Thanks to countless hours spent analyzing this planet’s sports culture, Hadrian condescendingly assumed he might be able to eventually compete against these earth athletes on their own stage. In the prince’s arrogant little mind, there wasn’t much difference between his skills with a saber and theirs with a three point shot. But without a royal apparatus to protect him in this new place, many things would have to be honestly earned for the first time in a short, privileged life. No matter how hard he stamped, the prince wouldn’t be able to “walk on court” and join the game.
Even so, Hadrian still had Jessica. Highly attentive at this delicate phase in their mission, the computer investigated her master’s request; ultimately discovering that admission to the team’s locker-room was not commercially available. One couldn’t just purchase this access like a ticket to a game. However, in another flash of analysis, her great synthetic brain found another, more circuitous route. Although she didn’t quite like the idea of a return to the crowded earth stadium, she knew the prince had comported himself well in both private and public settings. More importantly, his spirits had indeed improved. Her official forecast favored a roaming prince. So while her Hadrian was making use of the hotel’s exercise facility, Jessica moved forward and executed the order for backstage access. As New York’s basketball team was part of a publicly traded sports conglomerate, she proceeded to purchase a large block of their stock on the open market. At the moment, the New York exchange was open and actively trading.
When Hadrian’s starship first slipped into orbit, Jessica first initiated a quiet process to amass a sizeable fortune in the prince’s name. She had correctly deduced that the accumulation of wealth also assured the accumulation of power on this greedy backwater world. Implementing a discreet plan, she carefully skimmed millions from the various financial markets as a catfish vacuums a river’s muddy bottom. Jessica made the calculation that earth’s auditors and accountants would easily miss the long tail of decimal points that rolled behind even the smallest transactions. Within a week, she harvested a great fortune that appeared quite legitimate. Following her flash trade for the team’s wobbly stock, a ruffled vice president received a phone call from Jessica who presented herself as the new shareholder’s assistant. By right, she requested all-access passes and courtside seats to be delivered directly to the hotel.
Following an invigorating workout, Hadrian showered in the suite’s elegant bathroom. He then dressed and headed for the Metropolitan Museum of Art to learn more of the history of these people. The museum featured prominently in this morning’s research and was an easy walk from the hotel. He was immensely curious about the officious looking facility, as his own people didn’t keep museums. Each Teramarian regime was completely self-absorbed and usually tore down the artifacts of the past to replace them with their own self-portraits.
Climbing the grand stairs to the entrance, the sheer size of the ornate structure reminded Hadrian of his father’s house. After he paid the entrance fee, the prince opened the floor plan and began his tour starting with ancient cultures: the Greek, Roman, Egyptian and Assyrian galleries. Strolling through the long marble halls, Hadrian noted the great age of the artifacts. Everything was thousands of years old and many pieces were made of glass or earthenware. “How did these fragile objects endure the wars?”
Time moved quickly in the famous building. Prominent themes appeared. No matter the culture or race, every collection seemed to savor similar tenets. And much of that rolled toward this word love. Yet, the long hallways also presented the uncharitable chapters from earth’s history. The prince contrasted these remarkable exhibits with his own people’s lack of introspection. For Hadrian, this museum was a brave gesture – a meticulously curated legacy with warts and all.
Eventually, the marble floors got the best of tired feet. The official sign that it was time to depart was a fading grey sun in the skylights. Early evening had descended on the city. Strolling back to the hotel, the prince caught the aroma of ginger and soy where a Chinese restaurant drew him inside. The food was very good and his interaction with the staff went off well. Afterwards, he returned to the hotel and with a satisfied smile, flopped fully clothed onto his bed for a long, deep sleep. There were no bad dreams in the room that night. Just soft breathing.
The next morning, the prince woke early and toured the villages of Soho and Greenwich. He then relaxed in Washington Square watching the musicians play in the cold. Hadrian even went to see a movie at an actual theatre. After three days, the city block round the hotel was familiar to him and the hotel staff greeted the prince by name. When tip-off to the basketball game drew near, an excited prince dropped everything and energetically walked to the stadium but this time he went alone. Hadrian hadn’t called Angela since their date. He intended to call. For now, however, he didn’t need an earth woman witnessing all of his rookie gaffes as he learned to navigate earth society. The girl was smart and the prince was afraid that with enough information, she could easily deduce the real story.
Heading to the player’s entrance, Hadrian presented his laminated badge. The prince sensed the electricity. He knew he was close to the action when he caught the familiar smell of sport. Stale sweat can’t be beat out of a building like beer from a bar. The prince squinted through the TV lights. The room itself was in the shape of a large semi-circle with a white-board and a large flat screen at one end. Wood paneled alcoves lined the perimeter. Immediately to his right, Hadrian noticed a few of the bench-players, changing by their lockers. Then like a sequoia, Ben Smith loomed before him. Next to Ben, lying on the ground with his eyes closed and wearing gigantic headphones, was Shayne Wright. The reporters seemed to have an understanding to leave those two alone. Jostled from behind, Hadrian found himself near tripping over Shayne Wright. The prince’s newly found confidence dissolved like a cookie in hot tea. Hadrian wished he had brought Angela after all. “What am I doing here? This is too public!”
