Coronation: A Kid Sensation Novel (Kid Sensation #5) (4 page)

It didn’t take a genius to figure out the source of the courier’s unease: he was worried that, should I be injured, no one would know how to treat me.

“Berran, you are to be commended for your sentiments,” I said. “Nevertheless, this is something I can’t agree to.”

Still broadcasting mild misgivings, the courier nodded in acquiescence. “As you wish.”

I turned to Mabazol. “Are we done?”

“If you will indulge me once more, my Prince,” the doctor replied, after taking a few seconds to mull things over. “While I can’t treat you with respect to those things I don’t understand, I can certainly address issues that are plainly problematic and primarily cosmetic.”

I shook my head, nonplussed. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

The doctor looked a little nervous, as if afraid to speak. He glanced at Berran imploringly.

“Your ears,” the courier said. “He’s speaking of your ears, Highness.”

For a second, I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, and then I remembered that my ears were rounded – not pointed and elfin like the Caelesians. My mother had ears like them (part of her heritage from my alien grandmother), so I was used to seeing ears like theirs and found nothing unusual or unsettling about it. The reverse, of course, was far from true.

During the early part of our journey from Earth, I would occasionally catch members of Captain Ventrua’s crew giving me an odd look. Berran later confirmed that it was because of my ears. (He basically said I looked like I had been disfigured.) Eventually the crew seemed to adjust to my “strange” appearance, the stares dwindled, and I pretty much forgot about it.

Until now.

“I appreciate the offer, doc,” I said, “but no thanks.”

“In that case,” the doctor said, “unless you have some specific ailment you’d like me to address, I’m going to assume you are fine.”

“Well,” I said, “I do have one issue…”

I then proceeded to tell him about the mental balloon that was expanding in my brain.

“Is it causing you pain?” Mabazol asked when I finished. I shook my head in the negative. “Then, as before, I’m going to posit that you are in good health.”

Two minutes after Mabazol pronounced me fit, I was on my way to the House Nonpareil, marching towards the castle with Berran beside me. As the name suggested, it was a stately edifice, with an external appearance that suggested more than a hint of age, elegance, and opulence. In terms of size, it was larger than the ritzy mansion my father – Alpha Prime – owned back on Earth, which was saying quite a lot.

As we approached, the entrance – comprised of two massive doors – was swung open by liveried servants. Stepping across the threshold, we found ourselves in a foyer that opened up into an immense hall that was reminiscent of a grand cathedral, with high sloping arches and towering stone pillars. A bevy of individuals, presumably part of the household staff, hustled to and fro, focused on carrying out their daily duties. And waiting for us just a few feet away was Sloe.

“So this is where you disappeared to,” I said to the robot.

“I was required to make my report,” Sloe replied.

My brow wrinkled at his comment. Presumably he meant reporting to my grandmother, but before I could ask the question, Berran spoke.

“Please forgive me, Prince, but we must part ways here,” he said.

“You’re leaving?” I asked, somewhat dolefully. Not counting the robotic Sloe, Berran was literally the only friend I had within light-years.

“My charge was to see you safely within these walls,” the courier explained. “Other matters now call for my attention, but I will rejoin you as soon as opportunity permits.”

“Please do,” I said sincerely.

Berran inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Until then, I leave you in Sloe’s capable hands.”

With that, he walked away, heading to a nearby corridor. I briefly wondered what duties were calling him away, but had my thoughts interrupted by Sloe.

“Do you require a respite, Highness?” the robot inquired. “Your quarters have be–”

Waving a hand, I cut him off. “I’m fine. I think I just want to see my grandmother.”

“Certainly,” Sloe said. “But first, we should have your attendants g–”

“I told you before: no attendants,” I declared, referencing a conversation we’d had on the starship that had brought me to Caeles. I had made it clear early in the voyage that I didn’t want or need servants waiting on me. (It made me feel weird.) Apparently it was a statement that needed repeating.

“But–” the robot began, still trying to argue its position.

“No ‘buts,’” I said. “I’m fine doing things on my own. Now, just take me to my grandmother.”

Sloe seemed to take a moment for reflection, then stated, “Very well. Please follow me.”

