Before the Fire Page 2

  “Assuming it works, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  She sighed. Yes, she decided, sighing was definitely a part of her new personal protocol. “Very well then. I’ll go home and inject the chips’ data into my bloodstream tonight and I’ll be ready to commence at 0700 hours.”

  Linder glanced at the digitized hologram clock on the wall behind Kane’s desk. “So early? It’s already past midnight.”

  “I’ll still get four hours sleep. That’s all I require.” She shrugged. “I can always take a synthetic sleep clone to fool my brain into thinking I’ve slept longer.”

  Linder nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

  “Fine.”

  The NASA commander saluted Kane with the universal symbol of peace and prosperity, then turned back toward the door once again. “Oh by the way, we’ll be dropping you into southern England in a locale known to the ancients as Blackmore.”

  “Blackmore? Never heard of it. Anything I should know about it?”

  Linder whistled as he placed his thumb on the DNA scanner and waited for the office door to open. He was on the other side and the door half closed when he added, “Oh nothing you can’t handle, Kane. So what if the Lordling of Blackmore supposedly murdered his wife? I’ve every faith in your ability to handle him should the two of you ever meet.”

  The door slid shut with an ominous click to the auto-lock.

  The jutting fists in Kane’s sensory seat went haywire, knocking her from the chair and onto her ass.

  Chapter 2

  Kane paid little attention to Timal, her personal droid, as he dressed her in an eighteenth century lady’s gown. Timal, a six-foot, two hundred and ten pound droid modeled after the muscular male humanoids of planet Nero, carefully buttoned the back of her gown to secure it. When he was finished, he inclined his handsome head to Kane and smiled. “Is that all you require of me, mistress?” And when she didn’t answer right away he asked again, “Mistress?”

  Kane blinked, his question not registering at first. “Uh yes, Timal, that is all I require for the present.” She hesitated for a moment as she briefly considered whether or not he was needed for anything else. She decided that he wasn’t. “You may retire to my sleeping chamber and deactivate until I call for you again.”

  Timal frowned as he gazed into Kane’s eyes. It was obvious she had hurt his preprogrammed feelings. She didn’t have to wait but a moment to find out why. “Do I not please you anymore, mistress?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you please me!” she defensively insisted, refusing to let him think otherwise. “I bought you because your last mistress built you to my specifications, remember?”

  Timal smiled, placated. “I remember.” He strolled up to Kane and encircled her in the fold of his perfectly muscled arms. He placed soft kisses on her mouth over and over again until Kane parted her lips to accept him inside. The droid swept his tongue inside of her, pulling her forcefully closer to him as he did so.

  She mentally winced, realizing that the kiss was having no affect on her whatsoever. She didn’t have time, however, to deal with the underlying significance of that fact.

  Without warning, Timal ended their brief kiss. He pulled away and winked down at her. “Are you certain that you do not require anything else of me, mistress?”

  Kane gulped—from guilt or resignation she couldn’t say. She shook her head to clear it. “I wish I had the time. Truly I do. But I must go.”

  Timal respectfully inclined his head to indicate his acceptance of her decision. “I will await you in your sleeping chamber. May the goddesses bless you, mistress.”

  “May the goddesses bless you, Timal.”

  Kane took a relieved breath as she watched Timal depart. By the galaxy, she wished she felt even an iota of attraction for him! Timal was everything a humanoid woman could possibly want in a droid: strong, handsome, loyal, and utterly devoted to catering to her every whim. Still, there was a significant part of her soul that cried out for the loving of a real humanoid every time Timal pleasured her.

  Her droid had never breached her, as it was expressly forbidden by the laws of the Milky Way for a robot to do so unless his mistress filed for permanent companion status with him. The status of permanent companion then conferred upon the droid the rights of what an ancient would have called a “husband”. Timal had been pressuring her to file for over two years now. He insisted that he could pleasure her more thoroughly if he were permitted to use more than his hands and tongue.

