JARDAN, THE KING C.J. Johnson 1
THE MEN OF ANDERAS:
JarDan, the King
By
C.J. Johnson
( c ) copyright by C.J. Johnson, July 2009
Cover art by Eliza Black, July 2009
ISBN 978-1-60394-337-6
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
IMPERIAL ORDERS OF THE TRIBUNAL OF ANDREAS
In this, our one hundredth year of plague, in an effort to save what is left of our planet, we, the members of the Tribunal of Anderas; hereby declare the following articles to be law:
Technology from alien planets is to be immediately dismantled and destroyed.
No deliberate harm may be brought against any female.
Travel Craft will only obtain females from the worlds chronicled in the Archives of the Ancients.
No female may be taken who has family or close friends who will grieve for her absence.
A male may not choose a mate until this thirty-fifth year.
No male may bond with more than one female in his lifetime.
In order to preserve our bloodlines, no child may be created with a female from any planet other than those listed in the Archives of the Ancients.
Advanced technology will only be used to preserve life and to procure females.
To avoid possible detection, each kingdom of Anderas will be assigned specific areas on the planets of our ancestors in which to locate acceptable females.
No alien being shall be allowed on the planet of Anderas.
Aliens wishing to remain in service to the Anderan Space Exploration Program may apply for permanent residence aboard the orbital space station.
Violation of any article listed above will mean swift and certain death. We take these drastic measures in an attempt to save our dying planet. May the wisdom of the Ancients guide and protect us.
PART ONE
Chapter One
The feeble light of an overcast sunrise brought little cheer to the shabby, run-down barn. Melodie leaned against the rusted tractor that hadn’t moved in twenty years, comforted by the familiar smells of animals, hay and damp earth. It was all she had to soothe the numbing grief that gripped her heart and soul.
It was over. At least it would be when the crew from the auction company arrived. All the scrimping and saving and doing without merely extended the death watch. In the end the results were the same. She had nothing left. This sprawling farm nestled in the rolling plains of central Missouri was the only home she remembered. Her grandfather had done his best to care for the frightened toddler who suddenly appeared in his life, but he was already old and set in his ways. Melodie knew he loved her, he just hadn’t shown it often. Now she had nothing. No home. No money. No family.
She owed Mr. Carstairs a staggering debt of gratitude. Foreclosure should have occurred six months ago. He used his position at the bank to convince the board of directors to wait until Grandpa Joe no longer fought the insidious cancer eating away at his body.
Well, that was six weeks ago. Six weeks of dealing with doctors and funeral arrangements. Six weeks of believing that everything would be fine when the insurance company paid off. Six weeks of living in futile hope. The insurance barely paid for the funeral. There was nothing left. There was no more hope.
The painful lowing of the last remaining milk cow brought Melodie back to the present. Twice a day, every day, Bessie demanded her attention. Placing a small stool beside the warm bovine, Melodie began the process that was as familiar to her as brushing her teeth. There was a certain security in the feel of Bessie’s warm, soft hide against her cheek.
“This is our last morning together, girl. Tonight you’ll be in someone else’s barn, eating twice what you’re worth and giving less milk than it takes to feed the cats.” Tears clogged her throat, but she resolutely refused to let them fall. She moved the half-filled pail of milk and draped her arms around her old friend’s neck in final farewell. “I’ll miss you, Bess.” She whispered as she stroked the velvet soft nose.
Taking a deep breath, she brushed the bits of straw and dust from the seat of her jeans and flipped her long, dark braid across her shoulder. “Enough of this, Melodie Anne. Chores have to be done no matter what the rest of the day brings.”
With the quick, efficient movements of long practice, she fed and cared for the animals, taking an extra minute to say goodbye to each of them. An hour later, she found nothing more to keep her in the familiar surroundings. It was time to face reality.
Taking a wide circular route from the barn to the house, Melodie drank in the sights, sounds and smells that would carry her through the next several months. The frayed rope swing that once lifted her to the clouds. The flower beds filled with the delicate scent of sweet peas. The old well-house that her imagination turned into castles and pirate ships and famous theater stages. With gentle caresses, she sought the peace that comes from warm memories. Tears she could no longer contain slipped slowly down her pale face as she crushed the colorful sweet pea blossoms to her chest. A tiny spark of anger at the unfairness of life flared in her heart. It was enough, for now, to push the pain away. She would grieve later.
Wiping at the wetness on her cheeks, she sprinted toward the house. There was still too much to do before the auction started to stand around weeping. The scavengers would come from miles around to gawk. They would carry no tales of a hysterically sobbing woman back to feed the gossip mills.
* * * *
“Did you see the kitchen? Why, I bet that icebox is as old as I am.”
“And those awful drapes; but what can you expect from that Melodie Smith? You know she never has been much of a real woman.”
“Why I heard she’s never even had a date.”
“What man wants a woman who looks him in the eye? There’s a reason my Joe calls me his little woman. That’s the natural way of things. It’s just not natural for a woman to be so tall.”
