Chapter One

Sa'dabad Palace Complex, Tehran, Kingdom of Krugis, June 2004 ATB

It was over.

Bismark Waldstein gazed down at the holographic map, at the splash of purple that was the Kingdom of Krugis, also known as Area Seven of the Holy Empire of Britannia. Iran had been secured, as had the former states of Iraq and Kurdistan. Those states were now protectorates of Iran, much as Iran was now a protectorate of the Empire; though such a truth was not admitted to openly.

To the west was a line of green, reaching from Saudi Arabia and Egypt in the south, up through the Kingdom of Jordan to the Syrian Arab Republic. The Middle Eastern Federation had been declared a year ago, just as the last KPSA troops were forced out of Jordan. Syria had been cleansed of infestation a few months ago, and it was only a week ago that their last stronghold in Iraq had fallen. The Krugis People's Salvation Army, a force that had once challenged the entire Krugis Federation, had been reduced to scattered bands of die-hards, with territory or meaningful resources. It might take years to flush them out, but in the meantime they were nothing but a minor irritant.

To the east was a mass of red, the red of the Chinese Federation. Karachi had fallen a week ago, after a heroic defence. The territories of the fallen Islamic Emirate of Pakistan had since been reincorporated into the Sikh Empire; a reward for their part in its capture. The Revivalists had been driven from Kabul, and Afghanistan's rightful King had returned at the head of a Chinese army; though unlike some who had tried this over the centuries, the Chinese had the decency not to make a nuisance of themselves, and the sense to disappear once the Shah was safely back on his throne, and his country's membership of the Chinese Federation assured. The states of Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan had been taken in hand, with pro-China governments in power and Chinese troops in position to assist them where necessary.

It was over. The Krugis Federation was gone, and the beneficiaries all had plenty to be getting on with. If there was a time to end the fighting, it was now.

But he wasn't the one who ultimately needed convincing.

My Lord." The voice drew him from his thoughts. He turned to see an adjutant, whose name he could not remember, standing to attention. "My Lord, the Emperor is ready to receive your report."

"I will make contact in here. Leave me." The adjutant saluted and left the room. Bismarck turned and strode into the centre of the room, facing the screen on the rear wall. The screen flickered to life, briefly showing the Britannian flag, a red cross superimposed on a white cross on a blue field, with the crest of the House of Britannia in the centre, a lion and a serpent, topped with a crown.

The screen flickered again, showing a man older than himself, with long white hair arranged into magisterial rolls, and a short white beard. His face was lined with age and stress, his eyes narrow and hard. It was the face of the man who had won his respect. Bismarck dropped to one knee, quickly enough to be respectful, but not so quickly as to be obsequious.

"Lord Waldstein," spoke the voice of Charles zi Britannia, 98th Emperor of the Holy Empire of Britannia, transmitted over thousands of kilometres. "Report"

"Krugis is secure, your Imperial Majesty," Bismarck began his report. "Her enemies are vanquished, and the Shah's government is in complete control."

"Hmmm," the Emperor seemed to take this in. "What of the EU? What have they been up to?"

"The EU has deployed strategic defensive weaponry to Turkey and its new allies in the Caucasus," Bismark replied. "No doubt to convince the local governments of its commitment to their security. These include a new strategic SAM system thus far unknown to us, a system they call Hydra."

"Have you seen it in action?"

"Our Krugisian friends attempted several over-flights of Azerbaijani territory with the new reconnaissance drones we gave them," Bismark went on. "The drones were all shot down, and I was forced to insist that the flights stop. That no further violence has occurred suggests that the EU does not desire a confrontation in this area."

"Can the same be said of the Chinese Federation, and this new Middle Eastern Federation?"

"Yes, your Imperial Majesty. I must respectfully recommend that no further action be taken against them."

"Very well. The OSI informs me that Chinese control in its new territories is somewhat tenuous, and that the MEF governments are desirous of a peace settlement. I think we can safely afford to end this little war." He cocked an eyebrow. "How did the knightmares perform?"

"Better than we hoped, your Imperial Majesty." Images hovered at the back of Bismark's mind; images he had tried very hard to banish. "The final casualty count was seventy-one per cent, but we have gained invaluable data and operational expertise."
"Marianne will be pleased," commented the Emperor, smiling just slightly. "She will want to hear everything you have to say when you return. The Ganymede is something of a pet project of hers."

"I daresay, your Imperial Majesty."

