Freedom by Fire Read online

  Contents

  Freedom By Fire

  Book Club Teaser

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Exclusive Content

  About the Author

  Acknowledgment

  Freedom By Fire

  By

  C.P. MacDonald

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  Copyright © 2020 C.P. MacDonald

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means,

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  Except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  P.O. Box 314

  Paris, Tn 38242

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  www.cpmacdonaldauthor.com

  Cover design © 2020 C.P. MacDonald

  Chapter 1

  Crouched on his skyboard, Blayne glanced through the cloud layer below. Through the breaks in the clouds, he could see the checkerboard of crops and fields in the mountain valley below, a sea of green and lush fertile farmland. Automatic harvesters hovered above the fields, giant bulbous aircraft sucking up the corn and other vegetables through long articulated tubes that hung underneath the aircraft like the giant legs of a bug.

  Looking forward, he studied the massive cloud formation building up before him and grinned. Kicking in the afterburners of his skyboard, he used the flaps on the stubby wings to raise the board’s nose and shot up the cloud wall, leaving a swirling wake of water vapor behind him. With a whoop of exhilaration, he pumped his fist in the air as he shot up the cumulus cloud wall, riding his board like a rocket. Underneath his visor, he grinned so hard his face hurt. Cloud surfing was an extreme sport and never failed to provide him an adrenaline rush. With his left foot, he stomped on the back of his skyboard to kick it into a flip and point himself back down the cloud wall. The gravity disks on the bottom of the board gripped the face of the puffy cloud as he slalomed down the white mountain, puffs of white fluffy cloud zipped past his helmet, leaving little droplets of moisture running across his visor. The roar of the wind in his ears almost drowned out the pounding of his heart.

  Hitting the bottom of the thunderhead, he slid across the misty valley and blasted off the edge into the open air. Popping out his glide wings, he crouched against the rush of wind and looked at the layer of clouds below. An impressive storm system, perfect for some high-level skysurfing, stretched off as far as the eye could see.

  A flash below caught his eye. Gunn, his best friend, had just exited a cloud tunnel out of the storm center. Twisting his body, Blayne rolled his board and pointed the nose down to dive toward his surf partner. Clicking on the comm in his helmet, Blayne suggested, “Hey, let’s head to that cloud tower east of us. I bet it’s got some kickin’ winds.”

  Gunn nodded, flashed a thumbs up, and banked toward the cloud tower. Blayne was used to the silence from his friend. Gunn wasn’t one to speak unnecessarily, a stark contrast to his own outgoing, extroverted self.

  Catching up to his surf buddy, Blayne settled his board in beside him as they crossed above the storm system to the center eye. He caught glimpses of the farmland below through the breaks in the storm. Over the centuries, his family had cultivated most of the planet of Dunadd into farmland, a complicated mix of automated and indentured labor using serfs. Blayne looked away from the landscape below. He wasn’t up here to think about crop projections or labor shortages, as a member of the ruling family of Dunadd he had to deal with that daily. He was out here with Gunn to blow off some steam and have some fun before whatever next formal ceremony they required him to attend. And there was always another formal ceremony.

  Gunn’s deep voice broke over the helmet comm, “Check out southeast, 2 o’clock.”

  Peering in the indicated direction, Blayne had to wait for his visor to adjust its polarization from the sun’s glare before he spotted what had caught Gunn’s attention. The reentry trail of a spaceship.

  “The Aratan are early,” he grumbled. With one last look at the very tempting storm wall rising before them, he turned his board north and gestured for Gunn to follow, “I’ve got to get back.”

  Gunn clicked his comm in acknowledgment as he followed.

  Blayne dropped his board down through the cloud layer, wiping the running drops of moisture off his visor with his gloved hand. Streaking out from the bottom of the clouds, the farmlands of his family stretched out below him. What grew in the fields depended on the season and the location. Here, near the Palace, it was mainly high-end fruit and vegetables for the Royal Family. They also exported these crops off-planet to the upper societies throughout the TriadVerse, for those that could afford it. He looked to both sides of the valley, at the Royal Mountains that rose above him. The mountains rose thousands of feet above the crops and field workers. The Palace, and the Capital of Dunadd, were perched near the top and looked out over the landscape. Blayne had to admit the Palace provided some spectacular views from its balconies, but he always thought the location of the city separated them from the population of the planet. Their serfs and servants lived in small villages scattered among the farms and fields, and they all had to look up to see the Palace. He had grown up there, but even after twenty years it still didn’t feel like home.

  A bellowing siren from behind them interrupted Blayne's thoughts. He looked behind to see a pair of Palace Patrol cruisers and sneered. As usual, his ever-so-thoughtful mother had sent out the Patrol to find and collect him. Gunn had already slowed down to obey the strobing lights. But Blayne grinned and threw a salute to his friend, turned to face the Patrol cruisers and threw them a very different, and vulgar, salute. He keyed his comm, “Hey Gunn, I’ll catch you later at the ceremony.”