Melodie stood in the darkened pantry listening to the snide remarks about her and her home. Anger and humiliation warred within her, threatening to crack her fragile shell of control. She would not give them the satisfaction of losing that control.
These women were no different from most of the crowd milling around both inside the house and across the wide expanse of lawn. Every person here had his or her own reasons for attending. A few intended to purchase land or equipment; but most shared a mixture of morbid curiosity, pity and fear. The plight of the American farmer was becoming increasingly glum. They all knew how quickly everything could be lost. Their spite and venom were merely talismans to keep at bay the possibility that they could be next.
Pride kept Melodie going through the hours it took for the highest bidders to lay claim to her home. Since there were no offers for the farm as a whole, the livestock and equipment sold separately. It was painfully hard to watch a lifetime of memories disappear down the dusty road. After hours of listening to the tongue-tripping cadence of the auctioneer, she handed over the keys to her home; thanked the auctioneer and his team with a few mumbled words of appreciation and carried her meager belongings to the battered pick-up truck that hadn’t been worth a bid. An unusually strong gust of wind carried the scent of rain and Melodie realized the storm forecast for after midnight was imminent.
There were still two cars remaining in the yard. One belonged to Mr. Carstairs and the other to Reverend Simmons. With a groan of dismay M
elodie watched the overweight, over-zealous minister make a bee line straight toward her.
“Sister Smith, a moment of your time please.”
“Of course, Reverend Simmons.” She replied with a slight smile. After twenty years she knew there was nothing that could keep the man from doing what he decided was God’s will.
“I hope, dear woman, that the results of today’s proceedings were financially beneficial?” At the slight negative shake of her head he continued. “Well, God’s Will be done. The women of the church put together a little something for you to take with you. I took the liberty of putting the box in the truck when I arrived. It’s not much, just a little food for the trip and some canned goods to help for a spell till you get settled.”
“That really wasn’t necessary, Reverend, but tell them thank you for me. The fried chicken smells really good.” Melodie turned toward the truck door hoping the man would take the hint and leave. She wanted very much to be alone.
“You know, Melodie, I’ve always considered your refusal to join the Ladies Prayer Meetings a personal failure of mine. It’s important to have friends, especially when life’s problems appear to overwhelm …”
“Does the fate of my immortal soul depend on whether I attend those Thursday morning coffee and cake sessions?” She asked in a cold voice, ignoring the sharp jab of conscience. The women of the Ladies Prayer Meeting Group offered spiritual support as well as food, clothing and shelter when necessary to anyone in the community who needed their help.
“No, of course not. You’ve always been such a loner and there’s some speculation about why you never attempted to become part of the community. You’ve lived here all your life, yet no one really knows you.”
Taking pity on his embarrassed rambling, Melodie reached out and laid a comforting hand on Reverend Simmons’ arm. “You have no need to feel you failed me. There was just too much work to do here. I never seemed to find time just for myself. Grandpa needed me more than the women of the church. I have no regrets and neither should you.” Again her conscience rebelled at her lie. There were a great many things she wished could have been different, just no reason to dwell on them.
Casting a hasty glance at the ever-darkening storm clouds, he clasped her hand and offered a prayer for her safety before hurrying away secure in the knowledge he had done his Christian duty.
“Laid it on a little thick, didn’t you?”
Melodie’s impish grin spread like sunshine across her face and Samuel Carstairs felt the full force of that smile like a blow to his chest. Although she wasn’t classically beautiful, in the right environment, with the right clothes, she would be stunning. She stood eye-to-eye with him and he was six feet tall; but what caught and held his attention was her unusual violet eyes. They were the clear gem-like violet of amethysts. When combined with the coal-black mass of hair she always wore in a neat braid, the effect was staggering.
“Are you all right, Mr. Carstairs?” Melodie asked when he continued to stare at her.
“I’m fine. I was just … never mind, it wasn’t important.” There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make him sound like a perverted old man. “I was just thinking about your grandfather. He was born on this farm. Worked it all his life. Now the only thing left is that battered old truck.” His gaze wandered slowly around the empty farm. The only sound was the rumbling of the approaching storm.
“What will you do? Where will you go?”
His softly spoken questions brought the return of tears to her eyes. Swallowing hard past the lump in her throat, she did the only thing she could to ease the worry of this dear old man. She lied.
“I mailed my resume to several job referral offices in St. Louis weeks ago and two of them have scheduled interviews for next week. I never thought about all of the clerical work that goes into running this place. I look pretty good on paper.”
In truth, she had no idea where she was going or how she was going to survive. She just knew she’d do what she had to do.
“Then I want you to take this.” He handed her an envelope before speaking again. “There’s five hundred dollars in there and before you start arguing with me, think with your head and not your pride. Joe Smith was my best friend and I know he would have done the same for me. I only wish I could do more. Please, let me give this final gift to my friend. Let me help.”
