Dragon Defense (Heirs to the Throne Book 3) (5 page)

Fremont waited to enter the Director’s office, his nervousness barely under control.  When the Director of the Institute summoned an officer of his rank, it was cause for worry.  He fingered a holo cube with statistics about the escaped scientists, gone for over twenty years.  Fremont knew this meeting was his last chance.

“You may see him now, sir,” the secretary said and the reception room door slid open.  Fremont detected a note of respect in her voice and felt encouraged.

“Thanks.”  Fremont entered the luxurious suite.

“Ah, Fremont.  I’m eager to hear your report.”  The Director looked young and handsome, the result of frequent Transfers.  Fremont longed for the day that he could request Transfer at any time he wished.

Fremont activated a holo of the galaxy, covered with lines. “We narrowed Dr. Alexander’s location down to sector 45.  As you know, the Zebulon crossed shipping lanes to disguise their ion trail and the lanes contained 368 vectors.  We charted every vector route and ruled them out, except for this one.”  Fremont zoomed in and the trail glowed over a section of the starchart.  “A battle cruiser went missing in that sector seventeen standard years ago and we believe it was destroyed by the Zebulon.”

The Director leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Good, Fremont.  We’re very pleased with your work.”  Fremont’s face glowed with pride.  “Now I’ll explain your assignment.”  The Director gestured Fremont to sit.

Fremont prayed he’d get authority to kill Dr. Alexander and Captain Donovan.  He dreamed of killing those traitors since the day they trapped him in stasis and escaped.  Remembering the humiliation, he gripped the arm of his chair in anger. 

“The Board of Directors originally felt the defection of a group of rebel scientists might be of little concern since they were already scheduled for termination.  They became dangerous to our control of Transfer, and we were loath to track them down.  But during the last two decades, problems with our Transfer equipment became widespread.” 

Fremont heard rumors about Transfer failure, but he assumed the deaths were part of the Institute’s plan to eliminate trouble makers.  He leaned forward. 

“Dr. Alexander was part of the team that designed the equipment and might solve our technical difficulties.  You must find the man and bring him back—alive.” 

Fremont’s heart sank.  “Do you need his entire team?”

The Director grinned.  “No, of course not!  Dr. Alexander is the only valuable member on the Zebulon crew.  Dispose of the rest as you see fit.  Let the doctor view the cleanup operation as a lesson.”  

Fremont felt relieved.  He’d enjoy taking revenge on Donovan. “Thank you, sir.  It will be a pleasure to serve the Institute.”  He braced himself to ask the next question.  “Could you provide a description of the equipment failure?  It might prove useful to my mission.”  Fremont knew he pushed the boundaries of a delicate situation.

The Director stared at Fremont behind half-lidded eyes, like a snake ready to strike its victim.  Fremont wished he’d never asked the question and wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead. 

“No one else must learn of our…difficulty.”  The Director sounded menacing.

“Yes, sir.”  Fremont’s voice cracked. 

The Director’s lips curled into a humorless smile, and Fremont felt safe to breathe again.  “Transfer was a routine procedure for hundreds of years, but the rebel scientists destroyed records before their exodus—details about the method of hardening Mendilium crystals.  Hardened crystals are necessary components of the Transfer machinery.  Apparently untreated crystals are brittle, shatter during Transfer. 

The supply of hardened crystals dwindles to a dangerous level.  We’ve discovered nothing to solve the problem which jeopardizes the very future of the Institute.  Without Transfer we lose control over society while everyone dies.”  The Director almost whispered the last words.  “Secure Dr. Alexander and keep him safe until he reveals the secret.”

Fremont felt lightheaded.  Closely guarded secrets of the Institute were divulged to the most trusted of the upper division—he just joined the inner circle. “Thank you, sir.”  Fremont could barely control his excitement. “I won’t fail, believe me.”

“No, you won’t.  Report for a Transfer and prepare the ship.  Use speed and discretion in choosing your crew.”  The Director stood and held out his hand.

Fremont grasped the hand with a sweaty palm. “You won’t be sorry you sent me!”

In a secret chamber behind the royal living quarters, Donovan stared at a lifeless instrument panel.  Trenton lay on his back under the cabinet and worked with the frayed wiring.  Chella sat with her long fingers stretched between two archaic switches.

