The Master of Muscigny (The First Admiral Series Book 5) (2 page)

Planet Geminus - The Civita Castellana, the Papal States, January, the Year 1180

Pope Alexander the Third sat uncomfortably on the large throne in the spacious Reception Chamber.

The morning air was cold and refreshing; a prelude to the damp chill of the usual rainy afternoon. Under the patchy clouds, the sunlight streamed weakly into the Reception Chamber and sparkled onto the white floor, casting shadows of the window frames across the expanse of marble. Statues from antiquity adorned every niche and alcove, giving the Reception Chamber the air of a well-appointed museum. However, the heavy silence, shattered only by the trilling of captive songbirds, hung heavily around the shoulders of the balding, overweight pontiff.

Looking round at the opulent splendour of the Palace, Alexander considered that perhaps he should remain here rather than return to the Vatican. It had only been a few days since a usurper, calling himself Innocent the Third, had tried to seize the Papal Crown. And, it had only been with a large bribe that the traitorous Cardinal had been dethroned by his erstwhile supporters. Rome was still likely to be a dangerous place for Alexander, so an extended vacation might be in order, he considered.

“Holiness?” a familiar voice broke into Alexander’s contemplations, announcing the arrival of Antonio Milnari: his Chamberlain.

“What is it Antonio?” the placid Alexander asked.

“Holiness, the special Emissary from the Order of the Temple has arrived and seeks audience.”

With a deep sigh, Alexander was dragged reluctantly back into the real world of politics, plotting and scheming.

“Admit him,” Alexander said with little enthusiasm, and awaited the appearance of yet another brash and offensively loud Templar.

Sitting back on the throne, Alexander steeled himself for the coming ordeal. Another swaggering Templar with a list of demands was not what Alexander required before his morning Contemplation and prayers. And, closing his eyes, Alexander prepared himself for the demands from the Templar as the heavy sound of footfalls disturbed the tranquillity of his Reception Chamber.

“Your Holiness,” a familiar voice, strong and confident, broke into Alexander’s darkness.

“You!?” Alexander gasped as he opened his eyes to see a familiar face wearing the chainmail armour and white surcoat bearing the red cross of the Order of the Temple kneeling on the steps that led up to the throne.

Holding up his hand, Alexander felt lips pressed to the ring he wore to acknowledge his power.

“Arnold,” the startled pontiff stammered, recognising the dark and shadowy features of Arnold of Torroja, wearing the seal of a Grand Commander of the Order at his neck.

“Holiness,” the dark figure smiled insincerely, “it is good to see you well,” the seasoned diplomat and political campaigner flattered.

“Arnold? How did you become a Grand Commander?”

“Let us say that Guy of Armienne suffered an incurable case of distressed stomach. ”

“But, how did you acquire the position?”

“In the absence of Grand Master Saint Armand, much influence can be acquired by those willing to make the necessary sacrifices and efforts in the name of Our Lord.”

With a nod, and a further insincere smile, Alexander again acknowledged the political reality of the situation.

Grand Master Odo de St Armand had been foolish enough to have gotten himself captured by the Saracens. The Grand Master of the Order; usually appointed for life, now languished in a Saracen jail with no hope of release. The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ, despite being one of the richest and most powerful Orders in Christendom, had a strict policy of not ransoming its members from captivity; no matter how senior they were.

“So, what demands have you come to present to us today?” Alexander got straight down to business.

“I have no demands, Holiness, I come to ask Your Holiness’ blessing.”

“A blessing?”

“A blessing, and, perhaps a little support,” Arnold said, holding up his right thumb and forefinger, spaced no more than a centimetre apart.

“Support?”

“Yes, Holiness, for a little adventure in the Outremere,” he added using the Templar name for the Holy Land.

“What kind of adventure?”

“Well, Holiness,” Arnold leaned in closer to the throne as if he were about to impart some great secret, “we know that Baldwin of Jerusalem, although a good Christian, is maybe, shall we say… a little too good in his notions of tolerance and respect for the Infidel.”

Alexander chose his words carefully. “It has come to our notice that Our Son Baldwin is, perhaps, not as strict in his adherence to upholding The Faith as he could be.”

