The Ganthoran Gambit (The First Admiral Series)

by Benning, William J.

  “Help...help me.” A feeble voice pleaded from the nightmare of twisted bodies in front of her.

  “Please...,” The voice, no louder than a whisper, continued.

  “Hello?” Slythra nervously approached the moving arm.

  “Please, help me..,” the voice whispered urgently, the outstretched hand pleading for assistance.

  Holding her breath and trying not to make a sound, Slythra stepped carefully around the mound of dead to the outstretched hand. For a moment, she considered simply abandoning the survivor and getting as far away from this place as she possibly could.

  “Please, please, help me,” the survivor insisted.

  Slythra was now caught in two minds as to whether to abandon someone so desperately in need or to try to help them. Turning back to the outstretched hand, Slythra could see two dead civilians on top of the arm. Drawing a deep breath, and steeling herself for the ordeal, she took hold of the foot of the topmost body and dragged it down. Fighting back the urge to vomit, Slythra dragged and pulled the body of an elderly man onto the floor. The wreckage crunched beneath her feet as she pulled the dead weight clear. With the old man moved, Slythra saw that the survivor was wearing a Frontier Fleet uniform. Returning to the pile of bodies, Slythra strained and grunted to push away the remains of a young woman to finally uncover the survivor.

  Looking closely at the survivor, Slythra saw a young woman in a Frontier Fleet uniform. Two heavy scorch marks on her chest indicated a blast from a twin-barrelled laser weapon.

  The young woman, trembling with shock from the loss of blood, held out her hand for Slythra to hold. Kneeling beside the young soldier perched on top of two layers of corpses, Slythra held the offered hand. The skin was cold and clammy to her touch; the flesh more dead than alive.

  “Bless you,” the shivering soldier said softly. “Water?”

  Looking around, Slythra saw a water canteen hanging from the belt of another dead Frontier Fleet soldier. With some trepidation, she snagged the canteen and tore it from the dead soldier’s body before returning to the dying woman. Flipping open the canteen cap, Slythra tried to manoeuvre the open neck to the soldier’s mouth. After several attempts, she realised that she would have to lift the soldier’s head to allow her to drink. Nervously and delicately, Slythra gently raised the soldiers head and saw the pale slick of blood seep onto her bare arm. With great tenderness, Slythra tilted the canteen to the soldier’s lips.

  The injured soldier drank greedily from the canteen, the water splashing her face as she gulped down the cooling, soothing, and refreshing liquid. When the soldier started to choke on the clear bright cascade of liquid, Slythra gently drew the canteen away.

  “Thank you.” The soldier gasped in short, rasping breaths as Slythra gently lowered her head down again.

  “You’re welcome,” Slythra whispered and re-sealed the canteen.

  Turning to set the canteen onto the ground, Slythra gasped as she suddenly noticed the band of a dozen armed civilians staring silently at her.

  Instinctively, Slythra knew that she was in extreme danger as the silent mob began to close in on her. Brandishing all forms of outlandish weapons from captured Frontier Fleet lasers, to sharpened household implements and makeshift clubs, the mob were eager for more blood. On a day when the Palace floors had been slick with blood, this mob was in no mood to ask questions or listen to explanations. Shying away from the encroaching mob, Slythra found herself stepping anxiously over the dead and pressing against the twisting pillar in her panic to escape.

  “And, what do we have here?” A heavily built man leered at the cowering Slythra.

  “Please, sir...she...she...she was thirsty.” Slythra backed away from the encroaching crowd.

  “It’s a piece of Frontier Fleet scum!” a voice from deep within the crowd riled up the angry mob.

  “Kill her!” An older woman’s voice yelled as a hand shot out from the mob, grabbing the shoulder of Slythra’s dress, as a chorus of yells and shouts erupted.

  All around her, the terrified Slythra saw faces twisted and contorted with hatred as she was dragged away from the flimsy comfort of the pillar and out into the open.

  “Cut her! Slice her up!” another voice bellowed as Slythra was thrown to the ground amongst the blood and debris.

  “No!...No!...Please...,” the feeble, voice of the wounded soldier pleaded above the soft, menacing, guttural growl of the mob facing Slythra.