Trenton said, “I think I found the problem.  Hit both switches now.”

Chella flipped the switches and Donovan held his breath.  A fan whirred and lights raced across the apparatus.  An ancient computer screen flickered and Chella grinned.   “It’s working.  I’ll connect to the satellite defense system.”  Her dark brown fingers flew over the keyboard as Donovan stared into the glow of the screen.  “You’re a genius, Trenton!”

“Sure, just try to convince upper management!”  He climbed out from under the cabinet and brushed cobwebs from his hair.  “The patch won’t last.  Wiring’s brittle and the microchips are slow; I hate to think what’ll blow next.  We’ve got new parts stored at the spaceport, but smuggling them past desert riders is impossible.  Last trip they confiscated my toothbrush and pocketknife. I was lucky to get out with my underwear.”

Chella grinned, her white teeth contrasting with dark skin.  “So how did you smuggle the wiring you just installed?”

Trenton smirked.  “I braided them together into a hatband.  Not one rider noticed.  Wolves stash small parts inside their knife holders; no one dares touch a wolf.”

Donovan rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  “The Mullah of Kesh is sending someone to fetch Tamarind.  Maybe I’ll have you escort her past the spaceport and secure better replacement parts.  Make a list of what you need.”

“What I need is a rotating staff, trained to watch the boards.  The automated system doesn’t allow large craft through, but it takes manual targeting to keep small ones out,” Trenton said.

“Can you contact members of our crew?” Chella asked.

Donovan shook his head.  “They’re already handling important assignments.  We should train new technicians.”

Trenton said, “There are idle lads taking up space in the castle.  Why don’t you draft some lordlings into your service, swear them to secrecy, and start a training school?”

Chella’s eyes sparkled.  “I’d love to teach them.”

“That’s a great idea!”  Donovan nodded.  “It might solve two problems.  Only one son inherits a lord’s title, so gutsy second or third sons hatch plots against their brothers.  Timid sons are ignored.  We’ll sniff out the best candidates and start a training program.”

Trenton whipped out a notebook.  “I took the liberty of drafting a lesson plan, just in case you start right away.”

“I feel manipulated!”  Donovan thumbed through the notebook.  “This looks good.  I’ll jot down ideas, and Chella can organize the classes.  We’ve got more lads arriving today, so this gives me a reason to talk with them.  Thanks.”

*****

It was nearly a year since Donovan returned to the throne.  It took half that time for lords, guild leaders, black marketers, merchants, and Samurai women to start making demands.  Under Jarrack’s rule an underground black market established by Krystal shattered the old system and replaced it with self-serving factions.

What a pleasure to be king! 

Donovan rubbed his brow to ease a headache and watched the steady stream of lords who arrived with sons and daughters.  Unable to bully Donovan into arranged marriages for his daughters, the lords took an alternative route—they flooded the court with prospective husbands.  Since there were only three daughters, the lords with girls to wed hoped that failed suitors might choose their daughters. 

With scores of teenagers underfoot, Donovan understood why arranged marriages seemed attractive to weary parents. He held firm.  His daughters would be allowed to choose their own mates, but he stipulated they couldn’t marry until the age of eighteen.  He’d rather set the age higher.  In a society where fourteen-year-old brides were common, his stricture seemed harsh. 

Donovan clenched his jaw but forced himself to remain pleasant as lords filed into the Great Hall with gawky-looking offspring.  He scrutinized each lad with the idea of building a secret society of technicians.  No one realized the jeopardy that loomed over Drako. 

An Institute destroyer tracked Donovan’s ship, the Zebulon, to this planet on the day his daughters were born.  An automated message capsule escaped orbit before they shot the destroyer from the sky.  With luck the capsule drifted into space. 

Donovan believed time was running out and held no illusions about the compassion of the Institute.  They’d destroy this world to kill everyone on the space ship, people who merely sought a life of freedom.  The Institute wouldn’t allow deserters to live.

“King Donovan!” Startled from drifting thoughts by the shrill voice of Lord Shelby, Donovan watched two young men approach the dais.  Shelby executed a sweeping bow and said, “I introduce my son and heir, Caston.”  At Shelby’s gesture the young man stepped forward. Slight of build with wavy brown hair and soft brown eyes, Caston held no resemblance to his father. 