Big Ben Smith looked down, smirked and then raucously shouted so Shayne Wright could hear through the headphones, “That big blond who was sitting courtside last time - ‘your distraction’ - well, she’s standing right here in a ridiculous Thurston Howell blazer with gold buttons?” The statement was followed by a nasty schoolyard snigger. The giant athlete barely finished his words, when the prince’s foot flew, catching the taller man behind the knee collapsing him. Without a thought, Hadrian finished Ben Smith off, pushing him to the ground - laid out in a tangle of flailing limbs. On Teramar, that was how one-settled insults. A spontaneous cheer of laughter and applause erupted.
Shayne jumped to his feet ready to take on the young man. Then, he looked at Ben on the ground with all the wind knocked out of him. The team sycophants ran forward to administer their miseries. The boy stood at ease, ready for the next comer. Indeed, Shayne recognized Hadrian.
“Easy tiger,” he said.
Looking down at his friend, Shayne teased, “Ben, looks like she didn’t want to jump rope with you after all.” Quickly, he turned to Hadrian with his hands up, “Hey. I’m only joking, man.” He wore a guilty smile.
“Who is she?” Hadrian was confused and embarrassed. Camera flashes abounded. The press of people made it worse. The prince then realized they were speaking about him. “Do I look like a woman? Is it the long hair?” The prince’s face flushed red in horror. This wasn’t the first time someone called him that on earth. Then, the enormity of the situation hit him. He had attacked Ben Smith. “I’ll never be allowed back,” the prince said aloud.
There was a sudden commotion as six men in blue busted through the crowd and surrounded Hadrian pointing what appeared to be weapons. Jessica whispered into the prince’s ear, “Your highness, put your hands up. This place is too public and there is a small chance you could be injured and then I’d really have to intervene.”
Hadrian did what he saw on TV. He put up his hands. The blue men pinned the prince’s arms and slapped thick metal bracelets on his wrists. Someone started t
o read the Miranda script. Shayne Wright tried to intercede but the police ignored him. Then, they hauled the new team owner off to jail.
Trammels
The fetid stench was such that visitors could barely focus on the purpose of their trip to the detention facility. The smell could easily trigger a gag reflex upon arrival. A full service facility, the prison also catered to the body’s other three senses. For the ear, the bosses thoughtfully produced a daily concert for the residents. Three stories down in the hole, attentive gaolers were currently disemboweling some poor soul who screamed hysterically. “Please stop. Please, please, pleeeeeassse stop,” went the song. Just those two words, over and over again – the day’s disturbing lyrics.
During his stay in these gracious accommodations, the royal beard had grown quite full, catching scraps of food like a fisherman’s net. The itch of moving insects was driving him mad. It was was all blurring together in one slow moving piece of misery. As of late, the lights were set at varying levels of bright. Today, they were horribly intense, burning like a tropical sun.
Vaguely, the king heard steps. They seemed to be approaching but he wasn’t quite sure. One of them clicked lightly on the pavement, unlike the usual clomps of military boots. Stone locks slid open.
“Father.”
Princess Alian flowed into the box.
She whisked in such a pleasant smell, extending an immediate refuge. His eldest daughter rigidly stood before him wearing her usual fitted clothing. He smiled inwardly at how she refused to follow the hiss of royal fashion. Amongst the filth and stridulous cries from below, Alian struggled to maintain her composure.
“Father, I can’t believe mother has put you in this place. I have pleaded your case to everyone. They demure to Uncle Charles. The man is a monster.”
Alian turned to the guards hovering by the door. Raising her voice like the queen herself, she ordered the drones with such a force of voice: “Shut this door until I call for you.” She hit them hard. The guards jerked like robots as the door promptly slid closed. The princess turned and gazed sympathetically upon her father. “At least we have something that looks like privacy.”
The king smiled showing broken teeth. “You look lovely, my dear.”
“You don’t. These conditions can’t be good for your health.”
“Please don’t worry about me, daughter. They treat the others much worse than I.” The king was now forcing an optimistic front. The heavy chains rattled when he moved to take her hands falling short. A desperate look accidently slipped from him.
“What can I do,” she whispered? The princess’s face was serious with concern.
“Alian. They see and hear everything here.” The king raised his eyebrow as a parent.
“Well, at least I can insist they move you to better quarters. That, I think I can do. I don’t see why they have to physically punish you. This place is a horror.”
The hysterical voice continued to echo throughout the section. “Please. Pleaseeeeeeee. Pleaeeehhheeeeeaseee.” The scream ratcheted to a higher pitch. Someone had to be turning a winch somewhere. Alian’s smooth face remained stoic. She settled calm eyes on her father in an effort to appear reassuring.
“I hear the talk, father. They say you should abdicate and retire from public life. I believe mother and her cabal will let Hadrian ascend the throne in a limited capacity.”
The king furrowed his brow in a frustrated expression that said, “Don’t you hear the sounds.” He waived his chains, gesturing round. “We never behaved like this.”