  At the age of twenty-six, Kane was more than ready to learn all of Timal’s promised pleasures. She had come close to caving in and filing three times, but had forsook the idea in the end. In the Milky Way, after all, permanent companionship is as the name implies, permanent. It is a legally binding contract that no humanoid, no matter their status, can alter or break.

  And now she realized the truth—she would have to sell Timal. He was a good and faithful servant and therefore deserved to be owned by a woman who would one day make him her permanent companion, because she knew she never would.

  Deep inside, Kane wanted a flesh and blood humanoid to file with. She was unlike many women of her acquaintance in that she wanted a real man with real urges, desires that weren’t programmed in. She wanted a man that would tell her his true feelings and share himself with her. She didn’t want to end up bound for life to a quasi-man who did as he was instructed to do out of fear that he would be de-skinned, recycled, and fashioned into an auto cooker. Not that she would ever do that to Timal. Droids are people too, after all. Sort of.

  Kane dismissed her thoughts of Timal with a mental shrug, knowing she would have to wait until her return to find him a proper mistress. It was time to consider the task at hand.

  This was confusing business, time travelling. The injection had gone smoothly enough, all things considered. Still, she had quickly realized upon rising this morning that it truly was difficult to discern eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth century words and customs from each other. All of those worlds were long dead to the various humanoid cultures of the twenty-fifth century. She could empathize with the plight of the electronic historians all too easily.

  If a man asked her to dance, was she to assume he would sweep her into a Waltz or was she to do this Moonwalk that a popular singer called Michael Jackson had often done in times past? If she made friends with a woman, would she refer to her as “dearest” or as “girlfriend”? If she wanted to speak with someone, would she request a “private word” or a “rap session”? It was all so confusing. And yet, she admitted with a grin, incredibly exciting!

  Kane verbally ordered her bedroom wall to metamorphose into a mirror. She took a deep breath as she stared at herself.

  Her long mane of blonde curls was swept up and secured into what she hoped was passable as an eighteenth century lady’s coif. Her gown was made of imported Vegas star system red silk—her favorite form of splurging—and was fashioned into a tight and low-cut bodice that was cinched together in the middle with a corset. A train of material puffed out from the tight middle section and flowed to the ground. The arms of her gown as well as the bodice itself were trimmed with lace. The lace was tailored into what the Warrior Woman Melea, her closest female friend, had called ruffles.

  Kane suppressed a bout of quelling excitement, telling herself that she needed to concentrate. All was in readiness. She was prepared. She would find the kabitross plant, bring it home, and kill the virus that had plagued her people for four long years. Egis would live. And she would be an intergalactic heroine! Not that notoriety was her first objective. Curing Egis was.

  So what if this Lordling of Blackmore was a murderer? Kane scoffed at the notion. She would do her best to stay out of his path, but if the twain should happen to meet, he’d better stand back and watch out. She could “kick ass” better than the ancient Bruce Lee.

  Kane grinned. Those primitives didn’t stand a chance against her superi
or agility and know-how. Too bad she’d have to kick ass in a corset. Very cumbersome.

  Kane took one last glimpse of herself in the 3D holo-mirror and resigned herself to her fate. It was time. Egis had been stricken for a full month. She could put off the inevitable no longer.

  “Mirror, disengage.”

  She nodded in satisfaction when the mirror reverted back to an ordinary wall, pleased that the electronic devices in her home were not subject to budget cuts like NASA’s were and, therefore, always worked.

  * * * * *

  “For the last time Linder, I am ready. Just engage the Neptune-forsaken program before I lose my nerve!”

  “Kane, I want you to know what this means to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don’t get me teary-eyed. I have enough to deal with as it is.”

  “Very well.”

  Linder stepped down from the raised platform on which Kane stood, regally walked over to the control panel, and took his seat. He placed his hand on the initiator, straightening his shoulders rigidly. He gazed at Kane one last time before saying goodbye, hoping it wasn’t the final chance he would be given to do so. “May the goddesses bless you, Dr. Edmonds.”