“This is my ward, Ryan.”  The young man blushed, aware of Donovan’s surprise.  Ryan was the mirror image of Lord Shelby, big and burly with flaxen hair, and searing blue eyes.  Ryan was an illegitimate son and doomed to remain an underling.

“Welcome to court.”  Donovan avoided staring at Lord Shelby’s face in curiosity, seeing how Ryan’s face burned with shame.  “I suppose you both want to meet my daughters, along with half the young men of the kingdom?” 

Donovan laughed heartily as both boys blushed. 

“It’s a daunting prospect to compete for headstrong young women.  There will be a ball soon and everyone will have a chance.”  Donovan noticed Krystal frown and stifled further comment.  “Welcome to Havenshire, lads.”

Lord Dartmouth, ruler of the seaside fief of Griswold, ambled forward with the rolling gait of a seaman.  Donovan remembered sunny days fishing and grinned at Dar. 

The seaman’s eyes sparkled with pride. “King Donovan, I proudly introduce my son and heir, Brandon.”               

The young man inherited Dar’s height and slender build, but the wavy sun-streaked hair and sultry gray eyes were a gift from his mother’s blood.  Secure about his allure, Brandon cast sidelong glances at comely ladies seated nearby, inflaming protective feelings in Donovan.  He suddenly wished he could banish this young man to the farthest reaches of his kingdom.

Donovan forced his voice to sound friendly.  “Welcome to the castle, Brandon.  You were just a boy when I last visited your domain.”

Brandon smiled and looked more handsome.  “I remember your visit well, my lord.  You’ve been my hero since that day.”  His deep voice sounded respectful.  “It’s a great pleasure to visit your court.”  The young man executed an elegant bow.

Donovan’s resistance melted, after all the boy’s manners seemed exemplary.  He could hardly blame the lad for inheriting a fine-looking face.  “You’re welcome at Havenshire.” 

“Thank you, my lord.”  Brandon met the king’s gaze with confidence while Dar grinned.

Lord Trask, the overbearing ruler of the fief of Wimsley, stomped forward.  Two shy youngsters followed in his wake. “My lord,” Trask barked.  “Here’s my worthless son, Julian, and his equally worthless cousin, Ross.  Awaken a bit of backbone in them, and I’ll be eternally grateful.  God knows I’ve tried everything.”  The boys shrank from Trask’s sour stare. 

Donovan felt sorry for the youngsters.  He remembered the bite of Trask’s criticism during Council meetings.  Julian—a lanky boy with mousy brown hair and light blue eyes—tripped as he approached the dais.  He glanced at his father and muttered, “It is a pleasure to meet you, sire.”

Donovan’s heart ached for the shy boy.  “You are welcome in my court, Julian.”  Ross stepped forward, and Donovan recognized the rider who won the spring horse races.  “Ross, I’d bet you know my stockman, Josh.”

Ross grinned.  “We’re all fast friends, sire.”

Donovan grinned.  “I’m delighted to welcome a man who understands horseflesh.”

Lord Trask scowled.  “Suffer them both as long as you can be bothered, and then send them back home.”  He stomped away.

Josh stood nearby and Donovan said, “Josh looks eager to whisk you both to the stables.  Go along.”  The stockman gestured at his friends. 

“Thank you, sire.”  Ross sighed, eyeing his uncle’s departing figure.  “He’s not always so gruff.  We had a bad year, and he’s got much on his mind.” 

Donovan admired the boy’s loyalty to a gruff uncle and wondered if these boys would enjoy training with Trenton.

Lord Hembly hobbled forward, leaning on his cane.  Donovan recognized the beautiful girl at his side.  “King Donovan,” Lord Hembly’s voice filled with emotion.  “I’d like to formally present my daughter, Angela.”  Krystal rushed forward to embrace the girl she trained at the fire mountain.

Donovan said, “Angela is a friend of our family.”  The girl’s russet hair was thickly plated in a long braid; her pale skin flushed a delicate pink and eyes filled with tears as Krystal hugged her.  “Welcome to court, Angela.”