Without waiting to see if I would comply, the robot then turned and began moving through the hall at a moderately rapid clip, making for a neighboring passageway. I didn’t have to shift into super speed, but had to move at a faster-than-normal pace in order to keep up. (Had he been human, I would have sworn he was upset with me.)

The path we took cut through numerous rooms and corridors, and in almost no time I was having trouble remembering the route we’d taken from the entrance. Just to engage Sloe, I pointed to what appeared to be a mural – a seascape of some sort – on the wall of a room we were passing through and asked about it.

“Ah,” said the robot. “That is a vista painted by one of your ancestors, who in her day was an acclaimed artist…”

My companion then launched into a detailed overview of the mural and its creator, while I stood there, nodding mutely at appropriate junctures. After that, Sloe slipped into teaching mode, moving through various areas of the castle at a more leisurely pace as he pointed out numerous articles of interest and detailing their histories. I paid only cursory attention to what he was saying for the most part, although I couldn’t help but note that many of the items he singled out were incredibly valuable. However, it wasn’t an ostentatious or conspicuous display of wealth. Instead, I found the interior of the House Nonpareil to be tastefully luxurious without being overbearing.

We were nearing our destination – a bulky set of ornate doors that appeared to be hand-carved from some exotic wood – when I noticed something familiar. We were passing through a drawing room at the time, with a large set of windows that overlooked the area where the outdoor banquet was being prepared for me. There, in an alcove next to one of the windows, was the DNA Luck Sequencer.

I was so surprised I simply stopped in my tracks. Frankly speaking, I hadn’t even thought about the thing since teleporting down to the planet. Moreover, as conspicuous as it was, I couldn’t even recall seeing what had happened to it after we arrived. Yet somehow it had gained entry to the castle and found a niche in which to park itself.

“The Beobona Onufrot,” Sloe said, calling the device by what I understood to be its formal name. It had taken the robot a second to realize that I was no longer walking beside him, at which point he had doubled back.

“Did someone bring it inside?” I asked. “I didn’t even notice.”

“It is the Beobona Onufrot,” the robot repeated, as if that explained everything. “Its movements, not to mention its intent, are not always discernible.”

“You speak as if it’s alive,” I said.

Sloe merely turned and resumed advancing toward the doors that marked the end of our trek. I followed quickly in his wake, leaving behind for now my questions about the Beobona (which, now that I thought about it, struck me as a much more palatable name).

Sloe came to a halt a few feet from the doors, and then announced, “The Princess N’d’go is inside, practicing the
sivstram
with her cousin.”

I frowned, focusing on the term Sloe had used. If I understood correctly, it referred to some sort of training or exercise.

“Are you saying she’s busy?” I asked testily. “If that’s the case, why’d we waste time coming here?”

I was feeling flustered, more so than I should have been. On some level, I realized that the agitation was in large part caused by the odd mental balloon continuing to inflate, but I didn’t care. I simply felt the need to vent, and Sloe was the closest thing at hand; fortunately, he didn’t seem to note my frustration.

“We are early,” Sloe said. “Teleporting us directly to the House Nonpareil shaved significant time off our itinerary. Thus, we have arrived before we were expected and at a time when your grandmother is otherwise engaged. Nevertheless, you may enter.”

I raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Are you sure? You said just a moment ago that she was preoccupied with this
sivstram
thing.”

“Yes,” he replied. “However, your grandmother left instructions that you should join her at your earliest convenience, regardless of what other business she might be attending to.”

“Oh,” I muttered sheepishly. It seemed that coming here hadn’t been a complete waste of time after all. Apparently I owed Sloe an apology.

I stared at the doors, working up the courage to go inside. Needless to say, I was nervous. I’d heard stories of my grandmother my entire life, but she’d taken on this kind of ethereal quality in my mind – as if she wasn’t quite real. In truth, I guess I hadn’t ever really expected to meet her. And now it was happening…

Come on!
I said to myself.
This is what you crossed the depths of space for. This is why you left your family, your planet!

I took a deep breath, and then opened the door and stepped inside.