  “May the goddesses bless you, Commander Linder.”

  The glowing red initiator scanned the commander’s palm print, confirmed his security clearance, and glowed an ominous green, giving him the go-ahead. Linder looked Kane directly in the eyes and imparted what he hoped to Saturn was a look of unadulterated confidence in her ability to complete the mission.

  Without breaking Kane’s gaze, Linder cleared his throat and spoke two words that would change a certain twenty-fifth century planabotonologist’s life forever.

  “Program, engage.”

  Chapter 3

  Outskirts of London, April 16, 1776

  George William Frederick Alexander Wyndom, the ninth Earl of Blackmore and heir apparent to the Duke of Browning, flexed his long, gloved fingers and sighed. His mother was right. It was past time to find a suitable wife. He was a mere three years shy of reaching two score in years and could no longer overlook his duty to the title and his lands in good conscience.

  The people of Blackmore harbored a healthy fear of him—as did most when confronted with his gigantic frame and brooding dark looks—yet they also needed him, depended upon him, and he had to do the right thing by them. With the glaring exception of failing to replace his first wife with a new countess who would bequeath heirs to the line, George had never shirked his responsibilities to his people. He was a hard worker, through and through, willing to take off his waistcoat, roll up his sleeves, and get as dirty as the peasantry if the situation required it.

  And that was in addition to all of George’s usual daily duties. Keeping an estate profitable was no easy feat after all. There was endless research to be done on the newest farming techniques along side exhaustive searches to find the right workers to implement them. There were accounts to be settled, peasants to be fed, and disputes between crofters to dissolve. Since his father’s death thirteen years earlier, George had grown accustomed to working twelve-hour days. Longer when needed.

  And now Lord Blackmore had an additional requisite duty. He needed to find a wife. He was an earl, he mentally reminded himself for at least the hundredth time. And, more to the point, an earl who found himself in dire need of a countess.

  It was the height of the London season, the perfect time to find a bride. For the past two weeks, he had been harangued endlessly on the attributes and qualities of various marriage minded ladies by their equally tenacious mothers. Mothers who wanted their little chits to hold a title, especially one as lofty as Countess.

  George found the situation ironic to be sure. The women of society who gossiped about the “strange demise” of his late wife were the very same women who now sought to throw their young daughters on the sacrificial altar of the Blackmore marriage bed.

  Were it not for the fact that George needed an heir, he wouldn’t care to remarry at all. It was quite a shame that Lady Nina hadn’t been considerate enough to leave behind a son before she found herself bludgeoned to death by one of her jealous lovers. Then none of this would be necessary.

  Lady Nina Chesterley had seemed the appropriate choice when George offered for her hand and wed her ten years ago. She had always presented her best face to society, appearing to be all things gentle, unassuming, and innocent. Unfortunately, a face was all it ever was. The deceitfully wicked woman was as gentle and unassuming as she had been innocent, which Blackmore had discovered on their wedding night to be not at all.

  Still, he had stayed with her. He hadn’t had their marriage annulled. He had desired Nina enough to believe her lies, to believe that she would be faithful to him now that they were wed. He had accepted her lack of virginity with a grace he had been far from feeling.

  Next week would mark the ninth anniversary of his wife’s death. Unfortunately, it would also mark the eighth anniversary of his mother’s constant attempts at nagging him into remarrying.

  Lady Julia, the notorious Dowager Countess of Blackmore, had paraded a variety of potential candidates for the position of wife in front of her son in the past eight years. George mentally winced when he thought back on some of his mother’s more colorful selections.

