Annals of the Keepers: War 267 (Book 1 in the Gashnee Saga) by Christiaan Hile, Benjamin Halkett Page B
Authors: Christiaan Hile, Benjamin Halkett
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shuffled towards his console. With his one good hand, he punched the course into the computer.
“Course changed, sir… I mean Captain.”
Lintorth, satisfied with the outcome, thinking only a hand had to be severed in this matter, now turned his attention to the fat ex-captain.
“I will let you sit in this obscene throne and overlook your pathetic crew while I use your communication room.” Lintorth motioned towards another door on the bridge. “Is that your private quarters?” he signaled to the ex-captain.
With a nodding head, the ex-captain agreed. “Yes.”
Lintorth released his grip and turned towards the private officer’s room.
The ex-captain had other ideas, as he wasn’t finished with his unwanted guest.
He pulled a plasma gun from beneath the folds of the crimson pillow on the chair. He aimed it at Lintorth, who had already turned around from the raucous sound of the draw.
The glory of downing a Kryth commando danced in his mind as he squeezed the trigger on the pistol. The sound that issued was not from plasma discharge but rather of bone crunching and gurgling under the strain of a knife blade penetrating the skin folds of the fat ex-captain’s throat.
The plasma weapon flew in the air as pudgy hands grasped at the now blood-soaked collar. The ex-captain rolled to the floor and wheezed as rushing air passed through the open neck wound, spitting minute showers of blood around.
The ex-captain lay writhing in death throes as Lintorth stood above.
“If anyone was unsure of my orders or of my authority,” Lintorth paused to add to the moment, and to give the crew no hesitation of who was in charge, “I will leave him here for your displeasing sniffs as it will give you a tangible reminder that I am in no mood to be trifled with.”
He turned and snatched up the crimson chair cushion making his way to the captain’s personal quarters.
Lintorth entered the office and made way for the communications station.
He sat down, first placing the caped pillow.
The monitor to his front came to life as lights streamed from around the console. He voiced his commands and keyed in the encrypted code to ensure his private message only met the one he intended to receive it. He was bypassing the lower echelon ranks of the Kryth military to deliver his confidential request.
Lintorth tapped his impatient fingers on the glass console, wanting it to respond quicker with the acceptance from the other party he was trying to reach.
After thirty minutes of waiting, Lintorth stood to stretch his cramping leg.
He spotted a vial of obbal juice on a table top across the room.
Cursing his leg, he limped towards the drink and poured himself a glass. He downed it, not knowing how thirsty he was or remembering the last time liquid had touched his lips.
A sound beeped behind him, an indication of an inbound transmission.
Lintorth hurried back to the console, flask in hand.
He punched in the decryption codes and waited for the response.
The screen flashed: INCOMING MESSAGE.
He waited for the image of the sender.
With one last flash, an image of another Kryth Mahr appeared on the monitor. The face was familiar to Lintorth.
This Kryth’s face was more angular than Lintorth’s own, he always thought, not possessing the broad, heavy features and wide forehead. The angular face suggested wryness tinged with a controlled amusement.
A broad grin spread across Lintorth’s face as he paused to take another pull from the flask before speaking.
“Voskal Lat, a bit pressed for time, friend? If you had waited any longer, I could have been in Dranneous Kor with my dispatch in hand instead of using this slow mode of communication,” Lintorth griped.
“Testy today, aren’t we.” Voskal Lat cocked an eyebrow, surveying his friend with a practiced eye. “I was beginning to wonder why we couldn’t find you, but now I see it’s because you were in disguise, my slashed-face comrade,” he commented.
“I’m so impressed
“Course changed, sir… I mean Captain.”
Lintorth, satisfied with the outcome, thinking only a hand had to be severed in this matter, now turned his attention to the fat ex-captain.
“I will let you sit in this obscene throne and overlook your pathetic crew while I use your communication room.” Lintorth motioned towards another door on the bridge. “Is that your private quarters?” he signaled to the ex-captain.
With a nodding head, the ex-captain agreed. “Yes.”
Lintorth released his grip and turned towards the private officer’s room.
The ex-captain had other ideas, as he wasn’t finished with his unwanted guest.
He pulled a plasma gun from beneath the folds of the crimson pillow on the chair. He aimed it at Lintorth, who had already turned around from the raucous sound of the draw.
The glory of downing a Kryth commando danced in his mind as he squeezed the trigger on the pistol. The sound that issued was not from plasma discharge but rather of bone crunching and gurgling under the strain of a knife blade penetrating the skin folds of the fat ex-captain’s throat.
The plasma weapon flew in the air as pudgy hands grasped at the now blood-soaked collar. The ex-captain rolled to the floor and wheezed as rushing air passed through the open neck wound, spitting minute showers of blood around.
The ex-captain lay writhing in death throes as Lintorth stood above.
“If anyone was unsure of my orders or of my authority,” Lintorth paused to add to the moment, and to give the crew no hesitation of who was in charge, “I will leave him here for your displeasing sniffs as it will give you a tangible reminder that I am in no mood to be trifled with.”
He turned and snatched up the crimson chair cushion making his way to the captain’s personal quarters.
Lintorth entered the office and made way for the communications station.
He sat down, first placing the caped pillow.
The monitor to his front came to life as lights streamed from around the console. He voiced his commands and keyed in the encrypted code to ensure his private message only met the one he intended to receive it. He was bypassing the lower echelon ranks of the Kryth military to deliver his confidential request.
Lintorth tapped his impatient fingers on the glass console, wanting it to respond quicker with the acceptance from the other party he was trying to reach.
After thirty minutes of waiting, Lintorth stood to stretch his cramping leg.
He spotted a vial of obbal juice on a table top across the room.
Cursing his leg, he limped towards the drink and poured himself a glass. He downed it, not knowing how thirsty he was or remembering the last time liquid had touched his lips.
A sound beeped behind him, an indication of an inbound transmission.
Lintorth hurried back to the console, flask in hand.
He punched in the decryption codes and waited for the response.
The screen flashed: INCOMING MESSAGE.
He waited for the image of the sender.
With one last flash, an image of another Kryth Mahr appeared on the monitor. The face was familiar to Lintorth.
This Kryth’s face was more angular than Lintorth’s own, he always thought, not possessing the broad, heavy features and wide forehead. The angular face suggested wryness tinged with a controlled amusement.
A broad grin spread across Lintorth’s face as he paused to take another pull from the flask before speaking.
“Voskal Lat, a bit pressed for time, friend? If you had waited any longer, I could have been in Dranneous Kor with my dispatch in hand instead of using this slow mode of communication,” Lintorth griped.
“Testy today, aren’t we.” Voskal Lat cocked an eyebrow, surveying his friend with a practiced eye. “I was beginning to wonder why we couldn’t find you, but now I see it’s because you were in disguise, my slashed-face comrade,” he commented.
“I’m so impressed
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