“Holiness, both Hebrew and Muslim are free to worship in the Holy City; an insult to Our Lord and Saviour.”

“Then surely God has punished him with his dread affliction of leprosy.”

“Punished; yes, Holiness, but still the Infidel worship in Jerusalem, spitting in the face of Holy Mother Church. Perhaps it is time for more stringent action.”

“More stringent action?”

“Does
The Holy Bible
not say,” Arnold began, “and, if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee!”

For a moment, Alexander stared in horror and incredulity at the Templar Knight who had just suggested deposing an anointed King. It was only the hand of God that could remove a King through death. To depose or murder a King was an offence against Heaven itself. With the possibility of such a monstrous act being planned, Alexander knew that he had to distance himself from this lunatic.

“And, if thine right eye has been cast aside?” Alexander asked cunningly. “What would stand in its place?”

“Holiness, our friend in Jerusalem, who is far more sympathetic to our cause, would look favourably upon such actions and bestow great honour upon Holy Mother Church.”

Well, there’s the bribe, Alexander considered. At least Arnold isn’t looking for the Crown of Jerusalem for himself; he sighed with relief inwardly. The illegitimate son of a Spanish nobleman, Arnold had not a ghost of a claim to the throne of Jerusalem. However, the idea of striking down Baldwin did have some appeal to Alexander; and a few new churches, and possibly a new Cathedral in Jerusalem, could only please the Lord God.

“Holy Mother Church would certainly welcome such…’honours’. And what would the Poor Fellow-Soldiers gain from this?”

“Holiness, our reward would be to smite the enemies of Christ.”

So, he’s looking for a war against the Saracens, Alexander speculated silently watching the cold, dark eyes of the Templar; which gave away nothing of his true intentions.
Why would he come to me if he wanted a war with the Saracens?
Alexander wondered.
He could just go to the Holy Land, attack a few Saracen caravans and the whole area would be plunged into bloody conflict. He has to be planning something else
.

“But, we have no more need of Crusade,” Alexander said carefully.

“Holiness, we must always stand ready to defend the True Faith.”

“Answered like a true soldier of Christ.”

“Holiness,” Arnold said, bowing low once more, “your words make my heart sing with delight.”

Oh yes, you are up to something
, Alexander realised, as the language became more flowery and flattering. “And, how does the Order plan to pursue this most sacred and holy errand?”

“Holiness, at the port of Marseilles, ships are being prepared to embark on an expedition of twenty thousand Templar Bretheren, to sail, God willing, to the Outremere.”

“That is indeed a formidable force to carry God’s word to the unbelievers,” Alexander said, as, in his mind’s eye, he could see frightened men and horses being driven onto Templar ships.

“Holiness, it just needs a few words from you to launch the expedition.”

Well, now we’re getting closer to the truth
, Alexander considered. Only an elected Grand Master of the Order could authorise the use of so many great resources for such an adventure. And, if the Order was so divided at the top, then no one could possibly have authorised it. Alexander knew it was certainly not in the power of the Papacy to launch such an adventure.

Then, suddenly, it struck the pontiff like a blow to his expanding midriff. Arnold needed Papal support to trump the opposition within the Order, to push forward his plan. Arnold’s war was going to be led by Arnold himself. Despite his never having even waved a sword at a Saracen, Arnold now had ambitions of military glory. And, why would Arnold need military glory? The answer was as plain as the nose on his dark, cunning face. Alexander almost cheered out loud with the realisation. Arnold of Torroja was seeking the Grand Master’s chair! With his mysterious ‘friend’ on the throne of Jerusalem, Arnold could use the huge Templar contingent in the Outremere, plus his latest additions, to consolidate his power base and lay claim to the Chair.

With Papal support for the adventure, Alexander knew that he would have some leverage over the new Grand Master of the Templars; a favour that could be called in at a later date. That, Alexander considered, was something worth having. It might even be worth turning a blind-eye to the demise of the annoying King Baldwin. But, once again, Alexander speculated, he would have to be careful. He needed to be close enough to whatever was being plotted to be able to take credit, but far enough away to deny all knowledge if it went wrong.

“Grand Commander,” Alexander said, rising from his throne, “we must pray and ask God’s guidance on such a matter,” he announced, holding his right hand out to the Emissary once more.

