Howl of the Wolf (Heirs to the Throne Book 1) (2 page)

The wolves failed to notice the humans, attracted by the violent struggle.

No match for Kriegen’s superior strength and size, the white fought with desperation.  Kriegen’s blade and fangs ripped at the snowy coat.  The white scored minor hits against Kriegen but sensed defeat.  He made one last, frantic charge. 

Kriegen dodged the onslaught, circling his opponent.  The white trembled, his coat dripping with blood and his eyes wide with fright. 

Tendra growled. 

Kriegen offered the defeated male his life.  With a final entreating glance at Tendra, the white flattened his ears and exposed his belly.  Kriegen howled in triumph.  Tendra snarled and darted enticingly away, flicking her tail at her mate.  His blood pounded with primal urgency.  Reverting to the turbulent origin of his species, he allowed the madness to consume reason.  He pursued Tendra, dashing through the forest, unmindful of observers.

********

“An interesting example of the courtship rituals of the canis lupus,” Tricia Donaldson said.  “Although remarkably similar to the earth-variety wolf, these creatures exhibit low intelligence by their feral behavior.” 

Captain Holden frowned.  “You obviously didn’t observe everything.”

“Oh?”

Holden kept his hand near his laser and eyed the forest.  “I witnessed two creatures the size of men pull knives and stand to fight on their hind legs.  They behaved like men.”

“It’s been documented that wild animals can use crude tools,” she said.  “These creatures ripped each other with teeth and claws, hardly civilized.”

“Brawling is seldom civilized.  If I possessed fangs, I’d use them in a direct-contact fight.  The winner offered the loser his life, hardly a feral reaction.  These wolves are sentient!”

She laughed.  “You’re a romantic, Captain!  Identifying with animal behavior is a common mistake of green recruits.  You want the wolves to be sentient, so everything you see confirms your belief.”

He bristled.  “I’m not a green recruit playing space-cowboy.  Did you film the exchange?”

“No.  It wasn’t valuable.”

Valuable to whom?
he wondered.
If I sent a video back to Earth, someone with sense might recognize the truth and scuttle a valuable project. 

Tricia added, “As a zeno-biologist, I’m trained to dispassionately analyze animal behavior.  Take my word, Captain, your wolves are lower life forms with minimal intelligence.  A sentient species communicates, forms an organized society with rules of behavior, and maintains an oral or written history.  We follow established rules.  There’s no evidence that triggers an investigation under our rules.  Leave wildlife studies to experts.” 

He thought,
You made sure to exclude evidence you didn’t want any experts to view!
Clenching his fists, Holden stomped from the scene of the skirmish with deliberately long strides that she failed to maintain.  Looking back, he grinned with primitive satisfaction.

*****

During their mutual madness, Kriegen guarded Tendra.  The pack continued ordinary activities, including surveillance of the two-legs shaping the valley into a large bowl filled with gray buildings.  When Kriegen returned to the pack, he cringed at the destruction of the forest.  Konig had returned from the Council of Elders with instructions to watch the two-legs.

Kriegen felt frustrated and thought,
We cannot allow them to destroy everything.  Who are they?

They call themselves humans. 
An ancestor voice spoke from inside Kriegen’s mind. 

Why did you wait to advise us, ancient one?

Who do you think urged you to speak with the human leader?  I knew it was possible for a human to hear.

The humans are intelligent?
  Kriegen felt doubtful.

Some speak.  Seek out the humans with good souls and help them conquer the evil ones.
The ancestor projected images of evil humans killing each and good humans stopping the evil. 
Venture close to the leader.  Try to communicate.

How do you know humans?
  The ancestor remained silent, receding into the depths of the mind where hosted minds linger.  Kriegen turned to Konig. 
Our ancestor voices tell us to speak with the humans.  Select a group to come with us.

******

“Captain!”  A deeply agitated crewman burst into the conference chamber.  “A group of wolves approaches.”

Holden erupted from his chair, grabbed his utility belt, and swept out of the room.  With satisfaction Holden saw confusion in Tricia Donaldson’s eyes.  “Well, zeno-biologist, what do you make of this?”

“No explanation, sir,” she mumbled.

