Chapter 8
September 20 to October 4, 2009
The bickering was out of control. His father was right, and he begrudgingly admitted it, the council had lost its purpose. The Prince had always known that they only served their own agendas. The former King had always been wary of allowing too much happen beneath him, which was something the Prince had always attributed to paranoia. Vegeta firmly believed that his father's paranoia stemmed from his lack of strength when measured against his son. He'd always suspected that his father's need to entrench himself with the lower classes and to have an hand in every detail of running the empire was his way of ensuring his own long-term survival.
The Prince was in a mood. He was regretting the death of his father, if only for the fact that the weight of the Empire's needs had increased to an almost unbearable responsibility. He was constantly bothered and interrupted by an endless procession of administrators. There was no longer any freedom in his day from the constant interaction with those he saw as beneath him.
He'd been standing in the wing of the council chamber preparing to share his anger when the Chikyuu-jin had been escorted in. The council was clearly divided over her stance. He evaluated her as she spoke, she was tall, slender, and clearly fragile. She lacked the muscle definition he was used to in females. She was also far more endowed as well.
She'd finished her plea, and was quickly escorted out. When the doors opened her scent was pushed through the air. She was unquestionably exotic, sweet, and there was one last scent he couldn't place, or name. When the doors closed he caught one last tendril of her scent, which ignited his anger and frustration again. The familiar chemical smell was in the air, faintly, mixed in with her own. He placed the scent immediately, and mentally added another question to demand of the council.
As the doors closed and the council's arguing continued he stood in the wing. They'd descended into petty bickering, and he'd seen enough proof. His council was not only incompetent but their interest in advancing themselves was putting increased pressure on him to take over the mantle of his father's duties, rather then allowing him to delegate such tasks. Maintenance of the Empire was not his mandate. He was Prince, and he was responsible to lead his Empire and expand it, not to be held back and down by the petty affairs of managing its day-to-day requirements. He did not have the time to corral and watch over the council men as they argued over how best to serve themselves under the guise of serving his empire.
He stepped out of the wing and paced to the center of the room. There was an unacceptable period of time that passed before the council members acknowledged his presence. Vegeta was unaccustomed to such disrespect, a behavior that had grown since he'd dispatched his father and cleared his own path to the thrown.
His advisors were failing at keeping him abreast of such important topics. The council men were running amok, and it was slowly becoming apparent now as to why is father felt the need to entrench himself in the miniscule details of the empire rather then focusing his strength on expansion. His father had lead the Empire, however it was becoming clear as why he'd held the boarders and focused on trade agreements rather then on expansion.
The council snapped to attention. In the months before they would have respectfully lowered their eyes in submission. Now they met the Prince's gaze straight on. He disliked this new need for his underlings to push the boundaries of appropriate decorum that had stood for years. He felt another twinge of guilt for not removing his father in a more public manner. Having that image clip sent out of an earlier victory may have been an inadvertent miscalculation on his part. It failed to inspire the fear he was accustomed to ruling with.
After the Prince had sufficiently expressed his anger and frustration he left the councilmen cowering with looks of seething displeasure on their faces. The Prince was interfering in ways that he had never before involved himself. Even the King had provided them the space they required to maneuver the Empire's agenda while securing their own agendas. The King had never interfered just overseen.
He stalked down the hall his anger building. He was furious at how quickly things began to slip out of his control. He was a strong, competent leader, he excelled on the battlefield and his military prowess was unquestioned. Yet now, in his own home he was being questioned repeatedly in ways he'd never been tested before. It infuriated him and drove him to distraction.
Bulma dragged her feet on the walk back to her room. She was still worked up over the impromptu council meeting. She was antsy about being unable to find out where the rest of her party was, and infuriated over the lack of any response from her Interim Guard. She had no idea how long she'd been on the planet, where her people were, or what was in her immediate future. It was a struggle to keep her own temper in check.
She'd been briefed firmly and repetitively about what to expect from the Saiyajin in terms of behavior. She'd also been reminded quite a few times to check her temper, as regardless of her potential status, it was still something that could get her into trouble. Sayajin females were in the minority and by that fact alone garnered some level of respect. However, the degree to which this would apply to her, an off-worlder, was questionable.
Feeling like gambling she stopped, and in her best authoritative voice demanded answers, and the be taken to the rest of her party. The guard turned and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her down the hallway, and keeping his silence. She struggled and dug her feet it, however she was no challenge to the guard. Soon enough she found herself back in her old room tossed unceremoniously on the horribly tacky round bed.
Fuming she decided she was done with this secretive attitude. Once again she had surrounded herself with the digital control board. This time her goal was now information. The panel had to draw its information and instructions from a localized source. She attempted and failed to access any data about her other party members, but was able to source out a few files on herself. Unfortunately only a few were accessible.
The first held basic data, a digital registration card of sort, authorizing and confirming her allowed presence within the palace. The next few were locked out, and she didn't have the necessary understanding to take her search any further. She clicked through a few more files, unfortunately she found out nothing more and gave up on the search. Instead she began to concentrate on formulating a plan.
She dozed off leaning up against the round pallet she'd dubbed a bed. She awoke with a start and peered about the room with bleary eyes. Unsure of what had woken her, she stood and whirled around to search for the cause. Eventually she chalked it up to being in a strange place and returned to her plan.
At the end of the evening she had filled a handful of pages in a thick notebook. The first pages were filled with her frantic script as she'd rushed to document all of her initial ideas. As the page count grew her scrip relaxed from a tightly cramped scribble to wide flowing lines. Her plan stretched over 15 pages when all was completed. The ultimate goal of the plan was to secure her end of their original bargain, with the mechanism of her ultimate goal being to interweave herself into the fabric of the empire's political and manufacturing sectors, making herself irreplaceable. She was going to spread her talents around, show the true value of what an alliance with Chikyuu could provide.
Her first and second steps were to locate her party, and then to source out some less biased data for analysis. All the data they'd been offered leading up to the agreement had all been vetted, approved, and probably altered by the administration. She needed a true sense of what was really happening around her if she was to insert herself into this alien society, and to secure a place within it.
The windows had been dark when she'd returned from her frustrating encounter with the council. Now after all her planning moonlight peaked through the tall windows. Her stomach rumbled, and she felt cramped from sitting on the floor for so long. Since she'd woken up she'd been unsure how much time had passed. At best she only had the light from the windows to judge the passing of the day.
Deciding that exhaustion won over hunger, she crawled on top of the circular mattress and stretched out. She wished for blankets and pillows, one of her favorite comforts of home. Bulma drifted into an uneasy sleep, frequently tossing and turning, more so due to the discomfort of the hard mattress then anything else.
The Prince was stalking the halls, actively avoiding anyone associated with the administration. He could no longer find quiet in his own suites. His private training grounds, and any other place he used to be able to find peace from others unwilling to face is wrath were no longer protected by the fear of his sharp temper. Administrators and political agents were constantly hounding him. They'd become extremely bold in the recent weeks, unafraid to seek him out where previously they would have avoided. His attempts to reassert his dominance over his small private areas was a loosing battle. While he managed to keep a few away, they did not stay away, instead they found other ways to bother him; electronic reminders, notes, stacks of documents arrived daily to his private suites, and each day to arrived with stronger and stronger messages of importance, and timeliness.
This was going to have to end sooner rather then later. He had the aptitude for management, but no desire. It would kill him, slowly and painfully, a most unfitting and defiling death for a warrior, much less a prince.
