Mech Girl

Cover

Books by Kate Donovan

Time Travels and Paranormals

Timeless

Time Weaver

A Dream Apart

A Dream Embraced

The Untamed Beast

Historical Romances

Game of Hearts (A Mail-Order Bride Series)

Carried Away (A Mail-Order Bride Series)

Meant to Be (A Mail-Order Bride Series)

Night After Night (A Mail-Order Bride Series)

Fool Me Twice (A Mail-Order Bride Series)

Love Passages

Action-Adventure

Identity Crisis (The SPIN—Strategic Profiling and Identification Network—Series)

Exit Strategy (The SPIN Series)

Spin Control (The SPIN Series)

Parallel Lies

Charade

Romantic Comedy

Harmless Error

Stolen Kisses

Space Opera Novellas

Space Fever

Star Fever

Title Page

Mech Girl

Kate Donovan

Copyright

Mech Girl

Kate Donovan

Copyright © 2012 by Kate Donovan

Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

Published by Beyond the Page Publishing at Smashwords

Beyond the Page Books

are published by

Beyond the Page Publishing

www.beyondthepagepub.com

ISBN: 978-1-937349-31-8

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to

Jessica Faust and Bill Harris,

my editors at Beyond the Page,

without whose help and

support I couldn't have made

this robot dance.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

Earth: A.D. 2070

Hey, Grandpa Q, happy birthday! Zia Quito smiled up at the towering mechanical giant before her and waved in playful greeting. Surprised to see me? I know I’m a foul-up, but somehow I always remember, don’t I?

The grim face of the sixty-foot robot was designed to intimidate, but Zia wasn’t fooled. She knew her grandfather was looking down at her with love from wherever he was. Heaven? Nirvana? Or more fittingly, Valhalla. He was a war hero, wasn’t he?

In fact, he was the war hero—the man who saved Earth from the Alluvans. Wherever he was now, he undoubtedly owned the place.

Everyone else celebrates the day you won the Battle of the Canyons, Zia reminded him. But I like your birthday better. The day we would have spent together—eating cake at the beach—if you had lived long enough to meet me. And when everyone else was telling me what an embarrassment I was to you, you’d be telling me I was perfect. Right?

It was her favorite fantasy—the one where Quito the Great loved her just the way she was.

I’d better get back to the Hacienda, Grandpa. It’s kind of creepy in here, no offense. Zia pretended to shiver as she studied the cavernous metal hangar that had been built to store the giant robot. There was no other building on White House or Hacienda grounds big enough to accommodate the titanium-and-steel monster that had been given to her grandfather to commemorate his bravery.

On national or global holidays, the public would shuffle through this place, murmuring respectfully, and listening as guides retold the stories that everyone already knew by heart. They weren’t allowed too close, but occasionally a child would break free of a parent’s hand and run up to touch the gleaming metal, causing a wave of disapproval among the military and guests.

Those were the moments Zia loved best, mostly because it was nice to see someone else getting into trouble for a change.

With a final wave of her hand, she turned to leave, then on impulse walked farther into the hangar, where a smaller robot stood in silence. It was forty-five feet in height, and unlike the giant, this one had actually seen battle. Her grandfather had piloted it so skillfully, its creators—the Malarans—had left it behind when they had returned to their planet after helping him save Earth.

The sixty-foot colossus had arrived later, and thankfully, there had never been any need to deploy that one.

"I guess I should have talked to you here, Grandpa, Zia told the smaller robot. This is the real you, right?"

Unlike the giant, this skirmish mech had some serious dents, and while it was well cared for, it didn’t gleam the way the larger one did. Still, it seemed to Zia that this was the robot people should honor, since it was the one that saved Daniel Quito’s life.

I bet you could tell me such stories. Oh well . . . She shook off the uncharacteristic nostalgia and laughed at herself. The last thing she needed was more indoctrination about the war. Or about her illustrious family—her great-grandfather Dez, who went from peasant to general; her grandfather Daniel, a.k.a. Quito the Great; or her mother Elena, who had ruled with an iron fist and the military savvy to back it up for twelve years.

Well, I’m pretty good at sky paddle, at least, Zia joked to the robot. If I had my air boots with me, I’d fly up and kiss you right on the mech-mouth. But I guess you’ll have to settle for this. She stepped up to the skirmisher’s mechanical leg and kissed the dented metal lightly. Happy birthday, Grandpa. I’ll try to do better this year, I promise.