“Of course, Holiness,” Arnold responded, touching his lips to the ring once more.

“However, I am sure that He could find no possible fault in such a virtuous and holy enterprise.”

“I pray that He does not.”

“May God bless and protect you,” Alexander formed the sign of the cross over Arnold’s bowed head.

“Thank you, Holiness,” the still-smiling Arnold bowed and was dismissed from the Papal presence.

Watching the long tails of the Templar’s white surcoat flapping as the figure strode confidently and happily away, Alexander felt a sudden twinge of doubt. Arnold was a fine and meticulous planner. He was a devious and clever politician, with an eye for strategy. Unfortunately, Arnold of Torroja was not a proven commander in battle againstthe Saracens, which could well be a problem. But, with the ability to deny any knowledge of the escapade, Alexander shrugged mentally, he really had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Arnold might even pull it off, depending on who this mysterious ‘friend’ in Jerusalem was.

One of the major Jerusalem Lords, with real military experience and muscle, might just make Arnold’s plan a reality.

If Arnold did not end up dead!

The Star Cruiser Aquarius.

The small, silver cube of the Alarm Call trilled loudly from the bedside table in First Admiral William Caudwell’s darkened Private Quarters.

With a groan, the red-haired, fifteen year old Supreme Military Commander of the Universal Alliance Fleet was roused from what had been a pleasant, and unusually deep slumber. Reaching over to the Alarm Call from his large, well-appointed bed; the one luxury in his very spartan quarters, Billy Caudwell slammed the flat of his hand onto the shrill, warbling communications device.

“Yes?” he mumbled

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but, we have a bit of a situation.”

“What kind of a situation?”

“You would really need to see it, sir, could you report to the War Room right away, sir?”

“Okay, on my way,” he cut the connection.

“Oh great,” he mumbled, swinging his legs out over the side of his comfortable bed.

Stepping onto the cold deck floor, Billy felt the chill of the bare metal on his bare feet as he reached over to the chair where his pale-blue one-piece overall uniform had been deposited less than five hours previously. Wearing only boxer shorts and a white tee-shirt, Billy Caudwell stepped into the legs of the uniform and slipped his arms into the sleeves. Stretching his shoulder muscles, Billy felt the familiar tingle run down his spine as the thought-command mechanisms in his Personal Environment Suit made the connection between his brain and the tens of thousands of microscopic machines woven into its fibres, which operated all of its functions.

As his brain made the connection with the microscopic machines, the PES read his bio-metrics and compensated for any irregularities in his body functions. Almost immediately, Billy felt slightly cooler as his body operated best at a temperature slightly lower than the normal ambient temperature aboard the flagship of the Universal Alliance Fleet. With all of his other body functions operating perfectly, the PES closed automatically, from left hip to right shoulder to produce a seamless image of the one-piece uniform with the officer’s black knee length boots.

Checking his reflection in the large window of his Personal Quarters, Billy was satisfied with the image generated by the PES. The dark green overall had a high collar for his officer and Admiral’s insignia, whilst the large, single, golden star on his lower left sleeve denoted his full rank.

At five feet eight, and with a stocky build, Billy Caudwell was what no one would ever describe as handsome or elegant. His shock of close-cropped, flaming, bright-red hair stood out like a fiery beacon in the darkness of his Cabin. With a sigh, Billy turned from the reflection and made his way towards whatever situation was going to face him.

It had been just over eighteen months since the overweight, acne-scarred, freckled and withdrawn young schoolboy on Earth, had been caught up in a failed alien abduction, where he had acquired a mission to unite all of the intelligent species of the universe in a Universal Alliance.

In that time, progress had been made. The Alliance had been established, and the Fleet was expanding to defend the growing number of species seeking admission. The Alliance had the most advanced military technology in the universe, acquired from the now-extinct Garmaurians; lots of people wanted to be protected by that kind of hardware.

