Her hair had been styled like that attractive blonde woman in that popular TV show that everyone was talking about. The hotel stylist, with the flamboyant taste in clothes; multi-coloured, striped trousers and a peach shirt with frills at the cuffs and down the front, had told her that she had a very elegant and beautiful neck that he should accentuate. In the worst French accent Elizabeth had ever heard, he had chattered and talked nonsense for nearly two hours as he created the masterpiece that became her hairstyle. The effect on Elizabeth was magical. Suddenly, she was able to see what Jean-Pierre had meant about her neck and shoulders; the swirl, which had appeared so tight in the mirror, felt light and comfortable.
After the make-up artist had worked his particular brand of magic, Elizabeth could barely recognise the vision that stared back at her from the mirror.
Elizabeth adjusted her bosom; so as not to show too much cleavage from the plunging neckline, and with one last look in the mirror and a deep sigh, she pronounced herself ready to be seen in public.
Grabbing her matching handbag, Elizabeth headed for the door of her six hundred dollar- per-night suite. Never, in all her life, had she stayed in such expensive accommodations. Even on her trip to London to sign her contract with Teddington Publications, she had slept in a twenty pound-per-night hotel; which she considered to be extravagantly expensive at the time. Still, this suite had a lovely view of Central Park, and apart from the occasional wail of police sirens, it was a wonderful memory of New York City.
Locking the door behind her, she made her way to the elevator. The red high-heeled shoes that she wore felt comfortable, and at the same time, showed off her shapely lower legs. She would most definitely be keeping this outfit for when she returned home. The thought of home, of John and Billy, made her pause at the elevator door.
“What are you feeling so guilty about?” She was unable to shake off the feeling that she was about to do something wicked and forbidden.
“It’s only dinner with a business acquaintance,” she convinced herself once more.
As she tried to shake off the feeling, Elizabeth climbed into the empty elevator, and found herself surrounded by her own image from the mirrored walls. Again, she checked that her lipstick was straight for the dozenth time, that her hair hadn’t come loose, and that her eye-shadow hadn’t smudged. Then, checking her cleavage once again, she decided not to adjust it this time.
“Well, if you’ve got it, Elizabeth…” She glared at her reflection as the elevator door opened with a sharp PING sound.
Walking through the opulently decorated, marble-floored lobby of the hotel, Elizabeth once again marvelled at the time and expense that must have been lavished upon this place. Yes, she thought to herself, I could get used to living in places like this.
“Good evening, Missus Caudwell,” the reception clerk called from behind his desk.
“Good evening, James,” Elizabeth said.
The hotel seems to have a policy of employing only people with photographic memories, she considered.
Then she realised that as a best-selling author, she was going to be recognised by her readers everywhere that she went. As she drew closer to the broad and inviting restaurant doors, she began to feel the butterflies in her stomach. She also found herself starting to breathe slightly more heavily than she normally did, and her face felt flushed.
The Maitre D’ greeted her with a pleasant smile, and bid her good evening, again, using her name.
Oh, the price of fame and fortune, she revelled, still flattered that someone else had recognised her.
“Erm, I’m meeting a gentleman this evening, a Mister Lindstrom, from Millinghouse Publications?”
“Ah, yes, Mister Lindstrom,” the Maitre D’ said, “please, follow me, Missus Caudwell.”
The restaurant itself looked like something from a Hollywood movie. The great crystal chandeliers hung from the cream-coloured ceiling and shot sparkling shards of brilliant light across the crowded room that danced and rippled across the walls and ceilings. The art deco mirrors arced and fanned across the brightly coloured walls giving a greater illusion of space, whilst at the same time making the place feel more crowded than it really was. The conversations, slightly above the level of a murmur, took place over immaculately groomed tables covered in starched, brilliant white linens and gleamingly polished silver cutlery. The cutlery politely clinked and clacked against the finest china, whilst expensive crystal glasses held even more ridiculously expensive imported wines.
