For those of you very picky about dates, I don't know when exactly Bridget II celebrated her Golden Jubilee (50th anniversary of her reign), so if my placement of it in this story is not accurate, do forgive me.
And for those of you who are curious, I'm trying to stick to the timeline in the novels rather than the anime, although some stuff will be taken from the manga. Please let me know if any characters are behaving OOC, and I will slap them back to their senses.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing, Trinity Blood or Vampire Hunter D, nor do I own the plot from Star Wars. Which is a shame, but oh well.
Blood Wars: New Dawn
Chapter 1
3062 A.D.
Londinium's largest airport sat just a few miles away from the English Channel, lending all travelers a glimpse of the glittering strip of blue at the edge of the horizon. The view was best enjoyed from one of the waiting lounges of an airship's terminal – the height and the glass walls gave onlookers a vantage point from which to observe tiny ships in the distance and the way the water caught the sunlight at different times of the day. For Caterina Sforza, evening was about to descend upon Albion, and although she ached to return to Rome as soon as possible, she couldn't help but be fixated by the sight. It helped to calm her nerves a little, as did the hot mint tea in her cup.
A mechanical voice suddenly erupted over the intercom. "The Beowulf will begin boarding in fifteen minutes. All passengers please prepare for departure as this flight is leaving on schedule. Make sure to collect all personal items before boarding."
Ah, well, she sighed to herself. At least she still had time to finish her cup. There was something else that concerned her, though, as she cast a glance about the lounge: where was Father Wordsworth?
"Tres? Has Father Wordsworth not arrived yet?"
"Affirmative, Lady Caterina. He has only 14.34 minutes remaining. There seems to be a recurring error in his time-management protocol."
"I suppose it should be expected." Caterina gazed at her companion, Father Tres Iqus, with a wry smile. "After all the time I've known him, it would be a shock to the system to see him punctual."
Tres did not respond immediately, as if puzzling over this problem in his part-machine, part-human brain. At last he replied, "As inconvenient as this error is, we must not expose the Duchess to a situation hazardous to her health."
Caterina nearly laughed, but refrained from doing so to spare Tres' feeling. Not that she was certain he had any. "Your consideration has been noted, Tres. Thank you."
"I am your machine, Lady Caterina. Maintaining your well-being is my prerogative."
The grateful and weary Duchess allowed herself to smile. She needed to after this long and tiring trip. She would have liked to pretend that she had come to Albion on holiday, but what period of respite could she afford at this time? Father Abel Nightroad had just completed his mission in Istvan, fortunately, but that still did not warrant a vacation for her. His mission only proved that Rosencreutz was not about to take a break themselves even just a year after the fiasco in Vienna. That is, a fiasco from their perspective.
At this thought, Caterina gave another smile, though a touch more smug in nature.
To own the truth, however, Caterina hadn't come to Albion on account of the Orden. There was enough tension in Albionese politics to require her presence in the country's capital. Her concern, and the concern of the Vatican, over Albion had become the nation's foreign policies. It had for the longest time maintained an isolationist attitude and thoroughly disliked the interference of other countries, especially one as powerful as the Vatican. As Minister of Foreign Affairs, Caterina was duty-bound to keep a careful eye on that country in the event that its political climate made a dramatic shift. Certain figures within the Vatican, namely Francesco and his supporters, would have very much liked an excuse to launch a crusade against Albion and reap the benefits of attaining its wealth of Lost Technology.
Unlike her half-brother, Caterina had no interest in invasion, but an alliance of some kind would be desirable. The idea had become even more enticing to her as Rosencreutz's activities grew bolder over the past couple of years. Imagine how assured she would feel to know that another country, be it the Empire or Albion, would aid her in her fight against those terrorists. She certainly did not receive much support from the rest of Rome, her subordinates excluded.
The opportunity she dreamed of seemed to come at last when Albion's queen, Bridgett II, invited her to an international conference in Londinium in celebration of her Golden Jubilee. Caterina left Francesco a brief memo regarding the nature of her absence before making the hope-laden trek to Albion.
Almost four weeks had nearly crushed her aspirations. Despite her best efforts to gain an audience with Her Majesty, every force on earth seemed to be working against her. She regularly found herself surrounded by nobles who regarded her with nothing more than cold civility, and a few times she caught snippets of private conversation whose topic of choice happened to be the "prissy busybody from the Vatican". Even Wordsworth's presence didn't seem to abate the hostility aimed at her. Caterina acknowledged that she could not expect anything less, but it was a trial keeping her spirits up for that whole time. Despair began to creep into her heart when at last an invitation to a private conference between the Queen, the ambassador of Germanicus and herself arrived at her suite.
