till noon. But then, she’d kept one of the servants up till five in the morning flying virtual combat missions over Dramam. Her father would never play games or associate with the “lower” classes.
“Jamila Christianna Clearborne!”
She flinched at the high-pitched squeal of faulty electronics as her father concluded the call. One day she was going to shoot the ’com.
The floor was ice-cold when she rolled out of bed. Another thing that was malfunctioning because of the constant remodels. When father was home, he seemed to think the place needed fixing.
Jamila slipped her feet into her self-heating slippers and pulled on a silk robe before going to see what her father wanted. She took her time, just to be a pain in the ass. It was an awful day out. In the summer the open, villa type architecture was beautiful. The SkyTemple could be closer to the ocean, so the warm sea breeze could waft through the windows. Now the Temple was higher in the air to avoid waves, and closed up tighter than a tomb. Rain lashed the windows and lightning lit the dark sky.
She tried to shake her case of the bored-as-hell blues. Six more months of this. Luckily, her father was due back at the Senate next week, so she would be able to leave the villa again. He always insisted that it was dangerous outside these walls, and when he was home he had the ability to make her stay … for the most part.
She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand and stretched as she entered the large dining room. She came to an abrupt halt. Father sat on one end of the table and a strange little man with pinched, rat like features sat on the other. To the left, against the wall, a line of dirty, haggard slaves stretched down the length of the table.
One man stood out. He was the tallest, most muscular man she’d ever seen. She was used to being around noblemen, who were usually varying degrees of short and shorter, and tended to be quite thin and frail from the pollution of the cities. At six feet, Jamila was a grotesquely tall woman among the rich, towering over them all. But this man had her by almost a foot.
His hard forearms flexed beneath the thick slave bands he wore. He had dense sleeves of tattoos down his arms. Nobles had given up tattoos long ago as a perverse, disgusting form of body modification. She usually felt the same way about them, but on him, they were extraordinary. Detailed tropical forest scenes with vibrant colors and animals she’d never seen. He only wore loose pants, showing off his chest and tattoos.
When she could close her gaping mouth, she asked, “Father, what’s going on here?” She kept her voice as neutral as possible. Disagreeing with her father was never a good idea. If he knew how much she abhorred slavery, he would probably surround her with slaves.
“You need a bodyguard. Someone to protect you and keep you in the house while I’m away.”
She swallowed, and tried to think of a good way to wiggle out of this little disaster. “But Father, what could possibly encourage a slave, a criminal most likely, to defend his captor?”
The weasel man spoke. His voice was high pitched and squeaky. “Simple. If you die, they die.”
She raised a scornful eyebrow. “For some, slavery is a worse fate than death. I’ve met many slaves who would die to escape their torment.” She turned to her father. “Daddy, I don’t think this is a good idea. It could get me killed.”
Jamila resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She doubted she was in enough danger to need a bodyguard. This was probably a ploy to get a spy on the senator’s side. He didn’t want her going out and partying. Last year he couldn’t have cared less but this was election year, and he was more paranoid than ever about their image.
He shook his head, his stubborn chin set. “If you die, it would be a fate worse than death for them. The poison that would be released into their system would eat at their insides for over a month before it finally killed them. There is no cure. It’s a very slow, agonizing way to go. But if they accept, and keep you alive, they get a warm, soft bed, as much food as they can eat, baths, new clothes, and any entertainment they escort you to. All they have to do is follow a child around. It’s not a bad deal.”
She tensed. Jamila hated being called a child. It was a sure sign her father was trying to put her in her place and force his will on her. She was twenty-four and far past the need for a babysitter.
It was clear that some of these men were dying for a chance to be a high class servant. Some of the slaves were salivating. Not that she could blame them. They were thin and frail. A few even had bloated bellies — a sure sign of malnutrition. Couldn’t this slaver spare one nutrition bar a day to keep them from appearing like they could drop dead at any second? And they were definitely beaten often.
“Well, daughter? Examine them. Choose.”
She rolled her eyes. “Most hardly look fit enough for any work, let alone being a bodyguard.”