Alian’s wide eyes were dark as pools. Her coloring was the opposite of Hadrian’s. She took after her father where black hair framed a porcelain face. Unlike her older brother, she rarely ventured into the sun. The princess answered, “Yes, they are animals. Why does that have to concern you? Retire. Your son is a match for them.”
The king dismissed the question, “I can’t let them rape the empire. The Uriah clan is devoid of honor. I thought they had changed but I was wrong.”
Heavy steps approached. One could hear the dampness. Clunk. The door slammed open. A higher grade, senior official stood there to attend to the princess. Drones flanked the man. He coldly said, “The time has come for you to leave, your highness. The queen is asking for you.”
“Naturally,” said the king.
Alian fixed a long hard gaze on her father that said, “I’ll be back.” Then, with the dignity of a princess, she swept out of the cell. As a parting gift, the Uriah commander slammed a truncheon across the king’s back.
“Courtesy of her majesty.”
The pain surged to the root of his spine. He could tell the old wounds reopened with the drip of fresh blood. Ignoring the ache, the king breathed deeply, grasping for the fleeting smell of his daughter. The distraction of her company was far too brief. There was nowhere else to turn but back to the same ditch where his thoughts usually lay. In reality, only a few short weeks had past since the first day of the coup.
Forever thinking and reviewing what had happened, his majesty objectively strained his intellect for a burning anecdote to the situation. There was only one way out and that was through his son, although the younger Hadrian might not understand that just yet. Originally, the king had always hoped he could raise the children in a thoughtful, responsible manner. He never considered that an only son would have to leap into adulthood by taking up arms against his mother. Yet, the young prince was the only real lever that might actually turn immutable events. “Hadrian will come for me.” His mind wouldn’t veer from this thought. “Hadrian will come.” Saying the words gave him comfort. “Hadrian will come.” The king’s brain became a wheel of repetitive contemplation. Abruptly, the screaming stopped. All the lights clicked dark in a loud obnoxious clack. “Hadrian will come.”
South Midtown Police Station
57 West 35th Street
The men in the blue uniforms rudely pushed Hadrian into an automobile that carried him to a brightly lit building. The ride was horribly uncomfortable as the officers pinned his arms at a severe angle with metal restraints. “Cuff him,” someone had barked in the locker-room.
Inside the police station, another officer removed the manacles and they ordered the prince to place his feet onto two markers when a flashing light blew into his face. The young man was nervous and confused. Afterwards, the prince had to submit all of his possessions: wallet, the hotel card and his phone. Luckily, the prince’s com was a redesigned model, one that better blended with the other earth devices. None of the police gave it a second glance.
The officers understood they had an expensive person in custody and had the good sense to keep Hadrian out of the general population. From the prince’s looks alone, they knew the other inmates would have certainly singled him out in a rush to tag the young man as “someone’s boy.” They also knew this same young man used martial arts to pull down big Ben Smith. Everyone at the precinct had heard the report. The cops therefore put him in isolation for the safety of all concerned.
Patiently, Hadrian waited and watched a bald, crisp man efficiently enter the numbers from his passport into a plastic box. The machine or computer or whatever this device was responded with clicks and beeps. “No priors. Resident of London. Many trips to New York. Applied for a green card citing business reasons.”
“What business reasons could you have, boy,” smirked the cop, commenting on Hadrian’s age?
Eventually, they put the prince in a horrible little room for what seemed many earth hours. Sealed off from the outside world, the prince turned nervous and fidgety. Earlier in the week, he had seen a news story that told of a Californian police department who had forgotten one of their prisoners, leaving a young man in his cell for days without food or water. At least the prince’s cell offered a toilet, although the cleaning fluid failed to camouflage the smell of the prior humans. With graffiti covering the walls, the prince spent restless hours reading the hundreds of inscriptions from prior men. Some were religious mottos. Othe
rs were disparaging remarks about another man or woman. There were also an almost infinite variety of gang logos. In his entire life, Hadrian had never experienced confinement and he badly wanted to get out. “Where is Jessica?”
With nothing but time on his hands, the prince realized he had made a colossal mistake at the stadium. To coexist with these earth people, Hadrian had to learn to keep his emotions in check. Although he was hardly an expert on the laws that governed New York, permanent injury hadn’t come of the incident. “Could you even call what I did to Ben Smith an assault,” he reasoned? After another hour, or what seemed like another earth hour, he heard a door slam and footsteps. Only one officer appeared and he unlocked the gate.
“Capet. You’re outta here. Someone is getting you now.”
Hadrian towered over the smaller man whose hair lay like a slab. The prince then followed the cop through a series of cold, very bright rooms. Due to the prince’s heightened sense of smell from years in the hunt, Hadrian winced at the antiseptic vapors that permeated the air. He was eager to leave this place.
“Will I get things now?” He wanted the com.
“Not yet,” said the officer.
“But….”
“Shut the fuck up,” the uniformed man snapped.
Hadrian had to exert every ounce of self-control. The sojourn in the prison cell exacerbated the prince’s anxiety. He had to consciously push the roiling anger down. “They’re just doing their jobs,” he reminded himself.
The officer mumbled into his microphone, “Yeah, I got him.”
Another steel door buzzed but didn’t move.
Teramar: The Gathering Night Page 8