I closed the door behind me as quietly as possible. The room, which was about thirty-by-thirty feet in size, had only two occupants – both of whom were Caelesian women. They stood facing each other, maybe four yards apart, near the center of the room. Both seemed to be concentrating intently, and an odd mental energy – taut and constrictive – filled the air.

I knew almost immediately what was happening: they were telepathically sparring – battling with each other on an extrasensory level. It was something that I had much experience with, as my grandfather had spent many long hours doing the same with me as my mental powers developed.

I stayed near the doors so as not to interfere, and took a moment to size up the combatants. One of the women currently had her back to me. I couldn’t see her face, of course, but I had an angular view of her profile, which indicated that she was young. Lithe and graceful, she also had long, dark hair that was pulled back into a ponytail.

I had a more direct view of the other woman; she was older, with white hair done up in a matronly bun atop her head. Her face was only mildly wrinkled, but exhibited a stern, no-nonsense expression. Her bleak, humorless eyes flicked slightly in my direction for a moment – flashing red (clearly indicating anger or irritation) – before fixating on the other woman again. Even without using my empathic abilities, I picked up a vibe of cold formality from her. This, then, was apparently my grandmother.

All in all, I had to admit to being somewhat disappointed. Physically, she bore little likeness to the woman I had seen in the photos my grandfather kept of his cherished wife (although I admittedly could see a family resemblance to my mother in the cheeks and jawline), but that’s not uncommon; as people get older their appearance can change dramatically. That, however, was not what bothered me. No, what left me disenchanted was that, from what I could sense of her personality, she was a far cry from the lively, animated woman I’d heard about my entire life.

It wasn’t clear how much longer the two women would be locking horns, so I took a few moments to gaze around the room. It was an interior space, with no windows to speak of. A massive rug, embroidered with some kind of floral motif, rested in the center of the room and took up much of the floor space. Several couches and chairs were littered throughout the place as well, along with a number of triangular-shaped tables. There were a number of odd items that I couldn’t positively classify as either art, decorations, or furniture (or possibly something else). To be honest, I couldn’t quite figure out the room’s intended purpose, but then again, it was designed by and for an alien culture.

After about a minute, the tension I’d felt in the air seemed to dissolve. Moreover, the two women seemed to visibly relax, indicating that the
sivstram
was over. My grandmother glanced at me with something akin to a scowl, but said nothing. It was a lukewarm reception, at best. Nevertheless, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. (After all, the woman had been separated from immediate family for decades.) I began walking in her direction, grinning cheerfully and at the same time reaching out to give her a telepathic hug.

A moment later, I was hit with a mental backlash so powerful that I almost staggered, like someone had hit me on the noggin with a mallet. I put a hand to my temple and shook my head slightly to clear my thoughts, but I had an intuitive understanding of what had just happened: my grandmother had telepathically walloped me, giving me the mental equivalent of a backslap, which was made all the worse by the fact that it had been completely unexpected.

Emotionally, fury and indignation were surging from my grandmother in tidal waves, and she looked at me as though I were a giant mutated tick that had tried to latch onto her neck. Hesitant to reach out to her again, I stood there, trying to get a sense of exactly what I’d done wrong.

At that moment, I empathically detected a high level of mirth and – now that I was paying attention – could hear a long stream of feminine giggling. I looked toward the young woman, who had turned to face me and now had a hand up to her mouth to hide what was nigh-hysterical laughter. Because of her hand, I still couldn’t get a good look at her, but something about her seemed incredibly familiar.

A few seconds later, the young woman dropped her hand, at which point I received my second shock of the past few minutes. She was still laughing merrily, but her face…

I’d seen it thousands of times over the years – in photos with my grandfather, in news articles with the Alpha League superhero team, in snapshots with my mother when she was an infant. (In fact, she bore a remarkable resemblance to my mother; they weren’t likely to be mistaken as twins, but they could certainly pass for sisters.) But it couldn’t be…could it?

Finally exerting control over herself (but still grinning), the young woman turned to the old lady and – gesturing in my direction – said, “Dear cousin Fesinin, please allow me to present my thrice-child, Prince J’h’dgo.”