Marianne vi Britannia. Marianne the Flash. The raven-haired beauty who had made her name as a knightmare duellist, back when knightmare frames had been nothing more than entertaining toys in the hands of high-school grease monkeys and bored young knights. Her image was never far from his mind; curvaceous, her hair a cascade of ebony tied with a gaily yellow ribbon, her purple eyes forever bright with an empyrean fire that had driven her to greatness.

His student, his rival, and the nearest thing he had to a friend.

She would have enjoyed the war, he was certain. She would have loved to sit in the cockpit of one of the new Ganymede ALI knightmares, the newest version of the Ashford Foundation's Ganymede; made famous by her exploits. She would have revelled in the chaos, and the slaughter.

"In the meantime, I have made the necessary arrangements regarding the Shah. I will send a Courier with the Letters Patent for you to present, naming him as King of Krugis. I trust this will suit your intentions for Area Seven?"

"It will, your Majesty."

"Lord Waldstein." The Emperor gazed into his eyes, weighing and measuring his most trusted servant. Bismarck stared back, hiding nothing, and having nothing to hide.

"Are you certain that your methods will work? To allow an Area to keep its name, and even govern itself. This has not happened since the Area system was adopted."

"Your Majesty," Bismarck weighed his words carefully. "I believe that the best way to rule over people is to make them want to be ruled. Thus if we make our rule both beneficial and invisible, the inclusion of Krugis within our Empire should be both sustainable and mutually profitable. We have conquered them, and they do not know it. People cannot rebel against what they cannot see."

The Emperor appraised him for a while, through eyes that seemed to gaze into his very soul. For Bismark it was more than a fancy; for he had seen the secret behind those eyes.

"You have chosen Area Seven for your fief, by your right as Knight of One," he said eventually. "It is yours to do with as you see fit. If it goes well for you," his eyes gave a rare sparkle, "it may lead to considerable changes."

He acknowledged Bismarck with a nod, and disconnected. Bismarck stood up, and headed for the window. There he stood, staring out over the city, allowing himself to think.

He was a soldier. He had been a soldier all his life. Fighting was as natural to him as breathing was to anyone else. But he was not a mindless killer. He understood the true nature of his profession. He understood that every soldier he killed was someone's son or daughter, perhaps a brother or sister, a husband or wife, a father or mother.

He enjoyed fighting, to test his skills, to push body and mind to the limit, to revel in the power he had earned.

He did not enjoy killing.

He had killed in that campaign. He could not deny it, nor did he want to. He had planned and ordered the air attacks against Pakistan and Afghanistan, weakening them sufficiently to tempt the Chinese Federation. He had ordered air strikes and artillery bombardments, knowing that civilians would almost certainly be killed. He had sent in his troops, Krugisian and Britannian, knowing that innocent and guilty alike would die under their guns.

What had they done to deserve it?

Always the question, from those who did not understand. Bismark had fought enough, killed enough, to know that deserve had no meaning. They did not deserve to die. They did not deserve to live under governments willing to play dice with countless lives. They did not deserve to be used as human shields by terrorists and madmen.

And yet they died. They died, because he was on the other side. They died, because he could not let the other side win.

They died, because they got in the way.

It was the only thing that separated him, and those like him, from those like the KPSA. Others might kill and destroy as they pleased, but Bismarck Waldstein did not. Others might burn, pillage and plunder, but Bismarck Waldstein did not. His conduct was his own business. His oath was the Emperor's, but his honour was his own. Only by knowing himself, and being true to himself, could he be free.

It was not his conduct that he regretted that night. Nor was it his past. What he had done ten years ago, he had done for Britannia, for a friend, for a man who had won his respect. There was nothing to regret there.

His mind wandered down memory lane, to probably the most important night of his life.

"Tell me, Lord Waldstein," Prince Charles zi Britannia turned his head slightly to look at his companion. "Is there anything in this life that you regret?"

"Only one thing, your Highness."

"Pray tell, if you don't mind me asking."

It had been the night of May 6th, 1997 ATB. The night when he had helped Charles zi Britannia take the throne. The night when he had killed six of his brother knights, and overseen the deaths of thousands. The Princes and Princesses, the guardsmen, the courtiers, gunned down amid the manicured gardens and gilded corridors. The noble families wiped out, the survivors fleeing into exile. The admirals and generals, murdered by their own staff officers. The bureaucrats and politicians, found dead in their offices, or their cars, or their homes.

The only alternative had been civil war. That, as much as anything else, had convinced Bismark Waldstein. The innocent could not be made to suffer for the caprices of Royalty and Nobility. Such things were for the highborn and the brave to deal with among themselves. That was the better way. That was Britannia's way.

So then, what did he regret?