Holden studied the wolves.  Their coloring varied in shades of black, silver, or gray.  Most weighed over a hundred pounds, but the leader looked even larger.  The ebony black coat, marred by recent wounds, marked him as the same wolf fighting in the forest.  Holden barely detected the chest-strap holding the wolf’s deadly knife.

Golden eyes locked on Holden as the wolf approached.

*****

Kriegen fixed his gaze upon the human leader, whose eyes seemed to radiate understanding.  He projected a message. 
Greetings.  We come in friendship.
  

The leader flinched and Kriegen cocked his head.  The leader turned to the smaller creature next to him and the humans made noises at each other.  Kriegen tried again. 
We come in friendship and bring greetings
.  He formed the message clearly in his mind. 

The leader stepped forward and made noises at him. 

Kriegen barked in frustration. 
Greetings.  We welcome you in friendship.

The leader stepped closer.  His light eyes fixed upon Kriegen with an expression that made Kriegen sure the creature attempted mind-speech. 

Friend, give us proper greetings.
  Kriegen projected. 

The leader spread his upper limbs. 

Kriegen sensed the pack’s nervousness as the human walked close enough to touch.  Kriegen sniffed, smelling fear from all sides.  Suddenly the leader curled his lips, displaying square fangs—a challenge! 

Kriegen’s hackles bristled. 

With a loud growl Konig charged forward, placing his body between Kriegen and the leader.  Nearby, a small human uttered a cry.  Suddenly a blinding light streamed from a black object in the human’s paw.  The scent of charred flesh and burned hair permeated the air, and Konig crumpled to the ground.  Kriegen tried to make mental contact but it was clear that Konig lay dead at Kriegen’s feet. 

The leader spat a stream of loud noises at the group of humans.

Kriegen felt stunned, angry.  Rising on hind legs, he flattened his ears and pulled his dagger. 
Explain this attack!
 

The leader’s eyes widened and his mouth drooped.  The human held up his paws, and the other humans stood still while the pack dragged Konig’s body into the safety of the forest.  Kriegen gazed at the human leader’s pale eyes and noticed water trickling down the smooth cheeks.  Overwhelmed with grief, Kriegen dropped to four feet, turned his back on the human, and walked slowly into the forest.

The designated host had no time to absorb Konig’s ancestor minds; therefore, the entire line of Konig was lost to the pack, centuries of knowledge destroyed in one brief moment.  The pack mourned the loss with plaintive howls that echoed through the valley. 

*****

As the wolves disappeared into the woods, Captain Holden shook with rage, his face red, and his fists clenched into hard balls.  “Who fired that laser?” he shouted. 

Silence.

Accusing eyes stared at Tricia, rubbing a bruised hand.  Her laser lay on the ground where another officer had knocked it away. 

“The creature meant to kill you,” she said, defiantly lifting her chin.  “I performed my duty by protecting my captain.”

Holden glared.  “You idiot!  That shot ruined our chances to make contact!” 

“Contact?  That wild animal was attacking, responding to territorial instincts.  You walked straight into their trap!”

He gaped at her in disbelief.  “Where do you get this dribble?” 

She shifted her stance.  “From my teachers at school.” 

“You ever spend time in the field?”  His piercing eyes held a menace she could not fathom.

“I…well…no.”

“Miss Donaldson, you just witnessed an attempt at communication!  I’m sure those wolves are sentient, but thanks to you, we may never know.  You’re relieved of duty.  I’ll prepare transfer papers, just stay out of my sight!”  Captain Holden stomped away.  How had he ever been attracted to that idiot?

******

The pack grieved for seven days and nights.  Kriegen blamed himself for Konig’s death, cursed himself for approaching such dangerous creatures. 

Tendra soothed him. 
Do not carry the blame for Konig’s rash behavior.

A leader should judge the best warrior to keep at his side.  This failure cost the pack an entire ancestor line.

Tendra huffed. 
You whimper like a cub, prodding his dam for milk.  Konig was a trained
warrior who died protecting his leader.  Do not sully his memory!

Kriegen felt startled. 
What?

Death is a risk we all face but with luck a host absorbs our minds before we die.  We lost Konig, the pack mourned the loss, and now we must attend pack matters.

He accepted her wisdom, echoed by his ancestor voices.  

