First, he set his gaze upon an Eagle, a single-seat fighter craft. It looked like no fighter craft he had ever seen on earth or on one of the science fiction programmes that he watched on television. This craft looked like a wedge; flat at the bottom, sloping to a narrow chisel-shaped nose with a canopy bubble built into the inclined front. Two large tail fins rose from the thick end. This seemed to house the engines, which had three thrusters aligned side-by-side. On each side of the canopy bubble were three apertures, which Billy knew housed the pulsar-cannons, which made up the vessels main armaments.
Clambering up the slanting front of the Eagle, Billy clambered into the cockpit of the silent fighter craft, and parked himself in the pilot’s seat. It was a lumpy uncomfortable piece of furniture, designed for the one specific pilot who would have flown the vessel into combat. This particular pilot was nowhere near to the shape and dimensions of Billy Caudwell. Yet, as he sat in the seat that was several sizes too big for him Billy still felt the small thrill of a young boy allowed to play with an adult toy.
Climbing down from the Eagle, Billy noted that, from the front, the vessel looked like a racing car. It was sleek, angular and dangerous. From the back, it looked like a house-brick. The two large tail fins would give the fighter a degree of stability and manoeuvrability that pilots on earth could hardly dream of. The six low-yield pulsar cannons, although not allowing the Eagle to be a heavy-hitter, nevertheless, made it an extremely dangerous opponent for vessels of a similar size.
Having explored and scrutinised the Eagle, Billy swiftly moved over to the other side of the hangar. This was where the two-seater Scout vessels were parked. In the brooding silence of the hangar Billy noticed that the Scout did bear some similarity to an earth fighter. The basic shape was that of a dart with three swept delta-wings stacked and offset against each other along the length of the fuselage, to give maximum surface area, with a sharp pointed nose and twin tail fins for stability and manoeuvrability. Two large thrust engines were located below the third back wing tight against the fuselage. The twin seat bubble canopy was a tight fit for the Garmaurian crews, as they sat side-by-side rather than back and front as with earth aircraft. The single apertures beneath the canopy on each side indicated the recesses for the pulsar-cannons.
The Scout was designed for up-close intelligence gathering as well as shorter-range security and patrol duties. Where a visual reference of a hostile party was required, which may also have needed a swift getaway, the Scout was an ideal craft. Looking inside the cramped cockpit, Billy discerned that the pilot sat on the left and operated the flight and weapons controls, whilst the co-pilot operated the intelligence gathering and surveillance equipment.
Having inspected the Scout, Billy discovered that one of the teleport pads in the hangar was still functional. Billy took a slight detour to the Command Centre, buried deep in the heart of the vessel. The Command Centre was remarkably small for such a large vessel. Billy checked the support systems that indicated the vessel was still in stand-by mode. The systems were well maintained, in good repair and order and the weapons would be fully functional. All it would take would be a single word of command and this great vessel would be fully operational again.
Moving from the vessel’s Command Centre, Billy teleported down to the Gun Decks. Here, Billy was presented with the sight of four enormous guns that looked broadly similar to large calibre naval weapons. They were set at ninety degrees to each other on the Gun Decks, and fixed onto huge immovable platforms.
The Gun Decks were roughly equivalent in height to twelve normal decks on the Star Destroyer, to accommodate these huge star-killing weapons.
Billy knew that a charge of energy was generated deep in the Power Core of the vessel. Here, a proto-star unit the size of a football stadium delivered an energy packet to the Gun. Then, a huge swathe of electronics surrounding an Energy Condenser Chamber focussed the raw energy into the required Trionic frequency to eliminate the target. From the Condenser, the energy packet would travel rapidly down the barrel of the gun, which was in reality a Trion Accelerator, almost a kilometre long. The barrel terminated in what looked like a large radio telescope dish. This was the focusing mechanism that could deliver the Trionic Waves into an area a few feet across with tremendous precision and accuracy. With the energy discharged at the target, there would be tremendous recoil.
The shock absorbers, which looked like gigantic metal springs, surrounding parts of the barrel, would dissipate the shock through the entire gun’s structure rather than allow the weapon to shake itself to pieces. Once the Trionic Wave had been fired, the intended target was effectively annihilated by altering the frequency of the Trions on the targeted structure. At the molecular level, the Trions on the target structure would compress to adjust to the frequency alteration. Then they would realign, bringing the adjoining Trions out of phase with their neighbours for a split second, causing a massive release of energy and a catastrophic explosion.
These were the ultimate terror weapons in the universe. There was no known defence against a Trionic Wave, except being somewhere else when the Wave hit. For a few moments Billy Caudwell stared at the huge gun in front of him and wondered how many lives this cold dispassionate piece of metal and machinery had destroyed. His young mind had only just grasped the destructive power of atomic weapons on earth that could destroy entire cities. Now, he stood before a weapon that could make entire planets and stars explode. With a shake of his head, Billy turned away from the gun to return to the Black Rose.
As his receding footsteps echoed around the empty Gun Decks, the huge Trionic Cannons were once again plunged into their lonely darkness, where they sat, large, brooding, and menacing.
