The Master of Muscigny (The First Admiral Series Book 5) (12 page)

“Well, sir, the Trion Field boosted by the Lissian dragged the duplicate planet into the Trionic Web, but the Lissian radiation was like someone swallowing a red-hot coal. It seared a path through the Web causing it to warp.”

“The Trionic Web warped!? Surely, it would tear itself apart under that kind of impossible stress?”

“No, sir, the Lissian seemed to scorch the Trionic Bonds, sealing them like a cauterising iron and preventing the Trionic Bonds from being torn apart. The bending and warping actually created a ‘wrinkle’ in the Trionic Web.”

“What kind of wrinkle?”

“Well, it’s more of a tunnel, sir, running from close to Terra, through wherever we entered the conduit, to wherever we are now. According to the Garmaurian records, we are trapped in a pocket in that ‘wrinkle’ in the Web close to the Atriponian system.”

“You mean we’re in another galaxy from Planet Terra?” Garn asked.

“At the moment, sir, we’re still confirming that. We’re still downloading and analysing the star-field data from the last Eagle, which only landed about twenty minutes ago. But we do know that this planet is stealthed and shielded with the same technology as Garmauria was before the last of the inhabitants perished.”

“So, for all we really know, we could be in the middle of hostile space?” Garn continued.

“Yes, sir, but with us being in the Conduit, and with the Garmaurian stealth and protective shields in place, nobody could get through to the planet.”

“At least we are protected,” Billy speculated. “So, assuming we‘re buying this idea of a duplicate Earth, what about the time differential?”

“The ‘duplicate’ Terra was caught in the wrinkle at the exact moment of its creation, the snapshot of Terra from the time of your Roman Empire was held in that split-second of creation for nearly eight Terran centuries until the residual energy from the Lissian enriched Trion Field became sufficiently depleted, after the Garmaurians had broken into the pocket that surrounded the duplicate planet.”

“So, hold on, let me get this straight. If the Garmaurians got back into this ‘Conduit’ thing, then obviously they got back out again?” Billy asked the million dollar question.

“Yes sir. It was very much like a permeable membrane; it didn’t take them long to figure it out. The real delay was waiting for the residual energy to run down sufficiently for, to put it simply, ‘time’ to re-start again. The Garmaurians correctly predicted that a short burst of high-intensity pulse Lissian radiation and sufficient momentum would break through the skin, which they believed was only a few dozen Trions in depth,” Gummell continued, “and once through, the pocket would seal up again.”

“The Lissian we can generate. How fast did they need to go to break out?” the Ship’s Commander asked.

“The records show that the Garmaurians required to be travelling at one-third of light speed.”

“We can probably achieve that once the Thrust Engines are repaired and Main Power is back, but we’ll have to use the planets gravity to sling shot us out of here,” the Engineer confirmed.

“So, how did we get through the stealth and shielding?” Radkor asked. “We should have been squashed against it like a bug.”

“We’re on a Garmaurian-built ship, Doc,” Garn answered. “We still use the old Garmaurian identification signals and codes to get us into their disused installations.”

“We were lucky,” the Engineer commented. “We only had enough force-shielding to fend off the atmosphere as we came down. If we hadn’t been Garmaurian-built we would have been squashed.”

“But, if I remember my Trionic Theory correctly, surely the pocket around the planet would have collapsed?” Billy queried.

“Well, no, sir,” Gummell fielded the question. “The Trions were enriched with the Lissian radiation, which somehow prevented the usual processes of Trionic Attraction and Repulsion and held them in place here.”

Sitting back, Billy remembered the basic rules of Trionic Theory, and that the fundamental particles of the universe were linked together in a web. Trions resonated at particular frequencies, in particular areas, owing to effects like gravity or radiation. Similarly resonating Trions were drawn to each other, whilst Trions with different frequencies repelled each other. Hence, the Trionic Web was a dynamic, constantly ebbing and flowing, and at times, dangerous element to deal with. With nature abhorring a vacuum, Billy could see that the ends of the tunnel could theoretically seal up making the structure undetectable.

“So, how did we manage to break into this Conduit?” Radkor asked.

“There was probably some weakness in the structure of the Conduit,” the Engineer speculated. “The huge force shielding on the Space Dock may well have included a lot of energy in the Lissian spectrum and disrupted the boundary integrity, creating an opening.”

“Then, we came along and fell into it. Just our luck,” Radkor said, raising a laugh from the senior officers.

“But what about Earth’s moon?” Billy changed the conversation. “I’ve seen the moon out there, and the gravity of this planet would be shot to bits without that natural satellite.”