Tendra wagged her tail. 
The dark moon hangs low in the sky.  We must prepare for a happier time.  She nipped at him playfully and he nuzzled her ears.  When the cubs are born, one will be named Konig.  Each member of the pack will share memories with the cub, keeping the line of Konig alive.

Kriegen felt awed by the wisdom of his mate.  Traditionally cubs remained unnamed until they hosted an existing line and assumed the ancestor name.  Tendra’s new idea, worthy of a great leader, made Kriegen proud of his mate.  He worried about sharing the valley with humans.  Why did his ancestor keep knowledge of such a dangerous creature secret?  One ancestor claimed that good humans could speak, but would they ever find humans who could communicate properly?

Red lights burst across control panels like a firestorm, shattering the mundane routine of the Medical Transfer Unit.  The staff stood frozen, staring at the errant displays, until the clamor of alarm bells jolted them into a frenzy of activity. 

“We’re losing him!” the senior medtech shouted.  “Get power restored!”     

“Not responding, sir!”     

“Damn!  It’s too late.  We’ve lost him.” 

The senior medtech slumped against his console.

Dr. Alexander and Captain Donovan entered the door.  “Bloody fools!” Dr. Alexander snapped.  A lean man with a shock of nearly white hair, dressed in a standard white medical jumpsuit, the doctor elbowed past somber-faced medtechs to reach the patient.  The staff hushed as they recognized the inventor of Transfer.  If the patient had any chance of survival, it would be at the hands of the famous doctor. 

Dr. Alexander stretched thin arms widely over the prostrate body.  His light gray eyes glazed as his long bony fingers hovered an inch above the inert patient.

Following Alex into the lab, Donovan stood near the door.  A muscular giant with unruly auburn hair, Donovan’s gold uniform indicated a military rank of instant respect.  Standing well back, his keen eyes inspected the medical space lab while Alex worked.  Probably too late to save the patient—lately they’d encountered similar scenes with the same disastrous outcome—Donovan hoped to find a clue leading to the killer. 

The Medical Transfer Unit, a white octagonal room with sterile white walls devoid of windows, looked ordinary except for flashing medical apparatus and radiant touch-screens blaring alarms.  Two bodies, the patient and his clone lay at the center of the MTU while bewildered medtechs formed a tableau of shocked faces around the periphery. 

Donovan knew exactly what everyone was thinking—no one died during Transfer!  The centuries-old procedure was routine, safe, and reliable.  Until recently Donovan believed the same thing.  Now, faced with death, the medtechs stood paralyzed, unable to function—except for one man!  A rotund medtech with dark brooding eyes popped a panel open in a dead workstation, deftly exchanged a two-inch circuit board, and shut the panel.  The workstation blazed to life. 

With a self-satisfied smirk that piqued Donovan’s suspicion, the medtech slipped the faulty circuit board into his pocket and turned to work at another console.  Donovan’s eyes narrowed as he headed toward the suspect. 

“Donovan!  I need my own crew down here, now!”  Dr. Alexander shouted.  “We’ve got another situation.”  The urgency in Alex’s voice compelled Donovan to shift his attention.  A portrait of agony, the doctor’s pale face looked ghastly.

“I’m on it,” Donovan said, rushing to a nearby comline.  He bent over the eyepiece and activated a retinal scan.  “Connect me with the Zebulon, dock nine.”

A sultry female voice answered, “Zebulon here.” 

“Chella, dispatch a security team to medlab seven,” Donovan ordered.

“Aye, Captain.  Security will arrive in five minutes,” she said.

Donovan said, “Computer, activate security protocol code 977.  Seal medlab seven.  Allow no exit or entrance without personal clearance from Dr. Alexander or Captain Donovan.”

A metallic voice crackled, “Space-lab unit seven sealed.  Scan indicates one technician currently absent from post.”

Donovan searched the lab for the suspicious medtech—gone.  Grinding his teeth he said, “Report on absent member.” 

“Unable to comply.  Identification deleted.”

Donovan stiffened.  “Seal all personnel lockers in section seven.  Allow no access without my personal clearance.”

“Lockers secured,” the voice responded.  “Voiceprint or handprint for identification?”

“Handprint,” Donovan replied, placing his hand on the glowing screen.

“Handprint registered.”

Donovan moved to Dr. Alexander’s side and whispered, “I spotted the assassin, but he slipped out.” 