  First there was Lady Harriet Winters, an heiress whose pinched face and hairy upper lip showed a disconcertingly strong resemblance to George’s favorite thoroughbred horse, Socrates. When George had questioned his mother over what possibly could have possessed her to even entertain the notion of him taking Harriet to wife, the dowager countess had shrugged, suggesting that Harriet was unlikely to find bed sport with other men for no other man was likely to want her. This inevitability, his mother had concluded in all her infinite wisdom, would ensure that the future earls of Blackmore and Dukes of Browning were indeed of Blackmore/Browning bloodlines. Granted, it was more than he could have assumed had Lady Nina mothered his heir, but still...

  “You go too far, mother,” George had protested, holding a palm up to silence her. “There is nothing about the Lady Harriet to recommend her. Even her personality is as stale as her face.”

  “Details, details.” Lady Julia had dismissed her son’s excuses with a regal wave of her hand and glowered at him. “You’ve titles to see to, George. It is your duty to carry on our line. You are my only son, indeed my only child. If you fail in this regard, the titles shall end up in the hands of cousin Hershel. Surely you cannot tell me you wish for that to happen?”

  “No I do not wish for it,” George had gritted out, “but neither do I wish to wake up next to a woman who sports more body hair than I do for the rest of my days. I will not wed with her, mother. Be reasonable.”

  Lady Julia had been anything but reasonable, George recollected. At least not until the day that the announcement of Harriet’s engagement to a country viscount became widely whispered about. Apparently his mother had been wrong on one score—another man did want the lady to wife. In the end, the dowager countess had retreated from her former plans and found another heiress to victimize him with.

  That heiress had been Lady Jane Spencer. She was a plump, nineteen-year-old virgin with an impeccable background and an impressive family connection to the Duke of Weymouth. George could have overlooked Jane’s penchant toward sweets had it not been for the large brown mole that protruded from the middle of her forehead. Every time George looked down into Jane’s otherwise pleasing visage, he saw nothing but one big mole.

  He hated that damned mole. It mocked him, ridiculed him in the way that it refused to simply fall off of her face and cease to be an issue. When George looked at Jane he secretly feared that the future earls of Blackmore and dukes of Browning would become as legendary for inheriting their mother’s ghastly mole as for any of their worldly accomplishments. He refused to overburden his sons in such a manner.

  “A mole?” Lady Julia had inquired through hooded eyes. “You will not make an offer because of the poor c
hit’s mole?”

  “It’s a rather large mole, mother.”

  “Who should care? I’ve got it on good word that the Earl of Essex plans to offer for her. Do you wish him to beat you to the punch?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “George,” his mother had sighed, “you will be the death of me.”

  Lady Julia had quickly abandoned her designs on Lady Jane and scoured the cities and countrysides alike for the next potential Countess of Blackmore. It took her two full seasons to regroup, but the next time she’d approached her son she was certain that she had found a winner.

  Indeed, Lady Irma Giddings was beautiful in a classical, elegant sort of way. George would have had no problem bedding her as many times as it might have taken for her to conceive his heir. And a few more heirs after that.

  Were it not, that is, for Lady Irma’s inclination toward nose picking.

  At first, George believed he had been inventing things in his mind. Perhaps he was seeing what wasn’t truly there in an effort to find something wrong with an otherwise suitable candidate for a wife. After all, what fine lady of quality breeding would be caught dead picking her nose?

  The picking of one’s nose was simply not done in society. Granted, there was no law writ and passed by the House of Lords expressly forbidding the public picking of the nose, but he was certain that there should have been one. Mayhap he should even suggest as much when the House reconvened.

  “Oh George, how can you say such a thing about dearest Irma?” Lady Julia had argued, properly scandalized. “She heralds from a reputable line I’ll have you know. Not at all the types to indulge in such an act.”

  “I saw her, mother. Oh the chit tried to be discreet about it, but there was no denying what she was doing with the tip of her glove-clad finger. She was inserting it into her nose, I tell you!” He waved his hand about, the bicept in his arm bulging. “It was as plain to me as the mole on Lady Jane’s forehead would have been to anyone standing from here to France.”