  Gunn clicked his comm in response, already guiding his own skyboard down to the commoner’s garage at the edge of the city.

  Glancing back at the cruisers behind him, Blayne commed over the Patrol frequency, “I was already coming back, but if you insist, try to keep up.” He wiggled his foot to test the restraints holding him to his skyboard and folded in his glide wings before he kicked in the afterburners. Like a streaking meteor, he blasted into the maze of highrises, towers, and walkways of the Palace.

  The Patrol, hot on his tail, followed him with their flashing lights and sirens warbling. Above and below him flew multiple layers of traffic lanes, streams of ships and transports coming and going from the Palace. Blayne knew himself to be reckless and wild, but he wasn’t stupid enough to fly a skyboard through or in that kind of traffic. Unfortunately, he was busy watching the traffic around him and banked between two towers too fast, dragging his board acros
s the face of the glass building and leaving a scorch mark across its pristine surface from his thrusters.

  “Oops! Sorry!,” he muttered and gave an apologetic wave to the people on the other side of the glass, while their mouths hung open in surprise.

  “Your Highness, please land!” the Patrol cruiser blared behind him, its flashing lights continuing to alert everyone in the vicinity to the drama.

  Rolling his eyes, he waved bye-bye to the cruisers and dove his board straight down, weaving around the traffic lanes below. On any other day, the Patrol would disengage and leave him alone when he entered back inside the city limits, but his Mother must be more insistent than usual this time. Down below, the Royal Gardens that surrounded the Palace were coming up at him, and fast. He pulled back on his flaps and brought the board out of its dive mere meters above the concrete, and the startled crowd of tourists exploring the majestic gardens of his family.

  A crowd of school kids jumped up and down and waved as he rocketed past. With a wave back and a wiggle of his board, he looped around and swooped directly through the grand fountain at the center of the garden, splashing the kids below. Even through his helmet, he could hear the roar of laughter and squeals from the kids as the cold water doused them.

  “Young man, get your ass in here. Now!” a stern woman’s voice barked over his helmet comm.

  “Yes, Mother,” he replied dejectedly.

  Flying up out of the gardens, he headed toward the Royal Garage on the top of the North Tower. The Palace Patrol cruisers once again tucked in behind him.

  “All right guys, I’m going, I’m going,” he muttered before he smiled back at them. “But try to keep up.” He couldn’t resist a little more defiance and crouched down on the board to kick it into full throttle. Weaving through the towers and walkways, he quickly added distance between him and his Royal escort as he gained altitude toward the top of the Palace. The opening to the garage appeared in front of him as he rounded a spire. Without slowing down, he rocketed straight into the gaping maw of the garage. He killed the gravity disks and thrusters, causing the skyboard to crash down to the floor and skid the full length of the garage. Mechanics and service personnel jumped out of the way as he slid through the work area. Unfortunately, a shuttle was in the center of the garage preparing for liftoff. With no way to turn or stop, Blayne laid down on the board and slid underneath the shuttle, slipping between its landing gears in a shower of sparks.

  He finally came to a crashing halt against a stack of cargo boxes on the back wall of the garage. Blayne released his foot restraints and rolled onto the floor, laughing with the adrenaline rush. When he pulled off his helmet to wipe the tears out of his eyes, the first thing he saw was a pair of stilettos stomping across the garage floor directly toward him.

  “Blayne Remos Maxwell! If you try another stupid stunt like that again, I’ll kill you myself!” the same stern voice from his helmet barked at him from above as he lay on the ground catching his breath.

  He ran his fingers through his sweaty black hair to get it out of his face and replied, “Relax, Mother. I am perfectly all right. See? Not even a scratch.” He held out his arms for inspection as he scrambled up. Brushing off the dust from his flight suit, he asked, “Did you really have to send the Patrol out for me? Again?”

  “If you would show up on time and be where you are supposed to be, I wouldn’t have to resort to such measures.” She clucked as she brushed dirt and water droplets off his shoulders. His mother, Queen Rania, could be a little overprotective and controlling, but she wasn’t a bad parent. As the Queen, she only wanted him to fulfill his duties as the Prince of Dunadd. Duties he tried very, very hard to avoid.

  Shrugging away from her maternal pecking, he pointed to his wristcom, “You know you could have called me.”

  With her hands on her hips, she tilted her head, “Really? Every time I’ve tried that you have reception issues, are out of range, or some other wild excuse for not acknowledging my comms. Besides, the Patrol worked, didn’t it?” she said, a smile starting to form on her lips as the laugh lines around her eyes crinkled.

  Expelling a breath in frustration, he reluctantly agreed, “Yes, Mother.”

  “Now off with you. Go get fitted and dressed for the negotiations. The Aratans are a little early, we don’t want to keep them waiting,” she wagged her finger at him before she spun on her heel and left the garage.

  Blayne waved at a nearby mechanic to get her attention and pointed toward his board, “Can you fix it up please? There’s rain scheduled over the Palettes Field tomorrow that looks promising.” He carelessly tossed his helmet onto a shelf, then marched out to head toward his rooms.

