“Come on, you young fool!” a grinning Gummell beckoned to Daniel from the open hatch of the transport.
With a broad smile, and a heart leaping with joy, Daniel dashed towards the rising ship and flung himself at the hatch. Gummell caught Daniel’s arms as he tried to wriggle the lower half of his body over the lip of the hatch. For a moment, Daniel felt like he was going to fall back out again. But another hand caught the waistband of his breeches and hauled him bodily into the ship. Sprawling on the cold, hard deck floor, Daniel gasped with exertion and delight as the hatch snapped closed behind him.
“And, tomorrow, my young friend, we’re going to come back and see if any more lepers have turned up,” Gummell promised, standing over the sprawling Daniel.
With a smile, Daniel rolled onto his back to try to catch his breath amidst the chaos of the Landing Bay.
Gummell, meanwhile, was starting to review some of the initial reports from the Medical personnel. Looking over at the gasping Daniel, Gummell smiled to himself and considered that sometimes in life; when you are scrabbling through the dirt, disease and corruption of the universe and all the terrible things it has to offer...
Sometimes, just sometimes, you find a diamond.
Chapter 13
Planet Geminus - The Citadel, Damascus, March 30th
Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub, Sultan of Egypt and Syria, was a man of simple tastes.
The robes and finery that he wore in public were replaced by plainer and less cumbersome items of clothing in his private life. The simple black robe that he wore in private allowed him to shrug off the cares of daily life and of ruling an empire that stretched from the borders of Nubia to the Armenian mountains. In the quiet seclusion of his Private Apartments, the Sultan tended to injured birds in large wooden cages; helping him to contemplate the affairs of state. In a time of constant killing, torture and bloodshed, the simple pleasure of healing other creatures helped to settle his already troubled mind.
“Great Sultan,” the familiar voice of Grand Vizier Mustapha broke through the trilling of injured songbirds, “messages from our spies in Jerusalem.”
Jerusalem, the Sultan sighed inwardly; the thorn in his flesh, the itch that could not be scratched. His promise to recapture Jerusalem from the Christian invaders had still not been fulfilled. But time, he knew, would be on his side. The King of Jerusalem, Baldwin, would not live for long. The Christian King would produce no heirs, and with his death, the kingdom would descend into civil war as the Lords squabbled, bickered and slaughtered each other for the prize of an empty crown. When the fighting was over and the dust had settled, the Sultan knew that he could simply march his army into Jerusalem, swat aside what was left of their armies and retake the holy city for Islam. Then, he could die a happy man.
“What of them?” the Sultan asked, his attention taken by a finch with a damaged foot.
“Strange messages, Great Sultan.”
“Is Baldwin dead?”
“No, Great Sultan, the news is most troubling.”
“Well, speak!” Saladin demanded, taking a dead grub from the small wooden dish in his hand to feed the finch.
“Our spies say that Baldwin is cured of his leprosy, by a strange physician from a ship that fell from the sky.”
“Mustapha! Why do you report to me this nonsense?” He watched the finch greedily gobble the grub down.
“But, Great Sultan, it is from one of our most reliable informers…”
“It is nonsense!” Saladin barked, turning to scold the kneeling figure of his most trusted advisor. “These men send us fantasies and take our gold for nothing but to squander on women and hashish!”
“But, Great Sultan, the report of the strange ship falling from the sky matches with the falling star that the Astrologers saw last night.”
“Old women and fools!” Saladin snapped, throwing the rest of the grubs into the bird cage in anger and storming off into his bed chamber.
“Great Sultan, our spies in the Royal Palace say that the strangers who fell from the sky brought great wealth to Jerusalem in gold and silver and jewels,” the Vizier protested, scrabbling to his feet to follow his angry master.
“Tell me no more of these ravings, Mustapha!”
“See for yourself Great Sultan,” the Vizier held out the long scraps of parchment that had been plucked from the legs of pigeons that had flown from Jerusalem that morning. “These are reliable men, Great Sultan, they do not make up stories.”