The meeting, to her disappoint, hadn't been a great success. Her presence at the conference appeared to be a gesture of civility rather than a genuine desire on the part of Her Majesty to discuss a possible alliance. The representative from Germanicus did most of the talking, which Caterina managed to benefit from only because she witnessed the Queen silencing him in mid-ramble. She and the Queen even shared a brief glance of understanding that awoke just a spark of hope within the cardinal. Thank goodness Her Majesty had as little tolerance for talkative men as she did.
When the time came to conclude the interview, the Queen persuaded Caterina to linger for a moment so she could express her gratitude for coming to Albion, and for her patience. She even hinted at an offer to hold a private conference just between themselves after the affairs surrounding her Jubilee celebration died down. Caterina assured her that she would be happy to oblige, although she would have to verify her schedule. Their parting ended on a high note, but as Caterina packed her things to return to Rome, she admitted with heavy reluctance that too little had been gained in comparison to the inconvenience this trip had wrought.
But at least a quiet understanding had been established between the two nations, and during the course of her visit she received another bit of good news that kept her adrift in a sea of frustration. Her subordinate Father Nightroad – good, old, reliable Abel – contacted her via a private network routed through the Iron Maiden II to report that he had rescued a file containing the blueprints of the infamous Star of Sorrow. Understanding how vital and dangerous this information was, the priest informed her that he would deliver the information himself.
Perhaps she had let herself get carried away with this news. Perhaps she feared too much what risks Abel would endure carrying such a valuable piece of information all the way from Istvan. Whatever the reason, Caterina answered him with a most unexpected response:
"That won't be necessary, Abel. I will be returning to Rome within a few days, and it will not take me nearly as long to get there as you. Of that I am certain."
Abel's face contorted into an expression of exaggerated indignation. "What do you mean by that? What could you possibly mean? Do you not think me trustworthy? After all the time we've known each other-!"
"Enough. Send the file to me. Tres and Wordsworth are traveling with me, so I will have plenty of protection."
"Send you the file?" Now the priest's voice grew more serious. "Are you sure that's the best solution? You said yourself this is a vital piece of information. The danger you'd be putting yourself in . . ."
"Would not be as great as the danger you'd risk for yourself." Caterina gave her friend a teasing grin. "I know you want to take on all the burdens of the world, Abel, but trust me on this. That file is better off in my possession. It'll be in Rome before you. Would you please send it?"
She watched with amusement as Abel fiddled with his glasses. "Well . . . I . . . ugh. Fine, if you're sure. But if anything disastrous happens, I'm going to . . ."
Caterina arched an eyebrow. "You're going to what?"
Her agent gulped loudly. "I'm, um, going to hold Tres personally responsible."
She chuckled. "If you say so. Now, the file, please?"
Sitting in the airport now, she had the memory cube carefully concealed inside her handbag. She would feel easier once she and her companions were aboard and settled in their cabin, but for now she was more worried about William missing the flight altogether.
"I have sighted Father William Walter Wordsworth," announced Tres just as the voice on the intercom announced the five-minute warning. The Professor, in a display of epitomic absent-mindedness, stumbled into the waiting area with two over-packed suitcases, a half-done tie, an askew top hat, a cane hanging from his arm and an unlit pipe in his mouth.
Caterina put down her tea and shook her head. "Honestly, Professor. This is no way for a knight of Albion to appear in public, especially before travelling abroad."
William removed the pipe from his mouth and took a breath. "On the contrary, milady. When one sees a gentleman of Albion in such disarray, one will know at once that he can be doing nothing else but travelling abroad." He bent over while catching the rest of his breath.
"Because he is clearly running from trouble, I suppose?" Caterina, still smiling, finished the last of her tea, dabbed her mouth with a napkin and collected her smaller carry-ons. Tres caught hold of her suitcase. "Remember, Wordsworth: you are also a representative of the Vatican. Let's try not to embarrass ourselves too much, shall we?"