Chapter 23
Elizabeth Caudwell sat in the gloom of the poorly lit, closed curtained bedroom, tapping away at the green-keyed electric typewriter. It was precariously perched on the small bedside table that she had recently promoted to the status of work desk. The elevation in status of the humble bedside table had been as surprising to John Caudwell as it had been swift. One evening, Elizabeth had taken it into her head to spend over a quarter of an hour rummaging in the loft. This was a place she very rarely visited except to clear it out prior to moving house again. Over the years they had acquired the junk of everyday life, failed furnishing projects and short-lived hobbies. All of which had found a kind of continuously disturbed final resting-place in the loft of the Caudwell household.
John was used to her varying and fluctuating moods, throwing herself into projects that quickly fizzled out to be followed by long periods of inactivity and lethargy. This time it appeared to be very different from previous whims and fancies. It was, John considered, almost as if she were possessed by some demon that drove her into brutally pounding the keys of the typewriter. Well, at least we’re getting some use out of it, he reflected. Perhaps it wasn’t a complete waste of money after all. Apart from that, his wife seemed to have found something to absorb her time rather than sitting in front of the television all evening.
Elizabeth Caudwell, sitting on the old black plastic covered seat of the old dining room chair, typed furiously. For some reason, even she herself found totally unable to fathom, the words just seemed to flow from her fingertips. Her mind created images, which she seemed to transcribe onto the pages with astonishing ease. For almost two days she had come home from work and prowled the house like some caged predator searching for an escape. She had a strange overwhelming urge to do something. She did not know what that something was, but there seemed to be a pressure inside of her that she needed to release. For those two days, John Caudwell eyed her suspiciously. He had seen her strange and varying moods, but this was new to him. A part of him was actually frightened and alarmed by the sheer intensity of her behaviour. She seemed to find fault with everything he and young Billy did, and John Caudwell was getting more and more frustrated.
On the second day, she had prowled the house again. After cleaning and dusting for the seventh or eighth
time in two days, her eyes had suddenly alighted upon the family bookcase. She had begun to read some of the books which, according to John Caudwell, might as well have been there for display purposes for all the attention she had paid them previously. One after another she began to read the books voraciously, and then after a few dozen swiftly scanned pages she would cast the book roughly aside onto the carpet.
In less than an hour she had managed to randomly scatter the entire Caudwell family library across the living room carpet. Then she had uttered, in her frustration, that the books were all rubbish and that she could write better. At this point, and at the end of his tether, John Caudwell had snapped that maybe she should just go and do exactly that.
To Elizabeth Caudwell, stung by her husband’s angry response, it was if a huge explosion of awareness had burst in her brain. She knew she had an old typewriter in the loft and set out with a will to find it. Then, having set it upon one of the few empty surfaces in the bedroom, she had started, after a few false starts, to write ferociously. She poured out her heart into the sheets of paper that flew in and out of the typewriters carriage. Her lost child and her marriage, which she so wanted to save but feared that she was losing; it all flowed out of her mind onto the pages.
Her frustrations at work, her fears for her son and for the future, all flowed down into those pages over the days and weeks that followed. One sheet became two. Two became ten. Ten became twenty. As she stabbed viciously at the pliant uncomplaining keys, the levers “clacked” sharply against the paper backed by the hard rubber roller like some wild, untamed staccato. All of her hurt, her anger and frustrations seemed to flow down her arms from her mind through those brutally used keys. On and on she wrote, oblivious to the outside world. Single-mindedly focussed on her task, Elizabeth Caudwell ploughed on relentlessly with her self-imposed task. With each page that she wrote she felt the pressure and compulsion subside within her.
Then, one night, at around midnight, with her paper supply as exhausted as she was, she finally stopped. John Caudwell, asleep on the living room sofa, was quickly disturbed by the absence of the sharp clattering of the typewriter. The electric typewriter still hummed softly, yet the typing had stopped. Cautiously, he crept upstairs and peered into the bedroom. He was met by the sight of his wife curled up tightly into a ball, lying on her side, fast asleep. On her face was an expression of peace and tranquillity John Caudwell had not seen for far too many years, which made him smile softly. Silently, he crept into the room and gently covered his sleeping wife with a blanket. He reached out his hand to gently sweep away the stray hair that covered her face. The sudden urge not to disturb her, and the fear of how she would react to such an act in her current mood, stopped him. For a few moments he stood and watched over her. He watched her chest rise and fall softly as she breathed. He smelt the cheap perfumed soap and deodorant that she used. He heard her soft rhythmic almost hypnotic breathing. She could be such a pain in the backside at times, John Caudwell thought.
Still, he did so love her.
Chapter 24
“Alien vessel, please identify yourself!” the voice, a female voice, over the Communications Network seemed harsh, frightened and threatening to Billy Caudwell’s ears.
Not that Billy was surprised. He had just dropped out of stealth, and appeared instantly on the scanners of these small saucer-shaped fighter craft. Little wonder the pilots would be jumpy and nervous. Billy noted that the alien craft had powered up their weapons systems; not that they were a threat to the Black Rose, but it told Billy just how nervous they were.