The waiting staff, as immaculately turned out as the Maitre D’, hovered around their areas of responsibility, responding to the requests of their charges with ruthless politeness and efficiency.
“It’s Elizabeth Caudwell!” a female voice whispered in a polite New York accent.
“Who’s she?” Her gruff male companion’s accent was not quite so polite.
“She wrote that Lost Little Angel book, you know, the one about the mother whose little daughter died?”
“Oh,” the male voice grunted, “she the only broad in this world that ever lost a kid?”
The first voice to recognise Elizabeth was at once taken up by other diners, and like wildfire, the presence of the celebrity author was noted by the host of faces that turned to view the famous stranger in their midst. From the great throng of diners, one brave, solitary woman in a blue dress stood defiantly on her feet, and began to applaud.
“Lillian, you’re making a spectacle of yourself!” Her anxious female companion looked embarrassed.
“It’s Betty Caudwell! Bravo, Missus Caudwell!!” Lillian led the blue gowned diner into a round of applause.
And, gradually one by one, then in pairs, and threes, then as a whole congregation, the patrons of the restaurant rose to their feet and applauded Elizabeth. Elizabeth, oblivious to the grand surroundings and the recognition of her fellow diners, suddenly found that her feet had become as heavy as lead.
From a distance of twelve feet, she clearly recognised the broad muscular shoulders and close-cropped blond hair of Peter Lindstrom. She instantly felt her heart beating a little faster, her mouth starting to dry, and the room suddenly became oppressively warm.
Catching her breath, Elizabeth forced one foot in front of the other, dragging herself to the table that had been reserved for them that evening by Peter Lindstrom. Her empty stomach rebelling with anxiety, she stepped forward, noting that Lindstrom was wearing one of those old fashioned shirts where the collar didn’t go all the way round. Still quite unable to believe that she was feeling like a giddy schoolgirl approaching her first crush, she followed the Maitre D’, hoping that she wouldn’t trip over her own feet.
Aware of the commotion around him, Peter Lindstrom turned in his seat and caught sight of Elizabeth approaching through the host of standing and applauding diners. Recognising her, he flashed that dazzling white smile that made her rebelling empty stomach feel like it had turned a complete somersault. Somewhere in a far away haze, she heard a small, pathetic whimper, unaware that the sound had come from her. Feeling slightly dizzy, and with that dreadful queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, she had enough presence of mind to manufacture the world’s most insincere forced smile.
Rising to his feet as she arrived at the table, Elizabeth barely noticed the black silk lapels to his immaculately tailored dinner suit, the dazzling white dress shirt, black cummerbund and bow tie.
She simply drowned in his perfect blue eyes, grinning like some village simpleton from a badly written Victorian novel. Behind her, the Maitre D’, bursting with pride at serving such a famous and popular guest, expertly drew out her chair and asked her to be seated.
For the first time, something other than Peter Lindstrom entered her consciousness, and she sat down with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, glad to be sitting down before she fell down.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You seem to have caused quite a commotion, Missus Caudwell.” Peter Lindstrom smiled.
“I�
��m sorry?” She was still focussed on his pale blue eyes.
“Your public is greeting you.” Lindstrom indicated the other diners looking in their direction.
Turning to her left, Elizabeth was suddenly aware of the other diners standing and applauding. When the realisation dawned upon her that the diners were applauding her, she jumped in her chair as if it had delivered an electric shock.
“Oh, my goodness!” Her hands shot up to cover her nose and mouth, and, for a brief moment, she wanted to run away and hide from the adulation.
“Smile, Missus Caudwell, smile and bow.” The experienced voice of Peter Lindstrom flowed gently into her ear as she gathered her wits about her once more.
“Oh, my goodness…thank you…thank you.” She held her hands in front of her mouth as if in prayer and bowed her head every few seconds.
Gradually, the applause petered out leaving Elizabeth blushing redder than the garishly crimson dress she was wearing.