Grabbing the parchments, Saladin began to read.
“A ship fell from the sky in flames...” he read aloud, discarding the first message with scorn.
“...the strangers brought chests of gold, silver, diamonds and rubies…” the second parchment was cast aside.
“…the physician cured the crippled left arm of Marc of Ibein,” Saladin suddenly paused as he scanned the third parchment.
“Marc of Ibelin,” Saladin said softly, remembering the young Christian knight with the damaged left arm he had met during a parley after a battle on the Egyptian border. “The son of Jacques of Ibelin has a crippled left arm.” Saladin’s mind raced at the implications.
Not even one of Mustapha’s spies had the wit or the brains to create a fantasy that would give the name of a brave, young knight known to the Sultan. The detail was accurate, and so the message must have a grain of truth to it, Saladin considered. Picking up the discarded messages, Saladin carried them over to the table in the corner of his bed chamber, where reports and parchments were strewn across its top. Setting down the long thin parchments, Saladin began to read them all carefully.
“Great Sultan…” Mustapha interrupted his chain of thought.
“Shush! Be silent,” Saladin admonished the Vizier quietly as he tried to piece together what the seemingly fantastical messages were saying.
“The ship that fell from the sky in flames...” Saladin mumbled to himself. “The Astrologers see a falling star,” he added as he rifled through the pigeon messages. “They bring gifts of gold, silver, diamonds and rubies… A bribe or a delivery from their homelands... a very rich delivery… to raise an army perhaps?” he muttered, his mind working to make sense of the puzzle.
“Great Sultan?” Mustapha tried to understand what his master was saying.
“The physician cured the crippled left arm of Marc of Ibelin,” Saladin mumbled again, the message troubling him, “...then the physician lifted the curse of leprosy from the King.”
Pacing across the bed chamber, Saladin rubbed his forehead as he contemplated what the messages could really mean. There had to be some truth in them, but what was it? Saladin cudgelled his wits. The wound on young Marc had been serious enough for him to lose the power of his left arm. If a physician could heal that, then they might well have the know-how to cure leprosy. And, if Baldwin’s leprosy had been cured, he would be fit and well enough to start campaigning again with his army.
“Mustapha, bring me the Court Physician,” Saladin ordered. “Then bring me commander Selim and start asking the prisoners about Marc of Ibelin. Torture them if you have to.”
“Great Sultan?”
“Just do it! And, get me more information from those worthless dogs in Jerusalem!”
If Baldwin was cured, Saladin considered anxiously, the dream of a triumphal march into a re-captured Jerusalem would be nothing more than a pipe dream. The nobles would rebel against his rule if he could not deliver on his promise.
And, his life would be worth nothing.
Chapter 14
The Star Destroyer Titan
Marrhus Lokkrien sat alone in his newly-established Private Quarters aboard the Star Destroyer Titan. Since the disappearance of the Aquarius, with First Admiral Caudwell, the flagship of the Universal Alliance Fleet had become the Titan. In front of him on the large work-desk, the folios, reports, projections and strategy documents that were the day-to-day administration of the Alliance Fleet were neatly sorted into three distinct piles. The first pile was designat
ed ‘Action’, and required immediate attention from someone. The second pile came under the category ‘Further Information Required’, and indicated that there was insufficient data for a decision to be made. The third pile, and by far the largest, was designated ‘File Copy’.
Sitting back on the well-upholstered chair behind the work-desk, Marrhus Lokkrien marvelled at how Billy Caudwell managed to stay on top of such a huge workload and still find opportunities to spend some kind of time down on Earth with his family. Even as Chief of Staff and effective second-in-command, Lokkrien had a workload that was dwarfed by the sheer scale of the information that First Admiral Billy Caudwell had to process to even function as a Supreme Military Commander. Even with three assistants, Lokkrien was beginning to feel snowed under.
