Chapter One: Cheryl
Today was the day. The previous king of the Demante System had died, and the widow-queen was ready to hand her crown to the next temple-slave chosen to be queen. Cheryl would meet her husband and give the system a new king.
The human tried to keep herself still as the temple acolytes buzzed around her. Their shiny metal skins flashed in the bright light cast by the sun rods, long tubular lamps that were charged in the sunlight and released their warm glow indoors. She was so excited that she couldn't stop herself from beaming, although she knew this was a solemn occasion.
The acolytes painted her lips red and braided her golden hair into a crown around her head. The black gown she had been put into was tighter than anything she had worn before. It accentuated all her curves, although the seams strained at the waist. Probably a reminder from Priest Quincy that she hadn't dropped the twenty pounds he had told her to lose by this date.
Well, no matter. She'd be away from the priest soon enough, and he couldn't remind her again and again that she was fat. She knew that she weighed more than she was supposed to, but she didn't care. She knew in her gut that her king wouldn't mind, either.
"Are you excited?" one of the acolytes asked, tinny voice reverberating in its metal shell.
"Deliriously happy. I love my life in the temple, but I am eager to see what the world is like. And to meet my husband." Cheryl ducked her head and blushed, a small smile on her face.
She was more excited about her wedding night than she cared to admit. The only man she had regular contact with was Priest Quincy, but late at night, she liked to indulge herself in imagining what her king would be like. Cheryl had known from the time she was a little girl that her destiny was to be the next queen of the Temadian people. She had been selected from among the slaves purchased from Earth by the Demante System when she was just a baby.
The Temadians were a society built by men. Their women had left eons ago, although nobody knew where they had gone. For centuries, the only way for the Temadian people to reproduce was to take their massive starships and steal women from other systems.
Although that custom had long since died, the coronation of the new queen was a remembrance of those days. She was always a temple-slave obtained through trade with another species, and her king was selected through a series of battles. The Gods selected one of the champions to survive the tournament, and once he was married to the queen, he was king.
Cheryl's king was rumored to be the previous king's nephew, Bjorn, but she wouldn't know for certain until she was presented to him. Her heart pounded with excitement as the acolytes put the finishing touches on her hair and rolled back to inspect their work. The dim, gold light of their eyes turned red, a sign that they approved of what they saw. The human took a deep breath, grinning widely.
"Remember, child, not to expect too much from your wedding night," one of them said. "Just close your eyes and imagine yourself somewhere else."
Cheryl nodded meekly, although her mind was always full of dirty thoughts when she thought about her wedding night these days. She imagined intense pleasure, both for her and her king. Would he tear her dress right off her skin, the way she liked to imagine it?
She smoothed her skirt as she stood, following the acolytes to where Priest Quincy waited. As head of the Queen's Temple, he was responsible for the ceremony today, as well as Cheryl's upbringing, although her teacher for most of her life had been her mother, until her early death. He shook his head when he saw her, a look of distaste coming over his face. Cheryl's heart dropped, though she tried to suppress it.
Since she was a child her genes have been altered little by little so when she became pregnant with the king's baby, a pure-blooded Temadian would be born. It would take a lifetime to replace her, and the Demante system could not last without a king to rule over the dozen planets and order the fleets of warrior-slaves in their defense. No matter what Quincy thought, he would not take her destiny from her.
"Our king will need nerves of steel to bed you. I told you to lose weight." Priest Quincy squinted his eyes at her. "A queen must be regal, not round. Well, you are your king's problem now, not mine."
He turned and walked away, clearly expecting Cheryl to follow. She did so. Deep down, she knew she should be sad about leaving her temple and fearful about her future. But she was the queen. The only luxury was in her future, and a lifetime of giving her king beautiful, dark blue babies.
Priest Quincy led her outside. Cheryl winced as a roaring cheer echoed in her ears. As she stepped onto the platform at the top of the temple steps, it rose into the air, a slight hum all that was indicative of the hover engines beneath the slab of stone. A sea of people spread all around the temple and they chanted her name as she floated over them. After a few minutes, the platform set down at the top of the palace steps.
This was it. Cheryl eagerly looked down the steps, to the courtyard below. It was full like the temple grounds had been, but her king would be waiting for her on the bottom step.
Her brow furrowed. There were two men standing below her.
"I should have said that you are the kings' problem," Priest Quincy whispered in her ear. He stepped forward. "Bjorn of the house of Leshire."
The man to the right stepped towards her and bowed. His brown hair was trimmed neatly around his ears. He wore the sleek, ruby-red armor of the noble houses. It was molded to his body, made from nanites that would detect coming pressure and thicken the armor at points of impact. It also showed off his impressive shape. He was muscular and lithe, like the panther in the Earth storybook her mother used to read to her. His skin was midnight blue, indicating that he was a pureblooded Temadian–or as pure blooded as was possible these days. The crowd chanted his name.
"Maskin, Hero of the Apdratee invasion."
The second man's most prominent feature was the fierce scowl he wore. His hair was long, braided down his back. He was larger than Bjorn. His black studded armor was clearly meant for heavy battles, rather than the ceremonial skirmishes Bjorn's nanite armor was designed for. His arms were naked and bore scars, both of blade and blaster. Dark diamonds were tattooed under his eyes. Judging from the sky-blue of his skin, he was born a warrior-slave. A mix of insults and cheers rose for him. He did not bow.
"These men fought each other for a day and a night until both fainted with loss of blood," Priest Quincy shouted, more to the crowd than Cheryl. "The Gods have decreed that they are equally worthy of the crown. But which is more worthy of the queen? She must choose now."
Everything went silent.
Cheryl couldn't breathe. This wasn't what it was supposed to be like. She was supposed to be presented to her king, not given a choice between two men. Everything in the temple was decided for her, down to what she wore and ate. How was she supposed to choose between these two men? Her chest started heaving, her hands shaking.
"You have to choose," Priest Quincy said again.
Tears burned in her eyes as she stared at the two warriors. "I can't."
Priest Quincy turned towards her, narrowing his eyes. She shrank back from him but shook her head. She thought she might vomit. Taking a deep breath, she managed to straighten her shoulders and raise her chin. Once more, she shook her head.
"It's the Gods who decide who the king will be. I'm only the queen."
The corner of the priest's mouth twitched. He turned back to the crowd. "The queen has said let the Gods decide. Therefore, she and the two Kings Presumptive will be sent to the shrine of Nethja, Goddess of fertility. There they will stay until the alignment of the four moons. If the queen is with child, the father will be king. If she is not, then both will be put to death and a new king chosen."
Cheryl pressed her hands to her mouth, horrified.
There would be no wedding night for her, but two months in a moon shrine with rivals fighting to impregnate her. She stared down the steps at the two presumptive kings. Neither looked surprised. Maskin returned her stare with a hungry look in his golden-orange eyes. Bjorn's own green eyes twinkled. They both walked up the steps to join her on the platform. It lifted again, this time heading for the shipyard.
In two months, one or both of these men would be dead.