Only a fool confronts Mother Nature in force.The greatest warrior can be swept away by a typhoon.

– Unknown general, Ancient Old Earth Empire (AOEE)

“What in the great nebula are you doing in my home?” Prince Morgan Valori sneered above the sounds of the mingling crowd and the music. “Armed, as well?” the prince’s arm –in white and...were those ruffles, really?– dropped his right hand to the jeweled hawk-head pommel of his signature denge spadone sword, the symbol of his family’s royal line.

“Is this the charm that made you famous on the social scene? Or, I forget, was that infamy?” Kyrie Satori replied. Then she blatantly swept the crowded open-air ballroom with her eyes. Bathed in the shifting aurorialis of the Alarian sky, the outdoor room and the people who filled it seemed to shift in neonflow and shadowdapple as the magnetic majesty that was the Alarian sky orbited close to her planetary master, the gas-giant Xerxes, all the while fighting to push its way through the Solara Nebula that had held both planetary bodies for ten thousand years.

Kyrie couldn’t help but waver between being delighted and offended by the fashions of Alaria’s elite and effete that surrounded her. Does that one over there really think sheer harem pants and half-caped Gypsy smocks with visible nipples were back in? “Seems a big enough place, big enough crowd, there are plenty of guests; why did you feel the need to single me out, Prince?”

Kyrie wasn’t certain why she was here in the first place, but she was not about to allow the Black Prince to show her out. Her Uncle had received an invitation, but he seemed far more eager than she had any memory of him being to bring her with him. After they arrived, he encouraged her to mingle; but it was not as if even she, Kyrie Satori, famous on the racing circuit as her alter-ego Phoenix’s Blaize, had any friends in this crowd.

“Because you should not be here. These fine upstanding Alarian citizens are here for the Founders’ Ball. These folk represent Houses, Clans, and honorable corporations. Which is why you were not invited.”

“Are you implying that my Uncle Xycor is not honorable...?” Escaped Kyrie’s mouth; her filter was failing, if she didn’t reassert dominion over her emotions, anger might override her self-control.

Prince Morgan’s hand, Kyrie noted, did not waver from his sword’s pommel. “You do not belong among such folk.” Kyrie watched the prince’s every move, every shift of his weight from foot to foot, every change of his stance and posture; where his eyes lighted, how his shoulder points moved, subtle clues to a sword-fighter what his next move might be. She was well aware that his extensive Royal Academy sword training included Eastasian Iajutsu techniques that meant that the prince need not free his sword from its scabbard before striking a quite fatal blow, those motions could be one and the same. The prince stepped closer to her, his bearing became more aggressive.

“Yes, I know what you Valori think about my uncle’s industry. You stand in the way of progress, and better lives for all Alarians...whom you pretend to care about.”

“I think you should leave.”

“Call the Guard, then, I am here by invitation.” She challenged. Though Kyrie’s training focused her attention on Prince Morgan’s every movement, part of her mind also sought out basic intelligence on her surroundings and allies. Quickly she glanced around her.

Those fine Alarian folk that the Prince had mentioned were beginning to move away from the mismatched pair. Kyrie finally caught sight of her Uncle Gordon, who stood out with his straight back and shock of white hair, he was watching them, but doing nothing. The expression on his face was...stern. He must be mortified at the prince’s behavior, Kyrie thought. I’ll bet he’s ashamed that he brought me here as his escort. I will catch nine hells for this, when its all done.

“I need no Guard to deal with the likes of you!” Prince Morgan Valori drew the sword that symbolized his family’s royal status. There were gasps, and the music seemed to Kyrie to stop; part of her mind wondered if the conceited Prince had rigged his sheath so that the speakers cut out anytime he emptied it, as he had a fearsome reputation to do. Kyrie recalled that for the previous three years –since Morgan’s father King Duncan had died– the youngest of three Valori princes had been given over to the Sentinel military. Rumors abounded on the Alarian social circuits as to why.

But now the Prince was here, at his family’s seat of power, the Valori Temple. Kyrie wondered if he was on leave just for the event, or had finally gotten himself expelled from the ranks of the Sentinels.

“I am here by invitation, Prince...now decide if you are going to put your sword away, or earn yourself a metal arm, like your uncle’s.” Kyrie, who both captained and piloted her corvette yacht the Flaire in the inherently dangerous sport, projected the image of surety and calm in the face of the threat.

Can he really be almost my own age? This princeling was acting like a spoiled little teenager. Had his years fighting pirates with the military not tempered or matured him one whit?

“How dare you poke fun at my uncle! You filthy Phoenix rat! Now draw your weapon and face justice on the floor of the Temple!”

This guy actually thought of himself as some kind of ancient Earth paladin, the little shit!

It felt as if some kind of switch had been thrown in Kyrie’s head, a switch that somehow transformed her from smart-mouthed socialite Kyrie Satori into the superhero Phoenix Blaize. She burned to teach him some manners, and maybe even send him to the local infirmary for a much-needed cool-down.

“Draw, or flee in shame, coward!” The prince spat at her.