  Chapter 2

  After grabbing a quick shower, Blayne stood in his dressing room and slipped on his favorite Arie hide jacket. Haji, his manservant, entered through the enormous double doors followed by a tall bounding dog.

  “Skye! No! Wait!” Blayne tried to stop the large deerhound, but the dog pounced on him to lick his face. “No! Skye! You’ll get fur all over my jacket!” Blayne tried to push the insistent dog off of him.

  Meanwhile, Haji was standing with his hands on his hips and clicked his tongue at the young Prince. “No, no Sire! This is a formal ceremony. You must dress appropriately!” Haji went into Blayne’s walk-in closet and soon returned with a kilt in the family tartan in his hands.

  “Haji! Really? It’s hot and you know how that thing itches!” he complained as he scratched Skye’s favorite spot behind the large dog’s ear to calm the excitable canine down.

  “Your Mother’s orders Sire. You don’t want me to be flogged for disobeying her, do you?” Haji said with a frown.

  Scratching Skye's nose, Blayne smirked at Haji’s exaggeration, “Flogged? My great grandfather outlawed flogging a hundred years ago.” He reluctantly held up his arms as Haji wrapped the kilt around his waist and over his shoulder, “But if we need a new corporal punishment, I would suggest forcing offenders to wear this prickly torture,” he complained scratching his thighs and shoulder.

  Haji silently ignored Blayne's complaints, knowing they were what the Prince repeated every time he had to wear the traditional formal attire. He pulled down off the wall a ceremonial dirk, a decorative knife worn by all members of the ruling class and their soldiers. Blayne resisted the urge to complain about the knife as Haji strapped it to his waist, the deep voice of one of Morgan’s lectures echoing in his head. “In this day and age of blasters and lasers, no one looks at a knife as a weapon anymore because most people do not know how to fight with it.”

  Haji carefully adjusted its position as it hung from the Prince’s belt so it would not flop around as he walked. He stepped back to admire his handiwork and nodded in approval.

  “Are you done pestering me?” Blayne asked scratching his thigh again. “Let’s go get this over with. Come on Skye, let’s go.” He waved the dog out of the room and followed the lumbering gray pile of fur. But before he could head out, a large burly man stormed into the dressing room, pointing a large armored glove in the young Prince’s face.

  “What in all the rings of Sion did you think you were doing?” snapped the deep commanding voice.

  Blayne gulped and held out his hands to calm the intruder, “Morgan, easy! It was nothing, really.” His mother he could handle, her spirit was fiery but short-lived. But Morgan was the Head Knight of the Palace Guard and his weapons tutor. His temper, on the other hand, was legendary. You might as well try to put out a supernova by pissing on it. The large Knight was even larger in his service armor, the glare from its shine almost blinding Blayne.

  “Calm down? You careened through the Palace like an adolescent idiot and crashed into the garage! You know how many times you could have hurt someone?” Morgan bellowed. “You want to do something stupid and hurt yourself? Fine, have at it. It will make the gene pool stronger. But you have no right to put others in danger due to your stupidity!” Morgan was now in his face, towering over him. Each breath b
ellowed down like the breath of a Lotharian sand dragon.

  Blayne tried to swallow a suddenly dry mouth and stood his ground. He could see the anger flaring red in Morgan’s eyes, but peeking out from behind it he glimpsed something else.

  With a slight smile he said, “Now Morgan, there is no reason to worry about me. I can handle myself just fine.”

  Morgan growled, “One of these days you will kill yourself on that flying deathtrap, or worse, someone else.”

  Blayne snapped his chin up and glared at the Knight, “You know I will do everything I can not to hurt anyone. I had everything under control.” The commanding tone in his voice rang out, the tone of a Royal family member reminding the Knight who he was dealing with.

  Stepping back out of the way, Morgan nodded and said, “I know this, as does your Mother. But we want to remind you, as a member of the Royal family, you do not have the option of being stupid when you are gallivanting around doing your extreme stunts. Now if we can both agree that you did something idiotic maybe we can move on and get this ceremony over with?”

  “Of course, Sir Knight. The sooner the better,” Blayne agreed. Walking past Morgan, Blayne glimpsed the movement of the Knight’s hand slipping down to rest on his own dirk. As soon as Morgan was behind him Blayne ducked and dove into a roll to put a few meters between him and the Knight. Coming out of the roll he crouched, his own knife in his hand.

  “You are getting predictable, old man,” Blayne accused with a smile.

  Crossing the room with long strides, the large Knight descended upon the young Prince, “Predictable? Maybe. Old? I’ll let you be the judge of that.” Without hesitation Morgan swung the blade’s edge horizontally, swiping towards Blayne’s neck.

  Blayne snapped his own knife up to block the attack, the clang of the two long knives colliding echoed through the room. Continuing his momentum, he swung the blade edge of his knife at Morgan’s left side, but the Knight moved faster than his size implied possible and took the force of the blow on his forearm armor.