Tears ran unheeded down her face as she clasped the envelope to her chest. “I don’t know how to thank you.” She managed after a few minutes.
“No thanks are necessary. Just promise me you’ll let me know if you ever need anything.”
With an impulsiveness that was uncommon for her, Melodie hugged the older man, whispered a ragged thank you in his ear before quickly scrambling into her truck. Before the door closed behind her, huge drops of rain began battering a rapid tattoo against the cab.
Chapter Two
“By the Ancients, JarDan! Why do you insist on continuing this voyage?” Dak yelled in exasperation. “We have more than one hundred females in sleep chambers. If the other travel crafts have been half so successful we’ll not have to make another trip to Earth for years.”
The frustrated second-in-command glared in angry confusion at the stiff back of his friend and liege. This voyage was taking its toll on the entire crew. Every day brought a new case of space fatigue. So far, the cases were all mild. It wouldn’t be long before it affected the highest levels of command. Even the commander, Tor JarDan.
Their travel craft had been in Earth’s orbital field for twelve months. No travel craft in the history of Anderas had undertaken such an extended journey. From initial take-off to return was never more than six months. Yet, JarDan showed no intention of returning to their world nor would he explain his reluctance to leave.
Dak tried again to reason with his friend. “JarDan,” he began with forced calm, “you’re the Commander of the Destiny and as such I’ll follow your orders without question.” He ignored the snort from across the room. “The crew is restive and their concerns are valid. Every hour we delay in leaving orbit puts all of us at risk. They deserve to know why you refuse to leave. If you continue with this course of action, there will be trouble. I feel it.”
“Perhaps you should refer the crew to the page in their manual that deals with the Order of Command of a Travel Craft.” Sarcasm tinged the deep voice as the dark-haired leader turned from his perusal of the blue and white planet beyond the window port.
“If that fails to satisfy their curiosity then you might mention that I am the Prince of Tor.”
Dak drew himself to attention at the rebuke from his Commander. “My apologies, your Highness. I will pass your message to the crew. I bid you good night.”
“Dak …”
The voice was soft but the command to halt was there, nonetheless. JarDan watched as his best friend stood stiffly at attention.
“I’m sorry. My temper controls my tongue these days. You take advantage of the fact that we’re as close as brothers. No other man would question my orders then dare to take offense when I snap in anger.” Turning back to the window port he waited until he heard Dak sit before continuing.
“I don’t know that I can explain what I don’t understand myself. This is our third trip to Earth, but this time is different. There’s something pulling at me with all the force of an electromagnetic field. I wake up in the middle of the night with such an overwhelming sense of urgency that it takes all my willpower not to teleport --somewhere -- anywhere -- down there. I can't stay away from this window. Watching. Waiting.”
JarDan turned and pinned his friend with a look, willing him to understand. “Does space fatigue cause this kind of madness? Have I put the ship and crew in jeopardy because of my fixation with this planet? I think of my father and know I need to return to Anderas, but I cannot issue the order. I know without a doubt that my destiny is waiting down there and if I leave Earth’s orbit I will regret it the rest of my life.”
Turning back to the window
port and the beckoning planet below, JarDan sighed deeply. “What’s down there, Dak?”
The buzz of the intercom interrupted any comment Dak might have made.
“Tor here.”
“Commander, you said to notify you if I noticed … you know … anything unusual, Sir.”
JarDan shook his head. “Yes, Ensign, I’m aware of my orders. What have you found?” He shoved his hair back from his forehead. “And Ensign, short and to the point please.”
“Yes, Sir. Well, Sir, it’s a storm, Sir. A real killer, Sir. It will cause massive destruction, Sir, in an area in central North America.”
“There’s nothing unusual in that, Ensign. They’re a common occurrence in that area.” The deliberately patient tone of voice was a warning.
“Well, Sir.” Stammered the young man. “It’s difficult to explain, Sir.”
JarDan waited for several seconds before realizing the young man was not going to offer further information. “Ensign!” He barked. “You have exactly ten seconds to make your report -- officially -- or I will relieve you of your post. Is that clear? And one sir per sentence.”
JarDan shot a warning glance at his chuckling companion.
“Yes, Sir. The storm is not so unusual, Commander,” answered the navigator briskly. “It’s the woman, Sir.”
“A woman?” His senses went on full alert. Something was happening. Something important. He felt it in the quickening of his pulse.
“Yes, Sir. She’s standing knee-deep in mud and … she’s attacking her vehicle, Sir.”
“I’ll be right there. Captain Beldon will be in charge of the Flight Deck. Have the Teleport Crew stand by for my orders.” He severed the connection before the young navigator could begin another monologue.
“JarDan! Where are you going? You’re not even dressed!”
JarDan glanced at the flowing robe he wore, its distinctive white color and gold embroidery a symbol of his royal heritage.
The Men of Anderas I: Jardan, the King Page 1