  A moment later, the pleading voice was silenced by the sharp ‘ZIPP’ of a laser weapon.

  Scrambling onto her backside, Slythra began to slide away slowly from the mob that was intent on killing her, only to find that she was now surrounded.

  “I’ll deal with this treacherous little runt!” Slythra felt a big, strong hand lift her bodily from the ground.

  Being lifted as if she weighed no more than a feather, Slythra screamed her panic and alarm. The loud, piercing alarm call echoed from the walls and vaulted ceiling of the Hall. And, as she screamed Slythra felt the huge hand clamp around her fragile and vulnerable throat. Unable to breathe, Slythra struggled and convulsed in the over-powering grip. Lashing out at the vice-like grip with what feeble strength she possessed, Slythra started to feel dizzy as her brain; starved of oxygen, began to shut down.

  “Go on, Falron!” someone egged on the strangler.

  “Choke the life out of her,” a member of the mob yelled.

  “Cut her! Cut her! Cut her!” Another voice began the rhythmic chant that was quickly taken up by the rest of the mob.

  “Cut her! Cut her! Cut her! Cut her! Cut her! Cut her! Cut her!” The mob chanted the rhythmic animalistic litany of Slythra’s imminent doom.

  With her vision clouding, and with little strength left to fight, Slythra saw the heavy-curved blade held up before her eyes.

  The smiling and leering face of her soon-to-be killer wreathed in an ecstasy of cruelty and sadistic delight, turning the blade in his hand, letting the shards of light dance from the viciously-sharpened edge. With one last convulsive snap, Slythra threw her last scraps of energy into breaking free from the savage grip, and failed. With her vision quickly narrowing into a long, dark tunnel, Slythra heard a faint voice seemingly from far away sneer.

  “I’m gonna gut you, you little traitor!” The knifeman grimaced at the near-unconscious scrap of life held in his enormous hand.

  As the darkness closed in around Slythra, the litany of “cut her!” intensified and quickened as the knife was drawn back to slash her throat.

  Thankfully, the fatal sting of cold sharpened metal to her exposed throat never came for Slythra.

  As she finally drifted into unconsciousness, a sharp ‘ZIPP” was the last sound she heard before she fell heavily to the floor. Then, with a loud, desperate gasp, Slythra arched her back and began to cough, splutter, and gasp the precious air into her crushed windpipe and starved lungs. Within seconds, she was clutching at her throat as if she could tear it open to force more air into her tortured air passage.

  “That’s enough!” a voice familiar to Slythra echoed in the Hall.

  Still unable to comprehend what had happened, Slythra opened her eyes; gratefully gasping down great lung-fulls of air, and saw her would-be-killer lying a few metres away. The face that was once so contorted with hate and delight now bore a mask of astonishment and stunned surprise. The bulging, sightless, glassy eyes seemed to protest his amazement to Slythra, who had, only a few moments before, been at his tender mercies.

  “What do you think you’re doing, old woman?” the voice of the ringleader protested.

  “Don’t move!” The familiar voice of Slythra’s grandmother was calm and deliberate.

  “What are you...?!” The curious member of the mob’s voice was cut short by another sharp ‘ZIPP’ of a laser weapon.

  “I said, don’t move, and keep your hands away from your weapons.” Slythra’s grandmother defiantly stared as another body hit the floor to join the large number of corpses already th
ere.

  Behind Slythra, the crowd were silently and resentfully parting in the face of the elderly woman with the old Imperial Guard laser pistol.

  “That’s right, keep your hands where I can see them.” Slythra’s grandmother shepherded the sullen crowd away from where her granddaughter lay.

  When the mob had moved back sufficiently, Slythra’s grandmother crouched down next to her.

  “Are you all right, sweetness?” The courageous old woman checked on Slythra; using the pet name her father had always used, as she kept a wary eye on the rest of the mob.

  “I think so, granny,” Slythra croaked, clutching at her ravaged throat as she managed to sit up on her left hip.

  “Can you move?” her grandmother asked.

  “We know who you are and where you live, we’re gonna get you for this,” a voice threatened darkly from the mob.

  “I don’t think so.” Slythra’s grandmother replied to the threat with a rapid-fire burst of laser bolts that cut and scarred into the wall above the mob.