Despite the northward loop the airship had to make to avoid crossing the airspaces of Francia and the Four-City Alliance – a rather gratuitous controversy between the countries, in Caterina's opinion – the Beowulf would arrive in Rome in approximately eight hours. Although the ship had plenty of accommodations, including a dining room, ballroom and even a hot tub and sauna, the young Duchess preferred to reside in her cabin for the majority of the flight. She needed a much-deserved nap.
Tres stated he would remain in the cabin to ensure that his mistress was neither disturbed nor attacked while she slept, so Wordsworth found himself alone and at the mercy of his restless mind. He and his former prodigy, now his administrative superior, shared a brief exchange as they boarded the ship regarding the trouble he encountered on his way to the airport. How in all honesty could he be blamed for the bad traffic and the uncooperative cab driver who insisted he increase the tip for all the trouble Wordsworth had given him? What trouble? He simply gave the man a bit of advice on where to go to avoid the traffic they nonetheless faced on the way there. He may have commented on the man's driving techniques as well. Wordsworth regaled Caterina with all of this, hoping to find just a smidgen of sympathy, but instead received mirthful smiles and chuckles at his expense. To assure him of her concern for his well-being, she patted him on the shoulder and promised to compensate for the extra cash the priest had been forced to relinquish to his enraged driver. Then she announced her desire to rest and retired to the cabin.
Wordsworth had managed to eat a hearty breakfast before leaving for the airport, and unlike his coworker Father Nightroad, his metabolism did not break down food so quickly. It was the blessing and curse of middle age. Therefore his appetite was not yet whetted, so the dining room held no interest for him. Instead he occupied the first half-hour of their flight gazing at the view below. He could still make out the shape of Albion's eastern shore as the ship made the first northbound leg. William did not make a common habit of staring out windows during a flight, but this particular route held an interest to him. Only a few times in his life did he acquire the chance to look down on that sparsely inhabited region known by natives of Albion as the Wildes. The region seemed to belong to a different era – one of savagery and lawlessness. Most people who lived in the southern half of the island did not feel inclined to travel northward into that barbaric wasteland, except maybe en route to Erin. There was some talk of technological and social improvement in certain areas, mainly along the border of the civilized world, but Wordsworth had never found the opportunity to verify it with his own eyes.
The Wildes filled him with scientific curiosity. What sort of people lived there? How many of the folktales were true? It was a wholly different world – that was what intrigued Wordsworth. To explore lands unknown, to venture through and discover what educated men have only dreamed of . . .
But Wordsworth was not an adventurer. He was a professor of the doctoral and pedagogical type, but he was not nearly as inclined to the latter as he wished to believe. Research and discovery drove him, made him burn with anticipation. To go into those forgotten lands would be a death wish . . . yet the Professor continued to dream.
As the ship elevated in altitude, the land Wordsworth watched with mixed exhilaration became obscured by cottony wisps.
I suppose that's enough dreaming for now, he thought while removing his pipe from his mouth. It suddenly occurred to him that he still hadn't lit it. Humph. I hate old age. He turned about and began to make his way back to the cabin.
That was when the ship began to shake. Violently.
Wordsworth flailed his arms for something to steady him. He had had enough foresight to carry his cane with him, which he now extended and pressed against a nearby pillar to keep him from falling.
Turbulence? he wondered. This seemed much too strong for mere turbulence. He leaned against the pillar and waited for the vibration to cease.
There was no time to sigh in relief when it did stop. After the ship returned to stillness, a voice broke out all over the craft:
"This is your pilot speaking. We apologize for the interruption of your flight, but due to an unforeseen inconvenience, we are forced to search your ship for something that belongs to us. Please remain where you are and do not intervene, or we will be forced to kill you."
A freezing chill ran through Wordsworth. What happened? Who was that? Certainly not the pilot. Blood-thirsty menace soaked this new voice. Wordsworth looked behind him out the ship's windows again. Looking directly at eye-level, he noticed for the first time that something cast a shadow over some nearby clouds. It could have been another cloud . . . an awfully big, dense cloud.
"In order to make this interruption as brief as possible, we will require the cooperation of all on board. If you do not comply, it will only serve to risk the safety of everyone here."
Wordsworth released the pillar and walked over to the window. There was definitely something large looming above them. The priest looked up. His mettle faltered when his eyes met an unnerving sight.
"Now, we courteously ask that we speak with one of your illustrious passengers, with whom we have business."
The shadow came from a darkly-colored airship twice the size of the Beowulf. Its design was not like that of any human craft.
"Would Lady Caterina Sforza please come up to the cockpit?"