“The records say that a natural satellite was transported here to maintain the gravitational, tidal and seismic equilibrium, and then they loaded the area up with a holographic projector array to fool the star-gazers, just like the holographic star-field, sir. The records also indicate that there is a yellow dwarf star somewhere in the region of one hundred and fifty million kilometres away, beaming radiation down to the surface.”

“But, why would they continue to expend all these resources?” Radkor asked. “To what purpose?”

“From the limited view I have of the project data, after the initial disaster the Scientific Council took it on as a huge sociological experiment. The Garmaurians used original Terra as the guinea-pig and replicated their methods here.”

“So, they’ve interfered with Earth’s history for nearly two thousand years?” Billy asked, appalled at the implications.

“No, sir, they’ve been interfering in Terran history for tens of thousands of years. They’ve just been trying out their various theories of how to manipulate societies and measure the outcomes for the last two thousand years. The two Terran world-wide wars of the last century were probably a result of Garmaurian activities.”

“It’s still absolutely monstrous!” Billy protested on behalf of humanity and Planet Earth.

“We’ve always known that the Garmaurian moral compass was a bit different from many other species, sir,” the Ship’s Commander replied philosophically.

“Surely, the Garmaurians couldn’t micro-manage all of Earth’s history?” Billy asked.

“They wouldn’t need to sir,” Radkor speculated. “Rigidly structured, hierarchical societies with no social mobility. You just need to control the top one or two percent, who would control the other ninety-eight, ninety-nine percent.”

“Well, at least we know we won’t be tampering with the original Terran timeline, sir,” Gummell smiled.

“Very true,” Billy laughed. “I don’t have to worry about killing off granny and granddad now!”

“No, sir,” Gummell replied, sharing the joke, “but I would still urge caution in our dealings with the local population.”

“A valid point, Officer Gummell, obviously we can’t use our weapons to slaughter great swathes of people. But, I see no harm in trying to leave this place a little bit better off than it was when we landed here.”

“Again, I would urge caution, sir.”

“Your point is noted, Masthan, but, as I see it, the Garmaurians created this place nearly two thousand years ago. In that time, they could have chosen to give these people all of the things that they enjoyed, or allowed them the freedom to control their own destiny. Instead they chose to manipulate and experiment with them and their lives on a global scale.”

With a loud sigh, Billy Caudwell looked around the Table at the faces of the senior officers who would carry out his policy decisions.

“If we do some good here at Muscigny, the ripple effect will hopefully carry it far and wide. I think these people deserve a few good turns for a change,” he concluded.

The Muscigny Estate, April 21
st

Billy Caudwell rose from the rickety wooden table in the half-light of a beautiful spring evening. It was the end of another long and productive day. The parchments and data folios strewn over the table top spoke testimony to over three hours of concentrated administrative work on the ongoing repairs to the Aquarius and the development of the Muscigny estate. Sitting back on the low-backed chair, Billy sighed and ran his hands through his hair before rubbing his tired eyes. The faint flickering light from the small oil lamp cast strange shadows over the table top, making Billy wish that the Engineers could install electricity in the estate.

With a mental shrug, Billy stood up stiffly from the chair knowing that he could never allow that level of technological development to be utilised in this era. Lifting the simple wooden beaker from the table, Billy took a long drink of the fresh cool water that was turning the Muscigny estate into a flourishing oasis in the middle of the parched, near-barren wilderness. The progress reports were still looking promising. The field irrigation was complete; the ploughing and planting could start next week. The small, portable synthesiser that had been secreted in the base of the covered well was effortlessly pumping out tens of thousands of litres of water per day. The pumping mechanism, cleverly disguised as a small windmill, was working effectively at a fraction of its capacity. Even after the Aquarius had gone, the water would still be flowing at Muscigny for centuries to come.

The other reports were equally positive. The children were learning their letters and numbers very rapidly. The adults weren’t quite so quick at learning to read, write and count, but they did spend longer hours in the fields. The newly-built mosque, church, and synagogue were all well-attended, and the men of the estate were progressing well with their weapons training. The walls of the Citadel were rising slowly, but relentlessly around the Residence, which would give the people on the estate some serious protection. The sheer presence of the plentiful water supply would make Muscigny strategically important in the future, and the people would need some kind of military shelter.

Those evacuated from the Jerusalem leper colony were starting their cosmetic treatments and were already busy in the fields digging the ditches and building the walls. Having cleared the offending bacteria from their systems and stabilising their conditions, the Senior Medical Officer was now working on treatments for reconstructing damaged faces, limbs, skin, and muscles. The Chief Medical Officer seemed to be having some success with creating biological filters through the teleport system, rather than spend long hours in complex surgical procedures.