Reaching forward, Lokkrien lifted the next folio from the gradually shrinking, but still intimidatingly large fourth pile which was designated ‘To Do’. It was a report, albeit brief from Jedithram Prust. Supply Technician Jedithram Prust, known as ‘Jed’, acted as First Admiral Caudwell’s double down on Earth for the Duty Periods that the real Billy had to attend to the Fleet. It was a fairly straightforward report of how ‘Billy Caudwell’ was progressing with his new school somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. Technician Prust seemed to be enjoying settling into the new environment, however, he did raise the question of the First Admiral’s expected return. Prust was concerned that he was in danger of establishing behaviours and personality patterns that were contrary to First Admiral Caudwell’s. The First Admiral was always scrupulously careful not to reveal any facet of his double life with the Fleet for fear that ruthless people would threaten his family in order to acquire the Alliance’s advanced technology.
Dropping the folio sheet onto the pale-blue square desk plate, Lokkrien passed his hand over the small, red circular scanner which transferred the data on the folio to the First Admiral’s Personal Files, and then disintegrated and recycled the physical report.
With another sigh, Lokkrien also wished that he had some indication of when the First Admiral would be returning. It had been some time since the Aquarius had been dragged into the unrecorded Phenomenon. Researchers and Integration Technicians back on Garmauria were trawling through the huge Garmaurian Civil and Military databases to find some clue as to what the Phenomenon was, and more importantly, what it would do to the Aquarius. But, without even the remotest idea of potential search parameters, the researchers would have no real clues about where to even start with their searching.
Looking at the pile of ‘To Do’ work once more, Lokkrien knew that he had to stay on top of this unending chore until the First Admiral’s return. Deep down, in the very marrow of his bones, Acting First Admiral Marrhus Lokkrien knew that Billy Caudwell would be returning. He didn’t know how or when, but his instinct told him that if it was physically possible for Billy Caudwell to get back, then he was the only person that Lokkrien knew would succeed. His instinct had never been wrong in the past, and now it was telling him that Billy Caudwell was still alive. For a moment, he considered that it might just be wishful thinking, but quickly dismissed the idea. Billy Caudwell had founded this Universal Alliance, and there was no way that Marrhus Lokkrien could continue that work for any great length of time. Billy Caudwell was coming back, and that was that in Lokkrien’s mind.
The next folio Lokkrien lifted was from the Astrophysicists on New Thexxia. Their analysis of the Scanner data from the disappearance of the Aquarius was vague, convoluted and inconclusive. The New Thexxia scientists had nothing new to offer, no theories or conjectures and very little in terms of recommendations. The Phenomenon itself had seemingly shrunk in size over the few hours after the Aquarius had been dragged into it until it had completely disappeared. The probes that had been fired into the phenomenon had been crushed by the massive gravity inside it, and had sent back no usable data.
The universe-wide Scanner search was also proving fruitless. It was the very longest of long shots, and would require a Herculean effort from the Engineers, Scanner Officers and Technicians. But in the absence of any better ideas, it was the best strategy Lokkrien could produce. Sector by sector, quadrant by quadrant and galaxy by galaxy, Lokkrien had ordered the entire universe be systematically searched. He knew that it would take months, perhaps years, to complete, but it was a whole lot better than sitting around doing nothing. And maybe, just maybe, they might get lucky, Lokkrien considered. Even the experimental Garmaurian technique of sending weak electro-magnetic pulses into the Trionic Web was being employed. It was very primitive technology by Garmaurian standards, and the data would take weeks to collate, but to Lokkrien’s mind, every avenue had to be explored.
Even if he had to stand on the top of the hull of the Titan and shine a flashlight into the distance, he knew he would retrieve Billy Caudwell.
Somehow.
Chapter 15
The Star Cruiser Aquarius, April 15th
Senior Integration Officer Masthan Gummell drummed his fingernails on the table top in frustration.