  The mob instinctively ducked, covering their heads with their arms, as more dust and debris showered down about their heads from the damaged wall.

  “You’ll pay for this, traitor!” another impotent threat emerged from the cowering mob.

  “You go right ahead and try!” Slythra’s grandmother countered with another burst of laser fire. “This girl’s father, my son, is one of the Martyrs!”

  The Martyrs were the Imperial Guards killed by General Kallet in the cruel fire suppressant massacre at the barracks. And, as Martyrs, the families of the dead Guards were now protected by Imperial Decree. Anyone who tried to harm Slythra, or her grandmother, would be summarily executed.

  At that moment, the sudden realisation that her father was now dead started to seep into Slythra’s consciousness. Her grandmother had said nothing about it to protect the young girl until the fighting in the city was over. Still in shock from the violent assault, her tears slowly began to well up in her green eyes. There would be a time for grief later, but her instinct told her that she was far from out of the danger of this situation.

  “She’s a traitor, she was helping a wounded Frontier Fleet scum!” the threatening voice called out again.

  “Is this true?” Slythra’s grandmother looked into her eyes.

  “She was hurt and she was thirsty,” Slythra replied softly.

  “She helped because she’s a good, kind, caring young girl, not a traitor!” her grandmother replied. “If it had been you that was injured, she would have helped, too!”

  The answer was met with cat-calls and shouts of derision from the mob.

  “Right, sweetness, we have to go.” She helped Slythra to her feet, whilst pointing the laser pistol at the mob.

  Shakily, Slythra rose, and found her balance again after a few moments.

  “Just walk slowly behind me, don’t look back and keep going,” her grandmother instructed calmly.

  Then, with the laser pistol in her right hand, whilst holding Slythra’s arm with her left, the brave grandmother began to back carefully away from the mob of angry and subdued people.

  “That’s it, just keep going.” Slythra’s grandmother continued to watch the sullen mob closely.

  Still shocked and frightened, Slythra followed her instructions, clutching her grandmother’s hand tightly. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Slythra focussed on the doorway through which she had entered the Hall only a few minutes before. Still unsteady on her feet, Slythra kept her breathing under control and fought down the urge to panic as she stumbled through the rubble.

  “Just stay right there!” Slythra’s grandmother unleashed another rapid-fire burst from the laser pistol.

  This time, the laser bolts sparked and zipped from the ruins of the polished floor in front of the mob who were slowly trying to pursue them from the Hall. With laser bolts cascading upwards in every direction, the mob scattered to find cover with screams and panicked shouts. However, just as Slythra and her grandmother were about to make a break a path for the doorway a tall figure in a black uniform entered the Hall.

  “What’s going on here!?” the Landing Trooper officer bellowed as armed Ganthoran civilians dashed for cover.

  Behind the Landing Trooper officer, his squad of ten men deployed rapidly, pulsar-rifles pointed, ready for any and every eventuality.

  With a sigh of relief, Slythra’s grandmother held out the laser pistol, butt first to their black- clad saviour.

  “I surrender myself and my granddaughter to your protection, Your Highness.” After her formal announcement to the astonished officer, Slythra’s grandmother fell to her knees.

  “Sergeant, get this lot rounded up and disarmed, we’ve had enough anarchy for one day!” the officer ordered the thick-set NCO who accompanied him.

  “Sir!” The sergeant proceeded to shout out a stream of orders to the other Troopers.

  “Now, madam.” The officer began removing his visor-ed helmet. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me just exactly what is happening here?”

  Chapter 13: The Alliance Star Destroyer Olympus

  “Sir?” The Senior Scanner Officer called from the gloom of the darkened War Room. “We have Scanner contact with the combined Frontier Fleets.”

  “Thank you, Scanners,” Billy Caudwell said, “patch the long-range image onto the War Table please.”

  “Sir!”

