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The Merchant Prince

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Overview

For seven years, Armin Shimerman played the diminutive entrepreneur Quark on Star Trek. Deep Space Nine. Now, he teams up with author Michael Scott to chronicle the tale of a diminutive entrepreneur straight out of Earth history: Dr. John Dee. Despite his lack of physical stature, the five-foot-tall Dee was a towering figure in Renaissance Europe: alchemist, necromancer, scientist, philosopher, adviser to royalty, enemy to the vicious de Medici clan -- and confidant of Dyckon, a member of the alien race known as the Roc. Ancient and wise, the Roc have come to Earth to observe the evolution of humanity, not to interfere. But during the course of his studies, Dyckon has come to call John Dee friend. When the de Medicis arrest Dee in Venice, Dyckon chooses to save his friend from prison and leave him in suspended animation until the year 2099. The "philosopher of Albion" wakes in a confusing future where humanity is on the brink of developing the ultimate weapon -- a weapon that will mean the destruction of the human race! The only thing that can prevent Armageddon in the future is a genius from the past -- but can even the great John Dee save humanity from itself

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Author Information

Bio of Michael Scott

"Some stories wait their turn to be told, others just tap you on the shoulder and insist you tell them." By one of those wonderful coincidences with which life is filled, I find that the first time the word alchemyst-with a Y-appears in my notes is in May 1997. Ten years later, almost to the day, The Alchemyst, the first book in the Nicholas Flamel series, will be published in May. Every writer I know keeps a notebook full of those ideas, which might, one day, turn into a story. Most writers know they will probably never write the vast majority of those ideas. Most stories wait their turn to be told, but there are a few which tap you on the shoulder and insist on being told. These are the stories which simply will not go away until you get them down on paper, where you find yourself coming across precisely the research you need, or discovering the perfect character or, in my case, actually stumbling across Nicholas Flamel's house in Paris.

Bio of Armin Shimerman

Born of immigrant parents and raised in a small farming town in New Jersey, Shimerman's family moved to Los Angeles when he was 16 years old. In an effort to help her son meet new people, his mother enrolled him in a drama group and (as the saying goes) the rest is history.

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Additional Info

Imprint

Simon & Schuster

Filesize

581.75 KB

Number of Pages

304

eBook ISBN

9780743417471

Excerpt from: The Merchant Prince by Michael Scott

Skin, dried to brittle hardness in the artificial atmosphere of the tiny craft, cracked and wept thin ichor as the creature unfolded itself from the protective webbing. There was a single instant of disorientation as its squat limbs adjusted to the gravity of the larger ship; then it straightened and stepped out into the perpetual crimson gloom that approximated the light of its homeworld. Slit-pupiled eyes flared. Nostrils opened to breathe in the rich lush soup of its homeland. Then it seemed to remember that although the dripping hallways looked empty, its every movement was under observation. It straightened and hurried down the corridor.

Rahu paused outside the circular door, waiting while the scanners ensured that he carried no weapons or explosives, and that he carried no filthy bacteria from the vile world he had just left behind. A tracery of blue lights danced over his body, then strobed through a score of colors while the examination continued for what seemed like an unusually long time. Almost unconsciously the creature's eyes sought out the tiny scar on the floor where the last ill-fated messenger had stood. There were rumors that it had been infected by something from the planet below, other rumors that it had carried an Earth weapon in an attempt to assassinate the Overlord. Whatever the truth, the messenger hadn't got past the door: the ragged remains of its hoof hooked between the floor plates were the only evidence that it had ever existed.

The dancing lights changed to a warm crimson and the doors hissed open. Masking his relief, Rahu stepped through into the dank twilight of the Overlord's quarters. Folding into the Posture of Obeisance, forehead to the wet floor, tail curled tightly around his legs, elbows tucked in against his chest, no talons or spurs showing, he waited.

Cloth hissed as the Xifo, Overlord of the Clan, approached. Rahu's nostrils flared, reading the bittersweet odors of power, sensing his master's impatience and arrogance. Aware that the Xifo was standing directly over him, Rahu remained still and unmoving. A single twitch could be interpreted as a threat.

"I called you here because I did not want to entrust your report to the comms," the Xifo said abruptly, then turned and moved away, leaving Rahu crouched on the floor. "How goes our progress?"

Rahu remained motionless.

"You may speak," the Xifo added.

"I have followed your instructions, Overlord. I have chosen a human agent." Rahu concentrated on breathing evenly, but every breath was now an effort, as the Posture of Obeisance constricted his chest and closed off his gills. Even thinking was difficult.