Oh, that’s it! Kyrie’s own sword joined Prince Morgan’s blade, both naked now in the open air of the royal party, reflecting the varicolored shifting auroras above. At once Kyrie was glad that she had worn her Chinese Jian blade, instead of her more ceremonial engraved Burmese Dha sword; the Chinese Jian was a master swordfighter’s tool, long and straight with a blade two centimeter wide from its six-centimeter hilt to its marvelous thrusting tip seventy centimeters of double-edged steel later. The choice had come down to her decision to wear a red and gold Eastasian Chinese influenced pencil dress, which would have clashed with the more formal curved blade.

Blaize took over for Kyrie, beginning with her mouth, ending with her sword-arm, “Do you really think that you’re somehow blessed, benighted, or consecrated? The only reason your Valori family sits astride the Temple is that Captain Damien Stark chose not to grace the soil of Alaria with the soles of his boots by stepping off the Cantus Nocti. Otherwise the Starks would be the Alarian royal family, instead of Valori Eurocelts. You’re not special, or any better than us peasants!”

“Shut your filthy mouth!” The prince swung, and Kyrie battered his attempted kill shot aside.

She thrust, and her blade cracked against a titanium wall as all momentarily seemed to go black. A huge figure was blocking her light, and it was not the prince. A cyborg of great mass had intervened between her and Morgan, and he was holding the prince’s sword by its sparkling electrified blade...in his un-gloved titanium hand.

“Prince Morgan!” The voice of a diplomat, amplified beyond normal human volume, boomed, “Your mother requests the pleasure of your presence.”

“Uncle Crispin!”

“NOW, Prince Morgan.”

“But she said...”

“Morgan, it does not matter. This family’s motto, set down by your father, is decorum unto death. You will do well to remember that, young prince.”

The twenty-one-year-old prince, Sentinel officer, and famed sword-fighter stepped back and visibly cooled. But his posture remained defiant. “My sword, Uncle.”

His uncle, Sir Duke Crispin Valori...Valori by marriage only, as Kyrie seemed to recall, did not waver any more than a steel wall would have. Moments passed.

“I am naked, sir.” The prince pleaded more quietly and calmly, which seemed to reassure the much older man, who ceremonially passed the Valori blade back to his nephew. Morgan at once sheathed it, and not sparing Kyrie another look, turned away and strode toward the royal dais.

Sir Duke Crispin, done with the prince, now turned as a behemoth towards the twenty-three-year-old woman, still holding her sword at the ready. She smoothly re-sheathed it under his gaze, only half of which was from a human eye, the other one extended like a short lens from a chromed skullcap.

“Young lady...?” The official diplomat of the Alarian Trade Alliance now had only her to deal with.

Hey, Rumplesteelskin, if I needed any...”

“Everything alright over here, Kyrie?” Her now beaming Uncle Gordon Xycor appeared like a wraith at her elbow, addressing the Duke. “She is my guest, noble sir.”

The behemoth turned and scanned the CEO of Phoenix Medical Industries. “And her sword...?”

“She is both my guest and my bodyguard, sir knight, as I was only allowed one companion. You will find, should you inquire, that my niece is fully trained and registered as such. She has also served Phoenix’s tithe of Sentinel days.”

“Tithe?” Duke Crispin Valori repeated, in a twisted tone. Every House and corporation on Alaria paid into the semi-feudal system of providing soldier days to the Royal Sentinel force. Only those wishing to complain about the practice usually used the term ’tithe,’ though.

“My...ah, apologies, sir knight, I only meant to point out that my niece is a retired officer in the Sentinel corps...just as your young Morgan himself now is.”

“I see.”

So, Kyrie thought to herself, he uncle knew the Third Prince would be here this evening...

“You have quite a way of dealing with the Spare...” Gordon seemed to stumble, but didn’t fool Kyrie, “I mean the Third Prince.”

“Thank you for exercising your invitation this evening, Mister Xycor.” The Duke’s tone clearly translated to time for you to leave now.

“Ah...yes, I do believe my niece and I will be on our way, now.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, we have had a lovely time but I must be on my way...much to do in the morning, you know, running Phoenix Corps. You should come by one of our branches sometime, sir knight, we could replace that clank-ware with bio-grown replacements, grown from your own royal DNA.

“I shall always remember your offer, Gordon Xycor of Phoenix.” A chill actually went up Kyrie’s back and down her sword-arm...the Duke had managed to make the line sound like a death threat.

“Good...we’ll be off, then.” Her uncle concluded.

“Hunh,” Duke Crispin merely grunted a less than amicable reply, and turned away, heading back toward the dais himself.

“You knew Prince Morgan would be here, Uncle.” Kyrie accused.

“My sources had him discharged from the Sentinel fleet just last night, my Kyr.”

“You brought me here hoping to see sparks fly between us.” She concluded. “Did you actually enjoy seeing him confront me?”

“Oh, not at all. I enjoyed watching you confront him, my Dear-Kyr.”

“What was that threatening tone about, after your offer, uncle?”

“Don’t you know, Kyr? The Duke is spectacularly proud of the fact that he refused all bio-mods after his...accident.”

“Of course, no alterations to the perfection of natural DNA. Just like his idiot nephew.”

“Yes, the Valori are born fools, proud of their foolishness.” Her uncle declared. “Their empire will not survive this technological revolution.”

“Still trying to get into the Parliament of Lords, uncle?”

Gordon Xycor simply smiled, and led his niece toward the exit.

Next Chapter: Family Time