Still, advanced technology didn’t always make you friends with everyone, as Billy Caudwell knew. The Bardomil were one such species, and were a constant source of antagonism for the Alliance. The Bardomil would face a reckoning sometime in the not too distant future, Billy promised himself, as he stepped towards the opaque force-shielding door that screened off his Private Quarters from the War Room; the nerve centre of the Universal Alliance. Stepping onto the half-metre square pressure pad in front of the doorway, the grey opaque force-shielding was de-activated, allowing him to pass into the noisy and brightly-lit War Room.

Banks of consoles, populated by the Officers and Technicians of the various Arms and Corps of the Alliance Fleet, fed information and updates into the massive War Table that dominated the front of the battle centre. And, it was from his War Table that Billy Caudwell, having been implanted with the Mind Profile of the last Garmaurian First Admiral, directed operations. The Fleets at his command, drawn from the huge gas nebula, where the last of the Garmaurians had hidden their warships, were now crewed by the descendants of the same species that had been genetically-manipulated to serve their Garmaurian rulers.

Entering the War Room from his Private Quarters, Billy saw that the repairs to the Star Destroyer Colossus were well under way. It had been six days since the huge, slab-sided, octagonal Star Destroyer had reported a major malfunction in its Proto-Star reactor. The large Alliance warships all depended upon the harvested matter of juvenile stars before they went nova. Every Proto-Star reactor was protected by multiple layers of safety features, force shielding and strict operating protocols. But, as with every piece of equipment, there was always the possibility of a malfunction.

The huge Star Destroyer was now held within an even larger Space Dock facility. The inhumanly powerful force-shielding that held the Star Destroyer in place would be vital in the event of any failure of the Containment Systems. Sacrificing the Space Dock would save several star systems in the immediate area from instant annihilation. The Aquarius, on its routine patrol, had been called in to assist in the evacuation of the one hundred thousand personnel who crewed the massive space monster.

“So, where’s the fire then?” Billy asked breezily, the feeling of fatigue compensated for by the PES.

“Sir,” the Weapons and Tactical Officer, the WATO, in a dark green one-piece uniform overall welcomed him.

“We have some kind of situation. Where and what is it?”

“It’s that, sir,” the WATO, a pale-skinned Corollian, indicated the two-dimensional View Screen next to the large War Table that dominated the front of the banks of consoles.

Looking on the Screen, Billy could see what appeared to be a black hole in space circling counter-clockwise. This particular hole in space was generating large electrical disturbances, with flashes and streaks of electrical discharge illuminating the coal dark centre.

“What on Earth is that?”

“We have no idea, sir,” the WATO responded as Billy stepped closer to the View Screen that was being projected up from the deck floor.

“What do you mean, you have no idea, WATO?”

“Exactly as I said, sir, there’s nothing like it in any of our records.”

“I find that very hard to believe, WATO,” Billy said as he kept his attention on the phenomenon. “We have the records of several hundred thousand years of Garmaurian space exploration at our finger-tips.”

“Yes, sir, but there’s nothing like it on any files.”

“Sir, this thing, whatever it is,” a Scanner Officer announced, “fits no configuration we have in our records.”

“Double, and triple check it, Scanners.”

The Garmaurians had been the most technologically advanced species in the universe until their recent civil war had produced a biological weapon that had wiped out the entire race. For nearly five hundred thousand years, the Garmaurians had roamed the cosmos mapping and charting everything that they could. That the Garmaurians had missed something, Billy Caudwell considered highly unlikely.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Well, is it a black hole?”

“No, sir, we’re getting readings reflected back from the phenomenon.”

“Not a black hole then, a wormhole?”

“No, sir, from what we can see of the structure, it’s enormous. We can’t see where it terminates.”

“So, not a wormhole either? Okay, give me the numbers.”

“Not quite perfectly circular, it measures just less than one kilometre in diameter, sir.”

“When did it appear?”

“Just a few minutes ago, sir.”

“It just appeared out of nowhere?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. What else do we know about it now?”

“The phenomenon is creating a huge gravity field, sir.”

“Well, let’s not get too close to it, whatever it is, and alert Colossus to its presence.”

“We’re already getting some pull from it, sir,” a Scanner Technician announced.

“Okay, Navigation, let’s just ease ourselves away a couple of hundred thousand or so kilometres.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re still getting pull, sir,” the Scanner Technician continued.

“Right, get us out of here.”

“Engaging Thrust Engines,” the Engineering Officer announced.