“Nothing,” he muttered to himself as another interrogation of the main database of Garmaurian historical records threw up another ‘No Matches Found’ message on his screen.
It had been yet another fruitless four hours at the historical database for Masthan Gummell, and it was a very precious four hours that he could ill-afford to waste on what seemed like a pointless project. However, the First Admiral had ordered the records scanned, but deep down, Masthan Gummell felt that it was a lost cause.
Running his fingers through his hair as if he could somehow stimulate his brain to generating some new ideas, Gummell sighed heavily and lifted the portable keypad from the table top. Quietly, he tapped some ideas onto the computer screen as he tried to make any kind of sense of what he already knew.
“Time travel is out,” he muttered running a line through the words on the screen and sighed once again. “So, what looks like time travel but isn’t?” he cudgelled his wits once more.
“An illusion of time travel?” he considered aloud. “And, why would anyone want to do that?” he added as an afterthought. “And, how would they do that?”
Sitting back, Masthan Gummell considered that the ‘why’ might be a tough question to answer, but the ‘how’ might be an easier proposition. After all, the Garmaurian, the most advanced species in the universe, most likely had the technology, and they certainly had the motivation for some of the most ambitious projects ever conceived of.
“Right, I’m creating a world from eight hundred years in the past, what do I need?” he sighed once more as his mind hit another brick wall. “Come on, think!” Masthan berated himself as no fresh ideas flowed from his already over-tired brain.
“An illusion of time travel,” he repeated his original idea, and stared blankly at the screen once more.
Suddenly, Masthan Gummell leapt up from the chair as if it had been electrified.
“An illusion! Of course!” he yelled as he remembered that the Garmaurians had shielded their home planet from the rest of the universe when the last of their species had died from the effects of the biological weapon created during their civil war.
“They can shield one planet from the universe,” he speculated, “so they can shield the entire universe from one planet!?” he muttered, his mind racing at the implications. “So, they’d need the same kind of force-shielding and image-generation technology that hid Garmauria. And a planet with life forms?” his mind ground to halt as he sat down dejectedly once more. “They couldn’t build or replicate an entire planet complete with flora and fauna, could they?” he questioned himself.
For a moment, he drummed his fingernails again, still burning with excitement, but having hit a logical brick wall.
“But, here we are on something that looks like Terra, but can’t possibly be Terra?” he muttered darkly as his mind raced through the possibilities. “A clone? A duplicate Terra?” he added as his mind recoiled from the sheer impossibility of it.
Then, with a shrug, Masthan Gummell turned to the ‘search’ function on his computer screen and keyed in the words ‘Planet Replication’.
For long moments, the computer scanned every historical file until the result screen appeared with the words ‘One File Found’. A startled and amazed Gummell stared at the screen for a few seconds unable to believe that such a wild idea might actually have found a hit in the Garmaurian historical records. Then, with baited breath, Masthan Gummell pushed through the ‘search’ facility and found the lone entry in the database, which had the title ‘Project Geminus’. It was a huge file that had not been accessed for nearly five years. Looking at the creation date, Gummell was stunned to see that the project had been running for nearly two thousand years. It had the highest security clearance rating, which Gummell already possessed, and was registered under both Garmaurian Military and Colonial Office codes.
“What in the name of Dargon do we have here?” Gummell muttered calling upon the name of a Deity from his home planet.
Opening the file, Masthan Gummell sat forward in his seat and began to read.
Chapter 16
The War Room, Star Cruiser Aquarius.
“Gentlemen, my apologies,” Masthan Gummell gasped as he quickly took his allocated seat around the War Table.
Stumbling into the still half-repaired War Room, Gummell had just emerged, late, from the historical databases and dashed as quickly as he could to the Weekly Command Conference chaired by First Admiral Caudwell. The other four senior officers around the table smiled indulgently. Of all the departments on the stricken Star Cruiser, Gummell’s team had the heaviest workload.
The Master of Muscigny (The First Admiral Series Book 5) Page 11