* * * *

As soon as he heard the hangar door slide shut, Cadet Rem Stone pushed a release button to open the lower door of the skirmisher. But he didn’t exit the vehicle right away. He was still a bit stunned at having overheard the tribute Quito’s granddaughter had just paid her ancestor. She would be mortified if she knew. And on a more practical note, she could get Rem into a world of trouble for entering the hangar without permission.

He had done this so often, he had almost forgotten it was illegal. Then Zia had burst into the building, looking every bit the hot-bodied, undisciplined brat Rem knew her to be. Still, she had surprised him with the respect she had shown Quito. And so he had listened, when he knew he should have shut down the audio and given her some privacy.

It’s strange, he told himself now. If Quito had lived longer, Zia’s life might have been a lot different. For one thing, her mom might have gotten married and had more kids. Then she wouldn’t’ve seemed like such a mess. She could have been the goofy one—pretty and selfish and as apolitical as she wanted to be.

Still, Rem was offended by the granddaughter’s attitude toward her legacy. She had been given great wealth, great stature—and great responsibility. But she treated everything like a joke, or at least that was how it seemed to the public, not that they seemed to mind it.

Unlike Rem.

But Quito isn’t a joke to her, at least. She really loves the old guy.

Rem shrugged, dismissing the kindly thoughts. He revered Quito as much as anyone. Why else did he sneak in here every chance he had to learn the controls for the skirmisher when he was already an accomplished pilot on conventional vehicles and aircraft?

But his feelings for Daniel Quito did not extend to the great man’s descendants. Not to his daughter Elena—Zia’s mother—who had driven Rem’s family out of power, dishonoring their name; not to Zia’s uncle, the current president, who was unfit but still electable, thanks to his bloodline; and not to Zia—the real heiress apparent, who had chosen to party rather than follow in her grandfather’s noble footsteps.

Just remember the plan, Rem told himself as he exited the skirmisher and headed back toward his hotel. Be glad Zia’s such a lightweight. If she wanted to rule, the people would support her without question. But lucky for you, she abdicated everything to her uncle, and the people are getting sick of him. No way will they grant him a life term like they did Quito and Elena. You’ll overthrow him and recapture leadership one day, and you’ll have pretty little Zia to thank for it.

Glancing up at the giant commemorative robot, Rem gave a playful salute. Happy birthday, sir. Then he added sincerely, "When the time comes to oust the tyrant and restore my family to the presidency, I’ll make sure your granddaughter doesn’t get hurt. We’ll banish her to a shopping mall or country club, and she’ll live happily ever after, safe and oblivious. You have my word on that."

Chapter 1

Despite her fondness for her grandfather’s birthday, it had serious downsides for Zia. For one thing, it signaled the end of summer. Worse, it warned that a brand-new school year was looming, and school had always meant leaving home, thanks to Elena Quito’s insistence on sending her only daughter to boarding academies, even in her elementary years.

Elena had insisted that Zia would receive a better education at such prestigious institutions, but the strategy had backfired. By the time the daughter was twelve years old, homesickness had morphed into resentment, and finally, full-blown rebellion. Skipping classes, running off, hanging out with other rebels—those tactics had made life more than palatable. They had given Zia years of fun and friendships that she treasured even now that she was preparing to enter the university, where she planned to continue her pattern of taking lightweight classes and earning mediocre grades.

She knew those grades didn’t matter, any more than her reputation as a foghead did. Thanks to her grandfather, she could fail miserably at every task put before her, and the people would still clamor for her to lead them, vainly hoping to recapture the glory of the old days, when the brilliant scholar Finn Stone had been their president and when Quito the Great had been their military leader.

What a combination.

She stared through a window overlooking the orange groves that dotted the landscape at the Hacienda. This beautiful ranch had been given to her grandfather as a tribute to his heroism and had become known as the West Coast White House after Quito became president. It was the only home Zia had ever known—other than school and an occasional stay at the original White House—and she loved everything about it, from its balmy climate to the three-mile stretch of beach along its western edge.

In particular she loved this room—a sumptuous media center with state-of-the-art audio and vid equipment, cozy furnishings, and a well-stocked refreshment island. It was her refuge from the outside world—a world that seemed intent on following her, vidding her, and worst of all, judging her.

Zia?

She jumped up to face her uncle, Jared Quito, the current president of the United States. Not quite a statesman like President Finn Stone. Nor was he reminiscent of his war-hero ancestor, Daniel Quito. Yet Jared, despite his stiff manner and controlling nature, was all the country had.