“Well, Missus Caudwell, you appear to have made quite an impression in New York,” Peter Lindstrom said.
“A drink, madam?” the Maitre D’ asked.
“Just some water, please. You know, I’m rather embarrassed by it all.”
“Well, you’d best get used to it Missus Caudwell, we know how to treat our authors right in the United States,” Lindstrom said.
“Well, you never know, Mister Lindstrom, I might just be able to get used to it.” She smiled nervously at him.
Maybe, I could, she thought to herself.
Maybe, I just could.
Chapter 22: The Black Rose, Close To Chronos
The two-day “Contemplation” for the Time Warrior ritual had originally been intended for the Ganthoran Candidates, of several centuries previously, who were obliged to spend many hours in prayer and medication prior to the ritual. In those days, the piety and religious observances of an Emperor-to-be were considered important for the outcome of the ritual. The most pious and pure of heart was considered to be the worthiest of the favour of the Ganthoran gods and goddesses, and hence, successful in the ritual.
For Billy Caudwell, the “Contemplation” was an opportunity to refine the strategy and planning he had visualised for the ritual, and it was also an opportunity for him to acclimatise to the period and climate that had been set out before him.
The Adjudicators had given him a uniform from the specific time period of the battle to wear. The gleaming white pith helmet with the leather chinstrap that bit into his jaw-line was heavy and awkward. However, it did fit him remarkably well. It looked to Billy like an old police helmet, but without the badge at the front. His tunic was high necked, dark blue, and woollen; which would have made him itch badly, were it not for the off-white cotton undershirt. The tunic was fixed down the front with five shiny brass buttons. The trousers were a khaki Jodhpur-type affair, which only just fitted at his waist, and billowed out to the knee where they fitted more snugly against his lower legs. A pair of khaki braces held the jodhpurs up; fixed at the centre of his waistband at the back, and above his pockets at the front.
His boots were black leather, one-piece and knee length; polished to high shine. Those, at least, he was used to. However, these boots were new; with the leather being particularly stiff and unbending. Whilst around his waist was a broad black leather belt with a Sam Browne officer’s belt that crossed over his left shoulder to a large, closed, black-leather holster at his right hip. His sidearm was a reassuringly heavy Pryse .45 inch calibre pistol, which loaded up to five shots in the revolver chamber. From the base of the grip of the pistol, a small ring secured a lanyard of dark brown cord which looped around Billy’s neck to prevent him from losing the weapon in combat.
To the front of the holster, a small cartridge pouch carried enough of the heavy bullets required to fully reload the pistol two times. At his left hip, he now carried a sword in a metal scabbard.
Billy had previously had very little experience of fighting with sharp bladed weapons, and he hoped that he would never have to draw this sword in anger. He had been given some close-combat training by a Brigade Officer in the newly formed Landing Troopers, in which he had used the short, double-edged Battle Blade. The Landing Troopers had acquired the specialist role of boarding and capturing enemy vessels, however, their fighting prowess and skills would ensure that they would not be tied exclusively to that role for very long.
Early on the first morning of the Contemplation, Billy’s personal transport ship; The Black Rose, left the centre hangar deck of the Aquarius.
Piloting the vessel was Billy Caudwell, and seated next to him was his friend, and Chief of Staff; Marrhus Lokkrien. They sat in silence at the Control Column of the most technologically-advanced Garmaurian transport vessel ever manufactured.
Looking around the Control Cabin, there was very little that had changed since Billy had been rudely and alarmingly teleported aboard her for the first time by Tega Samarasa. The interior was sparsely equipped. Most of the manual control systems were embedded in panels behind the battleship metallic-grey bulkheads of the Control Cabin. The main operations of the Black Rose were connected by the Mind-Link technology housed within the Column to the interface with the pilot’s Personal Environment Suit. The Black Rose really was the inner-sanctum of the First Admiral’s life.