In fact, there was only one that was fit for that kind of duty. Glancing at his ridged body and the angry set of his jaw, she seriously doubted he’d be grateful if she chose him. However, it was her one chance to save him from some other horrible person. Other nobles would take one look at his handsome, stubborn face and have him beaten.
She walked down the line, pretending to consider them. The men didn’t get better upon closer inspection. They were even more malnourished than she’d suspected. Some could barely stay on their feet, swaying back and forth, their eyes glazed over. Others smelled awful, as if they couldn’t hold their bowel movements.
She stepped in front of the large man, who was chained in the middle of the line. “Tell me about this one? Judging by the others, you must not have had him very long. He’s still fit and not diseased.” She glanced at her father. “Unless you want to spend an incredible amount of money fixing one of these poor creatures, it would have to be this man.”
Her father arched a brow at the slaver, who immediately started his sales pitch. “I don’t know about that one. I brought him at your request, but he’s a recently captured cyborg. Could be trouble. However, he’s been docile. He’s perfect for a bodyguard. A martial arts expert. Intelligent. Obedient.”
The prisoner’s head shot up to glower at the trader, and his electric blue irises seemed to glow. Jamila rolled her eyes. That was the scowl of one obedient criminal to be sure.
“He won’t be any trouble if he hopes to live. He’s lucky he wasn’t executed for abandoning his post.”
The man’s gaze shot to hers and she jumped. No slave should dare to meet his mistress’s eyes. It would get him beaten or executed. Her reaction caught her father’s attention.
“What are you doing? Don’t you dare meet my daughter’s eyes.”
The glare he gave Jamila’s father was enough to send a shiver down her spine. It was the expression of a killer. A dangerous man. The slaver stomped down his line of pitiful souls and shoved his electric guard stick in the slave’s belly. He grunted and doubled over but didn’t go down. She gaped at him. Those things had enough voltage to knock a man unconscious and he barely moved. She shivered. Cyborgs were powerful. It wasn’t a good idea to keep one as a slave. Especially one that had escaped before.
They were genetically engineered to be faster and smarter than humans and were immune to almost any illness. But unlike normal genetically engineered people, most of a cyborg’s joints and bones were reinforced with metal and they were supposed to have some sort of computer enhancing their brains that could put even gen engineered intelligence to shame. Their nanobots helped to speed healing even further. None of that should have increased his ability to resist pain. In fact he was probably more sensitive to everything. What was done to them to make them so resilient?
It wasn’t a question she could voice in this room. Her father was against genetic engineering and body enhancements. She couldn’t believe he’d considered this man to guard her. Though, he was a slave, and her father probably figured that was a cyborg’s rightful place if they had to exist.
“Well, Father, this has to be the one. He’s the only one fit for any kind of work.”
Her father snorted. “A bit of a stubborn creature. You’ll have to tell me if he exhibits any willfulness. He’ll have to be punished for it.”
Jamila nodded, but couldn’t manage to say anything. If she opened her mouth she’d probably tell him he was a bastard for wanting to beat a man who had every right to be “willful.”
“How much?” He and the slaver started haggling over the price. Her father was a cheap man, and a hard bargainer. He’d likely get the slave for less than he was worth.
She examined her new acquisition while they bickered. He gave off dangerous vibes that set the hair on the back of her neck on end. No one would mess with this man without facing death. He shifted his stance and rolled his shoulders, displaying fine muscles in his chest. He definitely wasn’t what she was used to. There wasn’t a feminine feature on his face. His angular jaw was clenched as he stared arrogantly forward, instead of looking down at the ground as he was supposed to. Though, that rule probably wouldn’t apply to him. A bodyguard couldn’t stare at his feet all day.
Jamila’s gaze fell to his tattooed arms and she couldn’t resist touching the colorful flesh. Would it feel different than normal skin? She’d never seen anyone with tattoos up close. They were beautiful. She ran her hand along his warm forearm, examining them, and he tensed. When her gaze moved back to his face he was staring down at her and flashed her a crooked smile that made her stomach flip. She removed her hand and stepped away.