Zia felt guilty for even daring to make such comparisons, especially knowing that he was single-handedly responsible for protecting her from having to grow up too quickly. By taking the reins of power when Zia’s mother died, he had postponed the day when Zia would have to announce, once and for all, that she had no political aspirations. And while she didn’t know or care much about politics, she was acutely aware that the country would be devastated, perhaps even panicked, when that happened.

Jared Quito knew it too. Wasn’t that the only reason he bothered with her? To him she was a nuisance, but he needed her support, at least until the next election. If he received two-thirds of the vote at that time, the so-called Finn Stone Amendment to the Constitution would grant him a life term as president.

But he couldn’t get two-thirds without Zia at his side. She was the only direct descendant of Daniel Quito, or as Jared’s press secretary liked to call her, Earth’s most valuable natural resource—a resource Jared loved to exploit by trotting her out for every public event, while desperately trying to muzzle and control her the rest of the time.

Moving from the window seat to an overstuffed armchair, she prepared herself for one of his inevitable lectures.

Is something wrong, Uncle J?

Not at all. He cleared his throat, then sat in the matching chair across from her. He was a big man—tall and bulky, with dark eyes and straight black hair. Women thought he was handsome, but Zia knew he’d give his left arm to look a little more like his grand-uncle Daniel, who had been medium in height and lean in build, with golden eyes and copper-brown hair.

Just like Zia’s natural coloring, although she had chosen to mute the resemblance by lightening her waist-length hair with dramatic streaks of blonde.

Her uncle leaned toward her now. It’s a big day. How are you feeling?

Big day? she began, surprised that he had remembered Quito’s birthday. Then she bit back a laugh. Oh, you mean the presentation?

Yes. He scowled for emphasis. The presentation. It’s an important event, not just for the recipients but for the entire nation. The world, even. You should take it more seriously.

I bought a new dress, didn’t I? Zia stood and twirled so that he could admire the short, full skirt and elasticized bodice of her pink outfit. Like it?

When he didn’t react, she added soothingly, I’ll be good. I promised Grandpa I would, so you can count on it.

Talking to the robot again? Jared’s mouth relaxed into a smile. He’d love that if he knew.

Don’t worry. He knows.

Right, right. Well, as I was saying, it’s a big day. You’ve always handled this well in the past, I have to admit. The cadets love receiving their medals from you. This is your eighth year, right? He smiled again. At first, they were impressed because you were Quito’s granddaughter. Now I think they just enjoy being so close to such a pretty girl.

Zia studied her uncle cautiously. He wasn’t usually this complimentary, which told her he was about to ask a favor. Or more likely, make an unreasonable demand.

Bad timing, given her promise to her grandfather to behave.

"What’s going on, Uncle J? This isn’t nano-surgery, you know. I mean, if I had to pin the medal on them, there’d be a chance I’d draw blood. But I just put the ribbons around their necks, right? As long as I don’t strangle anyone, we should be safe."

His lips tightened, and she knew he was losing patience, but his tone was calm when he said, There’s more to it this year, Zee. A reporter from OmniVid wants to interview you and the recipients after the ceremony is over.

Really? Zia licked her lips. "Why this year? Is something different?"

The public is always curious about you, he reminded her. They only know what they see in the tabloid vids—fancy dresses, outlandish hairstyles, wild partying. For some reason, they still adore you. But I imagine they expect you to settle down now that you’re starting college. It’s possible the reporter will ask you what classes you’ve selected to make up for the easy schedule you took in high school. I don’t suppose . . . ?

Sorry, Unc, but no poli sci or history. I’m taking a literature course, though. That’s good, right?

He beamed. It’s excellent. I don’t suppose it’s Early American Lit, is it? That would really thrill the masses.

"The official title is Science Fiction as Literature, but I’ll bet there are one or two early American authors in there, right? Like Ray Bradbury, or the War of the Worlds guy."

This time, her uncle didn’t even try to hide his annoyance. Why am I not surprised? This is all a joke to you, as usual. I should just tell them you aren’t available for the interview. But even then— He stopped himself and fumbled, finishing with a weak, It’s more complicated than that.

Really? She leaned forward, intrigued. Why?

He rubbed his eyes with his palms. "We don’t know for sure who the recipients are. The military academy doesn’t release the names, not even to us, until the actual ceremony. But there’s a very good chance Jeremiah Stone—Aengus’s son—will be one of them. He’s graduating this year, and we’ve heard he’s a talented pilot. I’m sure the vid press has heard about it too. I’m guessing they can’t wait to get a shot of you pinning a medal on a Stone."