The news from Aquarius was just as positive. Main Power had been safely restored through the heroic efforts of dozens of Engineering Officers and Technicians manually repairing thousands of miles of nano-circuitry. The slow and nerve-shredding work had finally paid off, allowing the larger synthesisers aboard the Star Cruiser to lurch slowly back to functionality. With the larger synthesisers now online, the major repairs to the super-structure of the Aquarius could begin. Large components and mechanisms could now be replicated and force-shielding used for the heavy lifting. The Senior Engineering Officer was still predicting another six to eight weeks of work if all went well. In a worst case scenario, the Senior Engineer predicted over four months.

Once again, Billy was torn between getting back to his own era and the command of the Universal Alliance Fleet, balanced against staying at Muscigny as long as possible to let the people bring in their first harvest and survive the first winter. In his heart of hearts, Billy Caudwell knew that leaving this place would be difficult, but that his duty to the Alliance would always win out in such situations. Lifting one last piece of parchment, Billy saw a crude drawing of a donkey, complete with two large wheels near to its hind legs. With a smile he read the shaky and far-from-straight message written across the top of the primitive illustration. “Hasan saiz tank yu,” the spidery writing conveyed the message. Khalil, it would appear, was still having trouble with his letters. Billy chuckled and set the parchment back on the table top. With the small stump of charcoal, Billy drew a smiley face with eyes, nose and up-curved mouth to indicate his understanding. He would have it delivered to Khalil in the morning.

Turning from the table, Billy looked over into the corner, where Ibrahim was fast asleep on a camp bed. Like Billy, he too had worked long and hard that day. The ploughing was nearly completed and the planting of the crops was the next phase. Billy had to acknowledge that the estate had only remained as a viable project because of the Steward’s relentless work in the past. The last Lord of Muscigny had spent barely a few days on his land before being killed in battle, whilst the incumbent before that had spent more time in Jerusalem than tending his own property. With a soft smile, Billy turned again and walked quietly to the door. The soft rhythmic breathing of the exhausted Steward drowned out his careful footfalls until he reached the doorway.

Out in the gloomy corridor, Billy trotted down the two ramps to the ground floor and the front door that led out to the courtyard. Carefully, Billy opened one of the two double doors which squealed in protest as he pushed outwards. Almost immediately, the drumming, clapping and dancing around the camp fire in the courtyard ceased as the people rose to acknowledge his presence.

“No.” Billy waved to them, closing the door behind him. “Enjoy yourselves,” he ordered, allowing the drumming and dancing to start up again.

Around the rectangular courtyard, a dozen fires had sprung up where people congregated to laugh and drink and dance their evenings away. Jokes and stories of the day’s work activities were shared as were wine and water flasks, bread and songs. Several makeshift drums were being beaten with dancers trying their best to keep some form of rhythm to the irregular and haphazard beats. Arguments flared up like brushfires and were just as quickly quenched with wine and laughter. As Billy watched the evening’s festivities, he felt the familiar nudging in his lower back.

“Well, well, what do we have here then?” Billy smiled as he turned to see the familiar shape of Hassan the donkey in the half-light of the nearby fire. “You’ve been waiting here for me haven’t you?” Billy smiled, scratching the animal behind his enormous grey ears. “When you should really be asleep.”

The donkey twisted his head to the right in response to the scratching behind his right ear and then nudged Billy’s hip with his muzzle.

“Oh, yes, full of wants yet again,” Billy teased Hassan quietly, and pulled the sugar lump that the donkey was demanding from the hip pocket of his PES.

Offering the lump from the palm of his hand, Billy scratched behind Hassan’s left ear as the donkey devoured the small ration of sweetness with a loud crunching sound.

“There, good boy,” Billy praised, “now go back to the stable before Khalil misses you.” Shaking his head twice, Hassan’s ears flapped loudly.

“Now, come on, back to bed and there’ll be more sugar for you tomorrow.”

Nodding excitedly, Hassan pawed the ground several times before slowly and carefully turning himself around and setting off slowly for his stall in the make-shift stable block where Khalil was probably asleep. It had taken the Alliance Engineers only a few hours to design the wheeled device that supported the donkey in his mobile vehicle. The two large rear wheels allowed Hassan mobility whilst a heavy fabric cradle supported his body allowing him to strengthen the damaged back leg.

Known as the Contraption, the vehicle was deliberately allowed to squeak and alert Khalil and the others at Muscigny as to where Hassan was. Having been liberated from the water wheel, the little grey donkey now enjoyed his freedom and roamed the estate at will. With his tail swishing slowly, Hassan plodded off into the darkness, the squeaking wheels of the contraption announcing his tired progress.