“Where did that ship come from!?” another frightened, nervous and startled voice cut into the transmission.
“Maintain Communications discipline, Six!” the original female voice snarled in angry response.
“Thexxian vessels stand down your weapons,” Billy responded calmly, “I mean you no harm.”
“Alien vessel, I repeat, please, identify,” the Thexxian commander repeated as calmly as her situation would allow.
“I am First Admiral Caudwell of the Universal Alliance, and I have business with your Praetor Maximus,” Billy said calmly, despite the fact that the impressive sounding Universal Alliance consisted solely of himself.
“What business do you have with the Praetor Maximus?” the voice asked.
“That is for me to discuss with him,” Billy responded calmly, but with an edge of irritation that conveyed that this individual only ever dealt with decision makers.
Billy sat back in the seat and awaited developments. Billy Caudwell, having spoken to the Thexxian officer, reflected on the power of the ULTra. The ULTra, or Universal Language Translator was the mechanism by which he was able to speak to anyone in the universe. Deep in the bowels of Garmauria there was a database that contained the language, vocabulary, syntax and grammar of every intelligent species in the universe. The Garmaurians, having created these intelligent life forms, needed to communicate with them. Thus, every language in the universe was basically a dialect of Garmaurian. This database now fed into a speech and language recognition programme which could translate any language in the universe and could be fed directly, via the Personal Environment Suit, into the speech and auditory cortices of his brain.
Billy Caudwell had targeted the Thexxians as his first port of call to recruit into what he called the Universal Alliance because they were a desperate species. Almost twenty years previously the Thexxians had left their home planets, after a war with another species called the Bardomil. The Thexxians were an advanced species, and tolerant of newcomers to their worlds preferring peaceful co-existence and trade to warfare. Unfortunately, the Bardomil were empire builders, who had no qualms about wiping out an entire species to colonise their planets, if it was profitable and feasible to do so.
Thus, a brutal and bitter war broke out. At first, the Thexxians had given a good account and had dealt the Bardomil a series of stinging and costly defeats. And so, it became policy, direct from the Bardomil Empress that the Thexxians were to be hunted down and eliminated. As the years passed, Thexxian military resistance was ground remorselessly down. The Thexxian leaders, seeing disaster on the horizon, formulated plans to ensure the survival of their species. They requisitioned any space vehicle that could fly and began to load as much of the civilian population onto these ships as possible. With heavy hearts the Thexxians abandoned their home world and became nomadic refugees for the next twenty years. They spent those years fighting a constant cat and mouse chase battle with the Bardomil forces that sought and pursued them.
After twenty years, the cost to the Thexxians had been high. Almost eighty percent of their numbers had perished, and the pathetic remnants, of close to five million souls were crammed onto the few thousand ships that faced Billy Caudwell.
The Communications alarm toned softly to indicate to Billy that there was an incoming visual transmission.
“Accept,” Billy ordered the ship’s computer to allow the transmission.
On the View Screen, a figure appeared. It was a humanoid figure. Billy understood that the basic forward facing one head, two arms and two legs in upright posture, male and female pattern was common for the intelligent species throughout the Universe thanks to the genetic manipulations of the Garmaurians. This particular variant of the pattern was dark, but going grey haired, with a slight olive tinge to the skin with no obvious nose upon the face, just a single large nostril and a disconcertingly pink, albino like, pair of eyes. The figure, which was visible from the chest upwards, seemed to be wearing a black item of clothing with no obvious insignia or markings and no obvious means of fastening.
“This is Praetor Maximus Margallan, greetings to you First Admiral Caudwell of the Universal Alliance,” the figure said in a flat rather deep monotone, “what do you wish to discuss with us?”
“Greetings Praetor Maximus, I would like to discuss giving you sanctuary and protection,” Billy said the words that would make any Thexxian leader pay very close attention.
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“Really, First Admiral Caudwell,” the Praetor tried to disguise his astonishment, and failed, “and why would you want to shelter the great outcasts of the galaxy?“
“Because I want something in return, Praetor Maximus,” Billy responded bluntly.
“Well, at least you are honest, First Admiral Caudwell. Yet, I am confused. You wear the uniform of the Ancient Ones, and, I am told by my scouts that you fly one of their vessels, but you are not an Ancient One,” the Praetor questioned.
“The Garmaurians are no more Praetor Maximus, they perished from the effects of a virus,” Billy responded, his voice tinged with an edge of sadness, “the knowledge and strength of Garmauria has been passed to me,”
“Then you have my admiration and respect, First Admiral,” the Praetor bowed gently.
“Thank you, Praetor Maximus,” Billy responded feeling that this was becoming too flowery and formal for his liking, “but, to the matter at hand, can we do business?”
“Perhaps, First Admiral Caudwell,” the Praetor considered, “maybe it would be more conducive to our negotiations if you were to come over to our Flagship?”
“I don’t see why not,” Billy responded politely, instantly sensing a possible trap, and making a mental note to set the force shield mode of his P.E.S. to maximum.
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