Shattered Legacy by Shane R. Daley Page B

exploration should be a shared undertaking, in both risk and reward.
    To put that belief in practice, Dorian raised the necessary capital in the form of a public stock offering.
    Though the speculative nature of the venture made institutional investors wary, the public offering of a space exploration company ignited the imaginations of many. By making the initial public offering affordable - ten dollars a share for non-voting preferred stock - Templar Enterprises secured underwriters and raised three point five billion dollars from mostly small, individual investors. The stock doubled in value within the first full week of NASDAQ trading, and quadrupled in price over the next six months.
    Despite the initial infusion of capital, Templar’s cash needs soon ballooned. With no short-term promise of profits, and knowing that technology licensing would not raise much money for several years, Templar turned to shameless merchandising as an additional revenue source. Critics complained the commercialism went too far as books, videos, and even toys were hawked to promote the company and the mission.
    Surprisingly, especially to marketing insiders, the commercial blitz lasted longer, and was far more profitable, than expected. Product licensing became hugely lucrative, especially after the orbiter's design and colors were finalized; a year after Dorian’s hardcover book “Colonize” hit the shelves, the paperback version was still on the New York Times bestseller list, generating royalties for the company.
    While he continued to be the ‘face’ of the company, the research and development continued. Engineers and support staff were hired, manufacturing facilities were constructed, and the Thomas Dorian Space Center was built in the New Mexico desert. Several months later, the first orbiter was constructed.
    However, just as the program was finally coming together, in the midst of Templar's growing accomplishments, few noticed that Sinclair Dorian had all but vanished from public life.
    ***
    Hands planted firmly on her hips, Shannon Kiel stood in the open doorway, the only barrier between the FBI agents in the hallway and Sinclair Dorian's bedroom. Her face was set in an intimidating scowl. She had answered the front door abruptly, escorted Agents Lowell and Ramirez through the house without a word, and now stared at them with a look normally reserved for vermin. Sinclair Dorian had agreed to see the agents, and that was the only reason they were allowed onto the property without a court order.
    “You have fifteen minutes,” she told the men flatly. “Mr. Dorian is a busy man.”
    The agents replied with curt nods.
    With a final disapproving twist of her lip, Shannon pushed through the agents, conspicuously leaving the bedroom door wide open. She stomped down the hallway and turned the corner. When the agents were sure she was gone, they stepped inside the room and shut the door.
    The bedroom was large and spacious. The heavy curtains were drawn back. Sunlight streamed in from the large picture window. Sinclair Dorian was sitting up against the headboard of his king-size bed. A quilt was pulled up over his waist. His hands rested comfortably in his lap. He wore a T-shirt and an expression of complete exhaustion. White clumps of hair stuck out from the sides of his head.
    “I'm sorry,” he said, plucking the front of his shirt with gnarled fingers. “My gout has been acting up. Haven't been in a mood for getting dressed.”
    “That's all right,” the first agent replied, masking his surprise. This old man looked nothing like the vibrant man he had seen so often on television. With a shock, he realized why Dorian had become a recluse; the man was sick, probably dying. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Dorian. We spoke on the phone earlier. I'm Special Agent Lowell. This is Special Agent Ramirez.”
    Dorian shot up a hand as the men approached the bed. The agents froze. Dorian smacked his lips, then raised a thin, spindly arm