Zia bit her lip, honestly surprised by the information. "That’s kind of amazing, don’t you think? I mean, I get the problem. His father was a traitor and all that. But his grandfather was Finn Stone. Stone and Quito—that was a powerful combination once."

Yes, it was. Once. Now it’s just an embarrassment for all concerned, including Rem Stone. I’m sure he’s not looking forward to being honored by the daughter of the woman who ruined his father. Don’t you see what a mess it is?"

I guess. Zia stood and walked back to the window, trying to visualize Jeremiah Stone in the sexy blue uniform of a military cadet. She had seen vid coverage of him more than once, and knew he was a tall, lean, muscled guy—wonderfully photogenic. But the real reason the reporters liked to catch sight of him was his bizarre legacy: grandson of a beloved president, son of an ex-vice-president-turned-traitor named Aengus Stone.

You think the reporter will ask me how it felt to give him an award? And whether it was embarrassing for either of us?

Absolutely. Your mother was the one who brought Aengus Stone to justice. Not only was she our president at the time, she was the eyewitness at Aengus’s trial.

And then he hung himself in his jail cell.

Zia wrapped her arms around her bare shoulders. How old was Cadet Stone when it happened?

It was ten years ago, so he would have been eleven or twelve.

Wow. It’s kind of amazing that he’s managed to lead such a clean life, don’t you think? To make something of himself after that. Poor guy.

"I wouldn’t pity him too much. Yes, he has led an impeccable life, but I’m willing to bet he hates us. All of us. And you in particular."

Zia drew back, surprised by the thought of anyone actually hating her. Mock her? Sure. Feel sorry for her for being such a failure? Absolutely. She had even experienced a whopping amount of jealousy from girls who watched her run wild with zero consequences, all because she was Quito the Great’s granddaughter.

But this was something new. Something she wasn’t quite prepared to accept. Especially from someone like Rem Stone, whom she had never even met.

Turning to her uncle, she murmured, Maybe Commander Logan should do the honors this year. I don’t want to spoil Rem’s big day.

That’s out of the question. It would be a slap in the face of the other two recipients. And it would draw too much attention to Stone’s medal. What we need from you is for you to behave yourself. Scrupulously.

I guess that depends on how yummy-looking the guys are, she quipped, but when her uncle’s eyes darkened, she added quickly, I’m kidding! I’ll be good. I promise.

You’ll be good, he agreed with a growl. Dr. Fuller will see to that.

Huh? Oh no! Not again. Zia shook her head in warning. "Don’t even bother suggesting that. It was a disaster last time, remember? My stomach hurt for days."

But it worked. You handled that interview beautifully. No wisecracks. No embarrassing gaffes. You were a credit to your heritage and to my administration. That’s exactly the kind of performance your country needs from you today. He gave a halfhearted smile. The doctor assures me he has adjusted the dosage. You’ll be a little sleepy, but not nauseous this time. We have his word on it.

Zia sank back into her chair, sobered by the thought of ingesting a calmative—at any dosage level—again.

Dubbed the most important breakthrough in quality of life in the last fifty years, calmatives were a relatively new class of pharmaceuticals that were already part of every well-stocked medicine cabinet. Originally developed as an aid for white-knuckled public speakers, they had proven to have almost limitless uses for the general population. Non-habit-forming and rarely abused, mostly due to their lack of hallucinogenic or euphoric properties, they offered freedom from all sorts of situational anxiety. For those who were afflicted with stage fright, they allowed a calm, focused, stress-free performance. To those with other phobias, most particularly fear of strangers or crowds, they offered nothing less than a normal life. Even outgoing, phobia-free people had found occasional benefits from the drug’s ability to allow rational thought to prevail over irrational anxiety. The most important job interview of one’s life? Take a calmative. A once-in-a-lifetime appearance on OmniVid? Take a calmative. Accepting an award? Why allow runaway emotion to sabotage your carefully crafted speech?

It had all seemed academic to Zia until her fifteenth birthday, which had coincided with her uncle’s inauguration as president. He and his private doctor, a man named Fuller who had also been Zia’s physician from time to time, had approached her with a carefully crafted proposition to prevent her from embarrassing her uncle on this, the most important day of his life.

Since she had never tried calmatives before that day, she had welcomed the chance to do so without getting into trouble. And the drug had worked wonders of a sort, transforming her from a wise-ass to a perfect little interviewee. Later, reporters had remarked that Zia seemed more focused. Classier. More contemplative.