  A few moments later, the holographic projectors threw the image of the three combined Ganthoran Frontier Fleets into the harshly-lit viewing confines above the War Table surface. Billy Caudwell noted, with some relief, that although there were the ships from all three rebel Frontier Fleets approaching the planet of Ganthus from the same direction, they were still flying as separate individual fleets. Scrutinising the image more closely, Billy Caudwell could see that there were three separate “Six-Cigar” Carrier formations; surrounded by their own Cruiser and Destroyer escorts. That might just be a lucky break, Billy Caudwell considered as he speculated that the Frontier Generals may have decided to combine their forces against a common enemy, but the separate formations indicated that they still did not trust each other. Division amongst the Senior Officers of any combined force was usually a fatal weakness, and the unconscious part of his mind that was Teg Skarral Portan began to relay the strategies that would destroy this fleet to the conscious mind of Billy Caudwell.

  Looking at the image, Billy saw the totals building to indicate the numbers and types of vessels that he was about to try to face down, “Six-Cigar Carriers”: Eighty-nine Cruisers: Over four hundred. Destroyers: Over two thousand. It was an Armada of warships straight from First Admiral Billy Caudwell’s worst nightmares. For a moment, the teenage First Admiral felt the tightening in his chest that would normally herald some form of panic attack. However, the unconscious part of his brain that was Teg Portan knew that often such large numbers could be a tremendous disadvantage. And, with that realisation, the feeling of panic quickly subsided. If Billy Caudwell could somehow get these Ganthoran warships into the confines of the Calyx Wormhole, then their huge numerical advantage would mean nothing. But, how to get them into the Wormhole was what troubled the mind of the teenaged First Admiral.

  Running through the possible permutations, Billy quickly rejected one potential strategy after another. Dividing his forces in the face of such a huge horde of Ganthoran warships was effectively committing suicide. Even with the element of surprise, the advantage would quickly evaporate once the ships got into close-combat range. Even in stealth mode, the sheer weight of Ganthoran fire would quickly hunt down and eliminate even the best Stealthed and Force- Shielded Alliance warship. Harassing tactics would have very little effect; there were just too many Ganthorans. Even with stealth, superior speed, and Force Shielding, the Alliance raiders would be little more than an irritation to the Ganthoran combined fleets.

  It would be like sending a mosquito against an elephant, Billy considered, and dismissed the idea.

  No, Billy
thought, there would have to be some element of baiting a trap to lure the Ganthorans into the Wormhole.

  And, the juiciest morsel that he could think of to bait the trap was First Admiral, now Emperor of the Ganthorans, William Caudwell. If he was going to pull off a coup like this, then he would have to stick his neck in the noose, just as he had done for the Time Warrior ritual.

  “Very well,” Billy said, “take First Fleet to General Grobbeg’s position; two hundred kilometres from the Calyx Wormhole.”

  “Sir,” the Senior Propulsion Officer responded from the darkness.

  What Billy Caudwell needed was time. He needed time to dream up some strategy or trick to lure the Ganthorans into the Wormhole. Admiral Parbe’an and Third Fleet were already stationed beyond the Wormhole. After all a stream of Ganthoran warships exiting the Wormhole would be a huge, sitting duck target for his guns. What remained of General Grobbeg’s Frontier Fleet was already at the Wormhole. Taking First Fleet from the orbit of Ganthus, out beyond the Rubicos line, within spitting distance of the Calyx Wormhole would give Billy several precious hours to formulate a plan of some kind.

  Standing at his War Table, his arms folded over his chest and scratching the cleft of his chin with his left thumb, Billy descended into his deepest thoughts. Wracking his brain for some miracle manoeuvre, Billy Caudwell pondered the problem from every possible direction.

  This is going to take something pretty special to pull this off, he considered.

  It would need to be something pretty special indeed.

  Chapter 14: The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, New York City

  John Caudwell had been feeling particularly pleased with himself as his plane touched down at New York airport.

  The deal on the disused nuclear bunker in the desert would be signed and sealed by the end of the week. The Nevada State Treasury would once again start receiving revenue from what had, for several years, been an empty hole in the desert. That would be adequate enough of an argument to convince the Nevada State authorities that the sale to Caudwell should go ahead. And, with his plans to develop the site, there would be jobs aplenty for the local workforce. Exactly how he was going to shoehorn two large underground nuclear reactors into the specifications was something that John Caudwell would have to consider. But, maybe if there was some sort of deal about providing cheap electrical power to the nearby township, at the off-peak hours, the objections might be somewhat more muted than many would expect.