With the donkey squeakily receding into the darkness, Billy turned to head back to his quarters aboard the Aquarius. After about two dozen paces, Billy was conscious that a group of people was forming in front of him. Stopping, Billy waited for the group to fully form and then approach him. For a moment, Billy felt the old instincts within him prepare him for a fight, but as he looked round, the dancing, laughter and enjoyment did not seem to be interrupted. No one seemed to be considering them to be a threat.

“Sidi? Sidi? May we speak with you?” a female voice spoke out as the shapes began to take form in front of him.

As he focussed on the emerging shapes, Billy realised that they were all women.

“Well, it looks like I’ve got a delegation on my hands here, how may I help you, ladies?”

“Sidi, forgive us for being so forward,” the leader; an Arab girl wearing a loose white head turban and veil spoke up, “but we wish you to teach us to fight like the men.”

“You want to learn to fight?”

“Yes, Sidi, I want…I mean we... want to fight as well as the men.”

“Why? Fighting is hard, dangerous and painful. Why would you want to do that?”

Stepping forward, the leader placed herself at the head of the other women.

“Sidi, I am Fatima. I was a slave here until you freed me.” She pushed up her sleeve to expose the curly ‘m’ brand mark of the Muscigny estate on her forearm. “Since I was a little girl I was ashamed of this mark, ashamed to be a slave. Now, I am proud of this mark, I am a free woman, I have food in my stomach, a roof over my head, a fire against the cold and gold coins in my little bag that I have earned for myself.” She touched her robes just below her throat where her bag of coins hung. “I have somewhere where I belong, Sidi, where I can work hard and not have people spit on me for being a slave, and I will not give that up without a fight...” She choked up with the emotion.

Watching the ex-slave, Billy could see her eyes glistening with tears and emotion.

“And, what about you, do you want to fight too?” He nodded towards another woman who wore a rough woollen shawl over her head and held one end of the material over her nose and mouth.

“Sidi, I am Tirza of the House of Levi, for many years I was a leper, an outcast...” she began nervously.

In the faint evening light, Billy could only just make out that Tirza’s nose and upper lip had been eaten away by the disease, showing the hideous leper grimace.

“When my father died, my mother and I were cast out into the streets and driven from village to village until we reached Jerusalem and the colony,” Tirza continued, her voice thickening with raw emotion at the painful memories. “In Jerusalem, my mother died and I was alone with no future ahead of me; no family, no husband, no children.” She paused and drew herself up to her full height proudly. “Yet, I am here. The curse of the leprosy is gone from me. I too have food and shelter. I am learning my letters and numbers. I work with my hands in the ground.” She held up her still-bandaged hands. “I move the stones to build the walls, I dig the ditches with the men, my back and arms grow stronger every day with the work and you pay me the same gold coin as the men…” she stumbled in her explanation.

It was only then that Billy realised the whole courtyard had fallen silent and was watching the conversation intently.

“…you have given me something I have never had before, Sidi,” she continued, choking back her tears. “You have given me and many others here, hope, Sidi, and I will die before I ever lose that again…” She finished and began sobbing.

One of the other women next to her in the deputation reached out and held the weeping Tirza in her arms.

For a moment, Billy stood silently, stunned at the sheer depth and volume of genuine emotion that had been poured out in front of him.

“Give me your sword,” Billy instructed one of the men sitting round a camp fire.

A moment later, a heavy broadsword flew through the air, the blade glinting in the firelight, with Billy catching it nimbly by the grip. Swinging the weapon a couple of times to loosen his arm, Billy then threw it to the ground in front of Fatima.

“Go on, pick it up Fatima.”

Nervous and confused, the young Arab girl leaned down and lifted the weapon.

“Right then,” Billy said and reached down into his boot top to retrieve the eagle-headed Landing Trooper Battle-Blade that he had been advised to carry. With a deft twist of the mechanism just below the eagle’s ‘neck’, the blade CLICK-ed loudly and doubled in size from thirty to sixty centimetres in length, “you want to fight do you?” he challenged.

“Yes, Sidi, but not against you…”

“But, it’s not me, Fatima. I’m some nasty Saracen or a Crusader who wants to make you a slave again.” Billy began to circle the anxious girl.

“But, Sidi!?”

“No, I’m not Sidi anymore, you’re going to be my slave girl, to do with as I please, and maybe we’ll get those robes off and have ourselves a little bit of fun together,” Billy winked teasingly and tried to open the front of her robe with the point of the Battle-Blade.

“Sidi, please!” Fatima begged, her anger starting to rise as she clutched the robe closed.

“Then after our little bit of fun you can give me those gold coins of yours, or will I just take them?” he taunted, the Battle-Blade point rising slowly up to her throat.

“NO!!” Fatima yelled and swung the broadsword at the Battle-Blade. The metal rang clear and true as the two weapons clashed and Billy’s blade was dashed aside.