Mechwarrior Diplomacy

28th June 3050

Planet: Ridderkerk

"Make a gap." Lieutenant Kyle Howard pushed two of his fellow officers aside as he placed the round of drinks down on the table and sat down in the space he had just created on the bench. At 29 years of age, the tall ginger haired mechwarrior held more experience than his junior rank suggested and he laughed heartily as the rest of the table loudly bemoaned his entrance. Seated outside the Flying Dutchman Inn on the outskirts of Ridderkerk's capital the party was in good spirits. Made up of the officers of the mercenary battalion 'Gibson's Commandos', they had spent the last six months training to fight the clan invaders and were now spoiling for a fight.

"You know, I've been thinking." Kyle said as he handed round the drinks. He was drowned out by cried of 'Dangerous, dangerous!' as the table erupted into laughter. He waited for it to die down out and continued. "We've all shared the story of how we all meet, but there is one story I don't know and can't figure out." He turned to face the shortest of the assembled officers, an unassuming man with short brown hair by the name of Max Rivers. "How in the Inner Sphere did the Marik spy end up working for the Davion Guardsman?"

"Is it any less likely that said Guardsman hiring the Free Skye Terrorist?" Max replied with a grin.

"Akk, I know we've had this conversation before Jimmy." Kyle replied in an over the top mock gallic accent. "But the correct term would be Freedom Fighter, no." The table erupted in laughter again, it would be expected that the quiet, reserved Max wouldn't get on with the loud boisterous Kyle, yet the two were fast friends and the back and forth sniping regarding each other's shady pasts was considered great entertainment by the other officers. "Seriously though, there's got to be a story there?"

"There is, but I don't tell it well. Sam, you want to tell it."

Major Gibson, the guardsman in question, put his beer down. "If I must." He responded with mock resignation. "It all started in 3041, on a planet in Circinus Federation called Baltazar III."

Chapter One

12th March 3041

Planet: Baltazar III

A small crowd of onlookers surrounded two men, both stripped to the waist as they wait for their seconds to finish inspecting their weapons. Duelling cultures are not uncommon in cultures dominated by a 'nobility' and it wasn't surprising that the pirates turned semi-legitimate rulers of Baltazar III had adopted the concept as part of their attempt to 'fit in' with the rest of the Inner Sphere. Captain Samuel Gibson stood stoically as he sized up his opponent. The local's predisposition for duelling, and their habit of using it as leverage in trade disputes, was one of the reasons why Gibson had been attached to the Fed Com trade mission. His home planet, Logandale, had a similar cultural leaning towards resolving disputes with cold steel.

Every planet is different though, he reflected, the game was the same but the rules changed. On Logandale this duel would never have been allowed, to challenge a guest would be unthinkable and in any case the hosting family's champion would be expected to defend their guest's honour. Here this was all seen as part of a legitimate negotiating tactic. Oddly their main hold up seemed to be his chosen weapon. Baltazar's young nobles favoured a light sabre design, Gibson preferred a medieval style arming sword, the heavier blade better suited his lanky frame and its nature sent a message, it wasn't a duelling sword wielded by an honour obsessed nobleman, it was a killing sword wielded by a trained killer.

Still no one had been paying attention to that message and he'd been dodging clumsy attempt to trap him into a duel for the past four days. In the end they had given up and seized upon a poorly chosen comment regarding the local wine as an excuse to challenge one of the Ambassador's young aids. Faced with the choice of looking weak, letting the kid be killed or fighting the duel himself, Gibson had accepted the challenge, even if he felt it was a ludicrous idea.

The seconds had finished their debate and returned the duellists' blades. Gibson barely knew the Lyran diplomat acting as his second, he had only joined the party a fortnight ago and they had quickly made known their distain of the Davion Guardsman. Gibson took his blade silently and banished his reservations, focusing on the young man opposite him. Shorter at about 5' 9'' he moved well as he went through several warm up exercises, Gibson didn't know his name, frankly it hadn't seemed important. The two duellists met in the middle and crossed the tips of their blades. It was the challenger's prerogative to start the duel.

"En garde!" Gibson's opponent shouted as he attacked with a serious of short sharp slashing attacks. Gibson gave ground, keeping his blade low as his footwork kept him out of reach of his enemy's blade. Emboldened, his opponent pressed forward only for Gibson to suddenly snap his blade up, slamming aside the lighter sabre and taking the offence with a lightning thrust. It was now the younger man's turn to give ground, blood seeping from a shallow cut on the left arm. Balance restored the two men started to circle each other.

Gibson broke the dead lock first, stepping in, he alternated slashes and thrusts, high and low to spread his opponents defence before delivering a savage blow to his opponent's brow. With blood pouring down his forehead, the young duellist dropped to his knees as he tried to stem the bleeding with his off hand. His second and his friends rushed to his aim. Deeming the duel over, Gibson bowed then turned to leave, satisfied that he'd probably avoided killing his opponent.

"The duel is not over; he can still fight."

Gibson turned sharply, the voice hadn't come from the duellists second, rather an old man from the crowd wearing a faded Black Warriors uniform.

"He can't see through all that blood." Gibson's astonishment was plain in his voice. "He cannot possibly continue."

"All duels are to the death. George get to your feet."

The younger man climbed to his feet and picked up his sabre. He tried to look brave but as his eyes meet Gibson's, the fear behind the façade was plainly visible. Internally Gibson seethed, it was lose-lose, don't kill him and look like a coward or kill him and look like a murderer.

"This is bloody murder." He protested, but was meet by a wall of silence as his opponent unsteadily advanced. Initially Gibson gave ground, unwilling to fight such an unequal duel, but at length, with nowhere left to retreat to, his opponent's incessant attacks forced a reply. Two quick blows later, his opponent lay dead at his feet. Without a word the crowd began to disperse, the fallen duellist's friends picked up his body and carried it away, leaving Gibson alone. He stared at the blood on his hands for a moment and then started after the old man, only to find his way blocked by a short brown haired man in a Free Worlds League Military uniform.

"Trust me Captain Gibson, you want to let this one go."