More like Elena Quito.

That had been a first. In fact, it had been the only time anyone had ever compared her to her mother, all the more poignant given Elena’s death in a horrific shuttle crash just months before the interview. As much as Zia had pretended not to care about the comparison, it had made a permanent impact on her.

Not that it mattered. The interview did in fact go well, but within hours, the vomiting had started, teaching Zia and her doctor a valuable lesson—that she was among the five percent of the population who literally couldn’t stomach calmatives. Luckily, she had returned home before the reaction started.

Still . . .

It’s just a half dose, Zee. Fuller is convinced you won’t have any side effects.

That’s easy for him to say. Zia shook her head. Sorry, Uncle J. No calmatives for me. But I promise I’ll be extra careful not to say or do anything stupid this afternoon.

You know how you are, her uncle said, his tone grim. "You’ll upstage them without even trying. It will become your day, not theirs. And if Rem Stone is anything like his father, he’ll try to outdo you. Then we’ll have a real circus on our hands. Is that what you want?"

Zia winced. She didn’t want to embarrass her family, nor could she bear to ruin the medal ceremony. The cadets always looked so proud—not to mention adorable—as they waited for the announcement of the three top-award winners. They deserved to be honored by someone like Elena Quito instead of her fogheaded daughter. Would it really be so awful to try one more time to be more like her, even if it took drugs to accomplish it?

If you don’t agree, her uncle told her suddenly, maybe you shouldn’t do it at all this year. We’ll just cancel the interview, and I can present the medals myself—

"Don’t threaten me, Uncle J. We both know you’d never dare do that. She gave him a disgusted glare. Then she continued. If Dr. Fuller can look me in the eye and promise I won’t puke my guts out again, I’ll take the stupid pill. But only because I don’t want to upstage the cadets. It’s their day, Rem Stone included, and I want to honor them the way—well— She took a deep breath, then admitted, mostly to herself, The way Mom would have done it."

* * * *

Sitting in the front row of the open-air assembly with the other high-honor students, Rem was actually able to relax and enjoy the proceedings, thanks to having seen Zia Quito in the hangar that morning. Had he not witnessed her heart-to-heart with Quito the Great, Rem would have been filled with resentment at the prospect of meeting her. Instead, he could dismiss her as harmless and ultimately irrelevant, focusing his attention on the ringing words of the speakers. These illustrious generals and scholars had come to praise the cadets for having endured the rigorous intellectual and physical regimen of the academy—a feat that had prepared them to enter military service as officers and leaders.

When Zia was finally introduced, Rem was able to see what the other cadets saw—a pretty girl with waist-length, gold-streaked hair and a dynamite shape. Of course, she looked spoiled rotten, as usual, with her skimpy dress and confident smile, but he no longer judged her harshly. He even admitted to himself that maybe her life hadn’t been as privileged as it looked from the outside. Her father had been assassinated before she was even born; she had never had a chance to meet her famous grandfather—the yardstick against whom she would be forever measured; and her mother had been so busy running the country, Rem suspected there hadn’t been a lot of time for mother-daughter bonding.

His speculation was interrupted when the dean of the academy stepped up to the microphone next to Zia and addressed the crowd. As you know, the academic awards were given out at the commencement last Sunday. We want to congratulate those winners again. And now, without further delay, we’ll move to the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The medal ceremony.

A smattering of applause emanated from the bleachers filled with spectators, but the ten rows of cadets didn’t make a sound or move a muscle. In a week filled with graduation activities, this was the moment. They had competed for five long years, and now it had come down to this. Three of them would be called up to that stage to be honored with the coveted Medal Exemplar, an award created by Quito the Great almost fifty years earlier.

Rem wanted that more than anything in the world. He had spent his whole life preparing for this day, and he intended to savor it. There would be other days too—the day he vindicated his father by proving that Elena Quito had lied in her testimony against Aengus Stone. The day he would regain the presidency for the Stone family. Those would be amazing—

But for now, this was the day that mattered.

We’ll begin with the award for superior piloting skills, the dean said, his voice resonating with pride. Then he opened a sealed envelope and gave a knowing grin. The Medal Exemplar goes to Jeremiah Stone. Rem? Come on up here.

A thundering cheer erupted from the cadets, and Rem flushed as he stood and turned to face them, bowing slightly to honor them first before he strode toward the steps that would lead him to the stage. He was dimly aware of the sounds from the bleachers—some hearty shouts