Now, as they sat quietly in the oppressive silence of The Black Rose’s Control Cabin. The young human and the older Bardomil had made the silent pact of not wishing to speak, whilst at the same time having a great deal to say to each other. It was a pained silence where neither of them wanted to open the conversation. There was a very real possibility that Billy Caudwell would not survive the Time Warrior Ritual, and not speaking about that outcome seemed to somehow distance them both from that reality.
Billy Caudwell’s death was a painfully real possibility during the ritual, and Marrhus Lokkrien had argued, loudly and at length with his First Admiral, that he should not be the one to risk his life. Lokkrien argued vehemently that it was not the First Admiral’s position to risk his life, in an unnecessary manner when he could just as easily assign a more junior officer to the task. Billy Caudwell had listened carefully, slightly surprised at the strength of Lokkrien’s feelings on the matter. Like Senior Intelligence Officer Karap Sownus, Marrhus Lokkrien was heavily invested in the Universal Alliance. Having burned his bridges to his past life, Marrhus Lokkrien had no alternative other than to work for the ultimate success of the Universal Alliance.
And, to the mind of Marrhus Lokkrien, the individual most likely to make a military success of the Alliance was First Admiral William Caudwell. Ultimately, however, that same First Admiral Caudwell had overruled the concerns of his Chief of Staff. The victory over Frontier General Grobbeg had essentially been due to the work of Billy Caudwell. This made Billy the only one able to legitimately submit himself to the Time Warrior Ritual. To leave the task to a more junior officer would have seemed like cowardice, and an insult to the Ganthoran people. To win the Ganthoran Empire and its people, and give the Universal Alliance any possible chance of integrating them within the next century, Billy Caudwell, and only Billy Caudwell, had to complete the ritual. There was no other way without the loss of millions, possibly billions, of lives in the long costly and bloody campaigns that would see the Alliance militarily overwhelm the Ganthorans.
The journey from the First Admiral’s flagship; the Star Cruiser Aquarius, to Chronos, had taken only a few moments in the Trionic Web. Emerging from the Trionic Web almost one hundred thousand miles from the planet was the inevitable safety precaution that all Alliance vessels had to undertake. Billy Caudwell or Marrhus Lokkrien would not want to emerge from the Trionic Web to find that they were entombed into the very rock of Chronos itself.
Despite being able to move from one side of the universe to the other in the blink of an eye, navigating the Trionic Web was still not an exact science. It took two minutes for The Black Rose to reach the orbit of Chronos. Stretched out in front of the young h
uman and the Bardomil, was a beautiful blue and white jewel of a moon that was shot through with a black and brown marbling effect at the northern polar cap. Minerals and gasses from the moon’s core had seeped into the water table, producing the fluid marbling effect when the water froze. This particular alien incursion, by The Black Rose, was authorised, and received no harassment from the Imperial Guard vessels in the area. Once again, the human and the Bardomil sat in silence as The Black Rose moved smoothly through the upper atmosphere of Chronos and landed on the soft bluish-white sand of the moon’s surface. Having finally brought The Black Rose safely to the surface, Billy Caudwell let out a long, relieved sigh.
“Right then, this is it.” Billy had an edge of anxiety in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” Lokkrien replied awkwardly, “this is it.”
“I take it that you are familiarised with the systems of this vessel?”
“Yes, sir... don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her…wash and wax, don’t overdo the cleaning agent.”
“Yes…and don’t forget to wipe the windshield.”
They both laughed, not at the appallingly mundane humour of it, they laughed for the sheer, blessed relief from the anxiety and tension. Like a river shattering a dam, the Bardomil and the human laughed together. There was still so much to be said between the two friends, but neither of them really knew how to put what they felt into words. For Billy Caudwell, Marrhus Lokkrien had been a tower of strength and wisdom in one of the most stressful roles in the universe. Not quite a father figure to the young human, Lokkrien had been the knowledge, wisdom, and strength that had made the Alliance military function up until now. He had also been the closest thing Billy Caudwell had ever considered to be a friend.
Time Commander (The First Admiral Series) Page 19