The doctor’s watery gray eyes appeared distant, disconnected.

“Alex?  You okay?”  Donovan touched his friend gently on the shoulder.  Raw emotions—pain and self-reproach—flooded Donovan’s mind.  He jerked his hand away.  He’d never grow accustomed to the shock of direct-contact telepathy with a medical empath.

With a shudder the doctor blinked.  “Sorry, I’m not quite myself.”

Abruptly the doctor slammed a mental door, and Donovan no longer shared his friend’s anguish.  “Don’t blame yourself, Alex,” Donovan said.

Alex smiled ruefully.  “Knowing the potential danger, we should’ve arrived sooner.  He might still be…”                        

The burden of responsibility pressed like an anvil on Donovan’s chest.  As captain of the medical spaceship Zebulon, the scheduling failure rested on his shoulders.  Alex stiffened, and Donovan knew the telepath had read his thought. 

“Neither of us caused this death.  Go find the killer,” Alex said.

Donovan nodded toward the console.  “Register your handprint.”  Alex placed his hand on the screen and Donovan said, “Computer, log handprint identification of Dr. Alexander, code 977.”

“Handprint recorded, personnel requesting admittance to restricted area.”

Donovan glanced at the window and placed his hand on the screen.  “Admit personnel.”  He noted with satisfaction that his crew arrived precisely five minutes after his call.  Chella, a statuesque woman with short black hair and ebony skin, stepped into the lab followed by Trenton, a wiry little man with mischievous eyes. 

Donovan jerked his head at Trenton and moved toward the door.  “Captain Donovan and one crew member leaving lab,” he said, touching the scanner at the door.

“Permission to depart chamber,” the computer responded. 

“Guess Alex was right,” Trenton said, glancing back at the lifeless body on the table.

Donovan nodded.  “We arrived too late, and it doesn’t sit easy on his conscience.  We’re going to check the personnel lockers.”

“What we looking for?”  Trenton followed along the curved space-lab corridor.               

“The identity of the killer.”

“You got a suspect?”

Donovan nodded.  “Middle-aged man, dark hair and eyes, balding, about your height but double your weight.  The guy slipped a circuit board into his pocket before disappearing from the lab.”

“Start with the back section.”  Donovan cocked a questioning eyebrow and Trenton grinned.  “Women prefer front lockers with better lighting to primp.”

“You’re the tracker, Trenton, the back section it is.”  Donovan placed his hand on the scanner.  “Two to enter locker area,” he said. 

The door slid open.  Odors of sweat, perfume and deodorant lingered in a narrow space with benches bolted to the floor and lined with shiny metal lockers.

“Computer, configure all locking mechanisms to my thumbprint,” Donovan said.  He thumbed open the doors as Trenton methodically examined lockers. 

At the tenth locker Trenton stood triumphantly.  “Found it!” he exclaimed, handing Donovan a small silver box.

“What is it?”  The box seemed fragile as Donovan turned it over with his overlarge hands. 

“A holo-projector…Only a high-level operative would possess something this snazzy.  We’ve found our killer.”  Donovan peered inside the locker but nothing appeared unusual. 

“What do you make of it?” Donovan asked.

Trenton said, “Too neat; doesn’t look lived-in like the others.  He’s a ladies man.” 

Donovan’s eyebrow arched.  Trenton chuckled, holding out a jacket sleeve.  “Smell the perfume?  Don’t suppose our man looked the type to squirt himself with a flowery scent?”

“He looked the type to slit your throat.  Let’s get this holo back to the Zebulon before someone tries to retrieve the evidence.”

Eyes sparkling, Trenton patted his sidearm.  “Not with my laser fully charged.”

Donovan flinched.  “We can’t afford heroics that attract undue attention from the Institute.”

“No, sir,” Trenton replied in a falsely contrite tone.

On the Zebulon’s bridge, Dr. Alexander met them, his expression grim.

“Any clues in the lab?”  Donovan asked.

“No.  Everything worked perfectly, just like the other scenes.  Our assassin is quick and clever.”    

“Not clever enough!  Sooner or later every criminal makes a mistake.”  Trenton tossed the silver box to Alex.  “It’s a holo, ready to play.”