“Setting course away from the phenomenon,” the Navigation Officer reported.

“Gravitational pull increasing, sir,” the Scanner Officer announced.

“What kind of beast is this?” Billy asked himself quietly as the Aquarius lurched suddenly, knocking him off balance.

“We’re being pulled into the phenomenon!” the Navigation Officer called out.

“Rate of pull increasing,” the Scanner Technician warned.

“Come on, get us out of here, and get that Space Dock out of here too!” Billy ordered.

“Trying, sir! Increasing Thrust Engine output.”

”Come on!” Billy said softly, still clinging precariously to the War Table.

“No effect, sir.”

“The pull from the phenomenon is still increasing, sir.”

“Full power on the Thrust Engines!”

“We’re still being pulled in, sir!”

“Do we have Trion Drive available!?” Billy called out, knowing that he was running out of options.

“Yes, sir!”

“Right, use it!”

“Yes, sir!” the Engineering Officer barked, and the quiet hum of the Trion Drive started to descend upon the War Room and the rest of the Aquarius.

“We’re still being pulled into the phenomenon!”

The Trion Drive allowed the Aquarius, and other Alliance ships, to cover vast distances almost instantaneously. The theoretical premise was very simple: The ship generated a Trion Field around its hull with Trions; the fundamental particle of the universe. With the Trion Field established, the ship slipped seamlessly into the Trionic Web; the structure which held the universe together. With the Trion Field set, with the Trions resonating at a particular frequency, the ship was then drawn instantaneously to the region of space where the frequency of the local Trions matched that of the Trion Field around the ship.

“Get us out of this system!” Billy ordered as the Aquarius jolted and shuddered once more; this time far more violently than before.

A great cascade of sparks fell from above him as cabling was shaken clear of its support and hung down into the War Room. A female voice yelped in pain as a console operator was injured by electrical discharge.

“Get her to a Hospital Deck,” the operator’s Supervisor called out amidst the shuddering of the Star Cruiser and the growing whine of the Trion Drive.

Another jolt of the Star Cruiser sent Billy hurtling to the deck floor, where he slid several metres before crashing painfully against the front of one of the consoles.

“Trion Field completed,” the Engineering Officer announced above the shrill wine of the Trion Drive and the increasingly violent shuddering.

“Initiate Trion Drive!” Billy ordered staggering unsteadily to his feet.

“In three…two...one...now!” the Navigation Officer announced.

No sooner had the word ‘now’ been uttered, than the Aquarius gave a huge lurch, sweeping Billy off his feet once again, and smashing consoles and bulkheads throughout the War Room. Heavy console and operators were thrown around the War Room like toys in the hands of an angry child. Screams, yells and explosions added to the smoke and confusion of the situation as Billy found himself flung one way and then another, like a rag doll in a dog’s mouth.

More screams, smoke and explosions assailed Billy’s senses as debris began showering him. Suddenly, he was thrown across the deck floor back towards the War Table. Catching the top edge of the Table, Billy was able to stabilise himself just sufficiently to rise to his knees and catch a glance of the View Screen Image. In that few moments, Billy saw that they were no longer in normal space, but in some kind of dark grey, shimmering, cloud-like tunnel. The tunnel seemed to be spiralling at tremendous speed as he was ripped away from the War Table by a huge shuddering concussion.

Outside the Aquarius, the grey tunnel was not spiralling. It was the Aquarius that was spiralling. With the four huge-cross-shaped Landing Pads caught against the inner surface of the tunnel, the Aquarius seemed to be skiing at enormous velocity to wherever the tunnel was leading. Like a bullet caught in the rifled grooves of a firearm, the Star Cruiser sped along the tunnel. With the reptilian snout of the Aquarius to the front, the Star Cruiser somehow managed to hold together amongst the huge gravitational and centrifugal forces. The three Landing Bays, for the Eagle fighter squadrons on each flank of the Aquarius, were the most vulnerable structures, but somehow they managed to stay in place.

The five, twin-barrelled, domed, pulsar-cannon turrets clinging like huge metal tortoises to the spine of the vessel, were also badly exposed; yet stayed in place as the Star Cruiser careened uncontrollably through the tunnel.