Trekmaster. James B. Johnson
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BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY JAMES B. JOHNSON
Counterclockwise
Habu
Trekmaster
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1987, 2012 by James B. Johnson
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For Rob Reginald
Friend, Co-Conspirator, and Writer’s Editor.
Thank you from all of us.
1. THE KING
The seeds of rebellion were strewn this day, though, at the time, he did not know it—he only suspected it. Thomas Jefferson (family name Shepherd) Rex enjoyed his birthday celebration anyway.
“...only living Master of the Trek, King of Bear Ridge, Supreme Commander of the Armies and the Gyrenes of The Palace Guard, Lord of Crimson Sapphire, Protector of the Faith....” TJ snorted to himself at this one as the herald continued to chant his titles. He noted the herald’s calm cadence and felt a grudging admiration for the man’s ability to wade through the necessary formalities. “...Unbeaten Swordmaster. Admiral of all the Navies, the Conqueror, Prime Chancellor, Lord of all Nobles, Father to all His Peoples....”
The herald Seemed to Talk in Capitals. TJ admitted that reciting the list of his titles was boring. He’d delete most of them—rather, the formal reading of them. The herald would hem and haw and disagree, for he liked the formality of the court. Alfred, the herald, was an administrative genius but he had his flaws. At least he was almost finished.
“...paying homage to His Majesty, Thomas Jefferson Rex. King of Bear Ridge, on this, his forty-second birthday.”
Would this never end? TJ could see bored faces throughout the cavernous formal throne room. The court sycophants gathered together up front practiced bland exteriors though even they had to be bored. Throat clearing and coughing began in earnest. More than a thousand present, he thought, and all dressed in their finest. To his right was a section dedicated to the nobility; several of the two hundred or so present there could not conceal hostile glances at him. To his left, an equal sized section contained the clergy where an equal number of hostile looks favored him. In the center sat or stood almost a thousand of his subjects, mostly those from the city without. At the far walls stood members of the Gyrenes, ever alert, eyes constantly scanning. Random squads of these palace guards stood amongst the spectators and individual soldiers peppered the front rows of the crowd.
The jester must have sensed the unrest for he suddenly whooped and flew into a series of nimble cartwheels in the open space below the throne. The herald missed a beat of his chant.
Finally the opening ceremonies were complete and TJ smiled benevolently down at a group of tertiary school girls as they serenaded him. A team of jugglers followed. TJ sneaked a glance at the Fed’s Envoy, Sharon Gold. She stood with rapt attention observing everything. Even though she was a xenobiologist, she couldn’t conceal her interest in the supposed quaint ways of a backward planet like Bear Ridge. TJ admired Sharon. She was a tall, lithe young lady with golden brown skin. And she was from Olde Earthe. TJ found it surprising that the Federation Council had appointed one so young to be the final judge in the upcoming drama so important to him and his planet. Politics? Possibly. He’d have to study on it. The Fed Council could well be as full of intrigue as his own court. How the hell did an Olde Earthe Oriental get a Jewish name? He’d asked himself this question ten times since her arrival on Bear Ridge.
A team of tumblers cavorted now, bodies flying indiscriminately about and threatening to plunge into the crowd. The court jester hopped and flew amongst them, holding his talents in reserve, TJ knew, so as to not embarrass the tumblers.
Uncertainty struck at him. What if he turned out to be wrong? He began to fidget and a mood of depression settled over him. Push doubts aside. Birthdays were cause for celebration. Wasn’t all of Bear Ridge on holiday just because of his birthday? And TJ knew that creeping age wasn’t the sole cause of his lethargy. Two decades of fighting. Twenty years of blood, of agony, of battle after battle, of planning, of sweating and shaking nerves, of death and, worse, the rotting stench of it. Of living on the knife-edge—after all that, life was too tame. He recognized his unrest as the curse of peace, a curse that many soldiers bear. He felt as if he were waiting for something to happen. It had been this way since the euphoria of war had passed. He shook his body. Pursue dreams of the future; do not revel in the past, learn from it. Christ, a philosopher now?
Gwen, sitting at his side on a smaller and less pretentious throne, patted him on the arm. sensing his mood.
“...from the Ethnarchy of Bexar,” the herald was announcing, “and the town of Lonestar, the selected representative of the Ethnarch and the people of Bexar, may I present to His Majesty the musician, Kellen Sing.” The herald stepped back.
Somehow he knew it. This was a turning point. The young man’s eyes glinted fire. Kellen Sing? TJ noted his stiff back, the shock of unruly black hair, the directness of focus from the coal black eyes, and the controlled energy. As he stared into the young man’s eyes. TJ saw a direct threat. Maybe not. Try to read him? He should have mastered aura-control, but knew his stubborn personality was a hindrance to the self-integration. Yet his gut feelings were generally correct: they had to be.
“Welcome.” TJ cut the formal greeting.
“Your Majesty,” said Kellen Sing, “we are but a poor province and cannot afford expensive gifts. Thus the people of the Ethnarchy of Bexar have dispatched me to entertain you and your court.” Sing followed the proper form while speaking, then knelt on one knee, touching his forehead to the other knee.
TJ signaled for him to rise, but Kellen Sing shook his head. From one wrist he detached a connected pair of thumb drums and secured them to his knee. He flicked his hair out of his eyes and lowered the lids halfway. His head angled back and he began to tap out a haunting melody.
The entire hall fell quiet. The throb of the thumb drums filled every inch of the crowded room. Each about the size of a fist, the drums were tuned in compliment.
TJ saw the mesmerizing effect the music had on most of those in the court. The people present were unnaturally silent. Occasionally, one of his palace guards would catch himself as if just coming awake. TJ recognized a few chords of “Death March” hidden within the framework of the piece. Gwendlyon stared in fascination, leaning forward so as to not miss a beat. The rhythm captured his blood beat, striking notes deep within. He tore his attention away, afraid to reveal himself. Much of the crowd seemed hypnotized.
Kellen Sing finished, and the hall remained dead silent with mental echoes of the music remaining.
Kellen’s head dropped to his knee again, nudging the drums, and remained in that position. A spontaneous roar of approval burst from the thousand present and shook the palace itself. The applause lasted for many minutes. TJ could see Kellen smiling into his knee.
TJ felt a sudden affinity for this young man, perhaps the age of his and Gwen’s son, or perhaps a year or two older. Would that Michale commanded the presence that Kellen Sing did, and would that he manifested less antagonism. Ah, well, he could only hope that things would change.
The applause died slowly, a huge wave receding, leaving isolated spots of noisy approval. Gradually, all quieted and anticipation rose. It was the King’s custom to handsomely reward outstanding performances. On his birthday, the royal coffers dropped in proportion to both the King’s mood and his magnanimity.
TJ again signaled for Kellen to rise.
“I trust Your Majesty was pleased,” Sing said, not asked.
The court gasped. One only replied to the King in court, not address him.
TJ had to hide his appreciation for the kid’s spunk. “Yes, it pleased me. My dear?”
Gwen