The doctor’s face flushed with excitement.  “Can you make it work?” 

Trenton winked.  “Do black holes eat space-dust?”  He opened a tool kit and five minutes later they watched a holographic image.

Alex stared at the unremarkable face.  “I recognize him, his name is Fremont, and he’s a member of our Society.”

Fremont’s image said, “The Institute is greatly pleased with the success of your missions to create Transfer failures, Jarrack.  Proceed promptly against Cassidy 937, Alexander 977, and Jerome 995.  You’ll be rewarded in the usual manner.”

“Jarrack!” Donovan said the name of the enemy and scowled.   

Alex slumped into a plastifoam chair.  “The patient we lost today was Cassidy.  They order our friends murdered and make it sound like a clerical function!”

Donovan nodded.  “The Society can’t ignore the evidence.  They’ll go along with your plan.”

“Right you are.  I’ve scheduled an emergency session in three days,” Dr. Alexander said.  

Donovan said, “Chella, get the crew ready for immediate departure.  Can you have the electronics rigged in time, Trenton?”

“I’m on it, Captain.”

“We’re all behind you, Alex.”

“I know.”  Dr. Alexander stroked his pale forehead with trembling fingers.  “Excuse me gentlemen.  I’ve much to consider.”  He retreated from the bridge, avoiding anxious, worried faces.

The Zebulon, a medical spaceship built for emergencies, moved across the sector at triple light speed.  The crew worked diligently to prepare for a confrontation that would determine their future.

The Society for Scientific Research assembled on the Orion Nebula space depot, a site far removed from Central Administration, but not far enough to suit Donovan.  He stood at the left of the dais observing the room from a warrior’s perspective.  His hand hovered over a fully charged laser, like a gunfighter in an old western holo.

Questions plagued Donovan.  How many assassins worked in league with Fremont?  Was this meeting an Institute trap?  Everyone in this room could be a target, massacred in one fell swoop with the blame placed on anti-technology radicals.  He scrutinized famous faces as they entered the room and felt tension radiate from the crowd like a wall of heat.  Donovan mentally shook himself.  He’d been spending too much time in the company of empaths.  He’d rather work on a robot salvage tanker than share “feelings” with everyone.

He met Dr. Alexander’s gaze and forced a crooked smile.  Could the good doctor read thoughts in a room filled with people?  Alex shifted his lanky frame in the plastifoam chair, greeting Jerome, Stewart, and Hartman as they joined him on the dais. 

Donovan sighed.  How could he protect the four most important scientists in the galaxy?  His gaze darted around the room, suspicious of everyone but detecting no danger.  It was an exciting day.  If the situation were not so deadly serious, he might almost enjoy himself.  How many of these scientists attended the meeting that announced the miracle of Transfer to the galaxy?  How many spans passed since that day?

Spans.  Transfer influenced the way men measured time counting spans rather than years; every fifty years the Institute granted permission for a person to Transfer into a perfect clone.  Together genetic manipulation and Transfer eliminated death, old age, and disease, but the price tag was high, life-long dependence on the Institute.  Unable to pay for the high cost of Transfer, people signed contracts to work off the debt, sacrificing freedom for immortality.  Their debt to the Institute was never gone. 

Donovan noticed that dark hollows outlined the doctor’s pale eyes.  Fatigue plagued the entire crew, but Alex roamed the Zebulon like a ghost, feeling responsible for the death of his friends.  It was time to stop asking questions or assigning blame.  Murder tainted Transfer and it was time to act.  

As if prompted by Donovan’s thoughts, Alex stood.  “This special meeting is called to order.”  A hush swept the room as plastifoam desks creaked and eyes focused on the dais. 

“This meeting was called to examine the increase of Transfer failure.  Kindly direct your attention to your desk monitors.”                         

Faces glowed in the bluish radiance of vidscreen panels built into each desktop.

“It’s been nearly 60 spans since we perfected Transfer, eradicating failure by employing skilled empaths to monitor the procedure.  However, during the last year our Transfer failure rate spiked to an alarming level.”

Silence hung like a shroud. 

Alexander gestured at his companions on the dais.  “As inventors of Transfer, we investigated and found no tangible cause.  The equipment works, empaths detect no impending rejection, and genetic modifications remain within acceptable tolerance levels.”