Usually a caustic man, Hembly glowed with pride.  “Krystal saved Angela from Jarrack and gave her the gift of learning.  I’ll always be grateful to my Queen.  Angela hopes to open a school at court and share the gift of knowledge.”

“What a wonderful idea!”  Krystal announced.  “I’m anxious to hear the details.  Come tell me all about it.”  Krystal ushered Angela to a nearby seat, and they spoke in quiet tones.

“I guess a school will open soon.”  Donovan smiled at the man who was once a thorn in his side at Council.

Hembly gazed at his daughter.  “You’ll take good care of her?”

“Krystal will see to it.” 

Donovan felt amazed at Hembly’s gentle demeanor. As if sensing Donovan’s thoughts, Hembly straightened and assumed his public face.  “I’ll see you in Council.  We still need to discuss the matter of restoring lord’s rights.” 

Donovan sighed, preferring the man he glimpsed to the brash lord who was not easy to tolerate.

The next man to approach the throne was a tall desert rider.  He sauntered arrogantly down the aisle.  Colorful robes swirled and a jeweled scimitar sparkled in an ornate belt attached to his narrow waist. 

“I am Salizar, emissary from the Mullah of Kesh.  I came to ransom Princess Tamarind.” His black eyes flashed with defiance and an angular beard accentuated the obstinate set of his jaw.

Donovan nodded.  “Good, we’re happy to return Tamarind to her father.  She hasn’t been an easy guest to tolerate.”  Donovan grinned at the rider’s astonished expression.

Salizar quickly recovered his arrogance.  “The Mullah of Kesh places a high value on his daughter, the jewel of the desert; therefore, as ransom the mullah offers twenty desert horses, a casket filled with gold, and a string of fine pearls.”

Donovan’s face reddened in anger.  “We didn’t ask the Mullah to ransom his daughter!”

“Sire, may I speak with you for a moment,” Andrew interrupted.  Donovan nodded, needing to calm his anger.  “Sire,” Andrew whispered, “during my youth I traded horses with desert people and learned their customs.  If you return the girl without accepting a ransom, it diminishes her value to the tribe and might disgrace her family.”

Dismayed, Donovan stared at Andrew.  “What can we do?  I can’t bargain for a ransom, it’s against everything I believe.”

“Permit me to negotiate on your behalf.  The funds can pay for damages caused by riders to the castle.”  Andrew awaited a reply.

Donovan thought a moment and whispered, “Go ahead.  Give Trenton ten days to organize a trip to the spaceport to coincide with her departure.”  He leaned back against the high carved throne and watched.

Andrew turned to Salizar.  “The crown is insulted by the mullah’s offer!” Andrew said with a stony expression and stiff demeanor.  “Jarrack paid a higher price for the girl one year ago!  Clearly you hope to make a profit and brand us idiots!”

Salizar smirked and eased into a relaxed posture.  Now that the bargaining began in earnest, he felt reassured. “King Donovan can’t blame us for the lower price.  The girl might be spoiled by the attention of undesirables.”

Andrew’s eyes narrowed with anger.  “You toy with the king!  An unwed princess is trained to slit the throat of an assailant or die by her own hand if touched by anyone except her lawful husband.  See for yourself.”  Andrew gestured with disdain.  “The girl is alive and treated as an honored guest.” 

Salizar gazed at Tamarind who sat cross-legged on silk pillows, guarded by two Samurai women.  “She appears to be whole,” Salizar conceded in a respectful tone.

“Tamarind, come here!” Andrew commanded. 

Donovan flinched, remembering the vile temper tantrums of the princess, but she rose in a fluid motion and meekly approached the throne.  Andrew ignored the girl and asked, “Would you examine the woman?”

Salizar glanced at the jeweled dagger hanging from Tamarind’s belt and said, “No!”  He tried to avert his gaze, but Tamarind stared at him with sea-green eyes rimmed by dark lashes above a sheer veil.  Thick black hair, swept seductively to one side, framed her chiseled face and exposed her slender neck.  Salizar’s gaze followed the flow of hair draped over a narrow shoulder and spread like a veil over curves accented by shimmering folds of gold fabric.  He obviously ached to possess the woman.