"That I have no son, your Highness."

No son, or daughter; no child at all. He was not a father, yet he had killed fathers. He had made orphans of children, caused their homes to be destroyed, left with nothing. These lands had burned at his touch, ruined by the armies he had raised, and trained, and commanded. He had known the truth of it, every time he glanced to one side, and saw some ragged, skeletal child foraging among the ruins, or waiting with outstretched, pleading for a crust of bread.

He had created nothing, nurtured nothing. He had destroyed their world, and their future. It did not matter what might have happened, or who else might have done it had he never set eyes on Krugis. He had been there, in that place, in that time.
It was all on him.

He shook his head, driving the melancholy thoughts away. It was getting late, and a glance at the clock told him that it was time to check the sentries. Sorrow and remorse could wait for later.

Soran was frantic.

It had been a risk to come so close to the Palace. He had thought that the other urchins would stay well away, for fear of being shot at by the guards. He had thought he could find somewhere safe to sleep, where his enemies were unlikely to come looking.
No such luck. A bunch of his fellow street-children had had the same idea, and were now in hot pursuit, hoping to despoil him of whatever food he might have.

They were always doing it. They knew he was good at getting food, clothes, and other things. They found it easier to rob him than to get what they needed for themselves.

When they could catch him, that is.

He pressed himself against the wall, the bricks cold and hard against his back. He waited, for what seemed like an age, until the running footsteps receded. He had dodged them once again.

Soran poked his head out, glanced from side to side. Seeing no one, he moved cautiously along the wall towards the end of the alley. Looking out, he could see the palace, illuminated by the streetlights. He knew that there were guards there, patrolling the streets and hiding inside the palace buildings, peering out of the windows and watching through security cameras. He knew better than to let them see him, let alone go near them. Ever since the Shah's cousin had gotten himself blown up a year ago, the guards were taking no chances.

It was a pain. He could no longer hang around the kitchens the way he had used to. The servants were kind, and used to leave food out for him. They still did, but he had to be extra careful in collecting it. Sneak his way round the back to the kitchen entrance, in, out, then back to his hiding place to eat well and sleep in safety.

He was unlikely to get a better deal anywhere else. The police were clamping down on the street kids, grabbing them and dragging them away somewhere, never to be seen again. Sometimes they would have other people with them, people in fancy clothes shouting at them to come out of hiding, that they would have food and warm clothes, and new homes.

Soran wasn't fooled. If they really wanted to help, they wouldn't have come with cops. The cops hated the street kids, and would kill them for the fun of it. Soran had lost count of the times he had been forced to flee for his life, gunfire ringing in his ears. It hadn't happened in some time, but he knew better than to trust cops, or anyone who had cops with them. Wherever those kids were being taken, it was nowhere good.

He looked out again. If he was to get anywhere near the kitchen entrance, he would have to continue along the street and turn the corner. The streets were brightly lit, but that same light cast dark shadows against the walls; shadows he might be able to move through unseen.

If he went back the other way, they would likely be waiting for him.

He decided to chance it. He glanced back and forth again, saw no one looking, and slunk sideways along the outer wall of the building. He tried to control himself, but mounting terror was driving him along, faster and faster, his ears straining for the staccato chatter that marked his end.

A piercing screech rent the air, followed by a frantic scrabbling as the rat he had just stood on scampered away. Soran froze, and his heart jumped as he saw two shadows detach themselves from the wall of the palace. Thin strobes of light lanced out from the torches on their guns, fixing him against the wall.

Soran ran, ignoring the shouting as he rounded the corner. He sprinted along the alley, his heart pounding in his ears. He turned a corner, hoping against hope that they wouldn't follow, sprinting further and further into the maze of alleys and gaps.

A dead end. Soran froze, his ears straining for the sound of pursuit.

There was none. The heavy boots had stopped, quite a way back. The guards knew better than to follow him in there on a dark night.

Then he heard something else. He looked around, heart clenching with terror, as he realised his mistake.

It was them, emerging from the shadows all around him. Some were taller, some were shorter. Their clothes were worn and dirty, their cheeks pinched, their eyes hard. He would get no mercy from them.

Soran glanced around, hoping to spot something he could use as a weapon. Anything that would improve his chances. He spied what looked like a length of thin pipe, just narrow enough for him to hold.

He dived for it as they charged.

It was proving a quiet night.

Bismark had just about completed his nightly tour of the perimeter. All had been as it was supposed to be; every guard in place, every camera active and manned, every patrol on its allotted time for the evening. The foot patrols were irregular, and the pattern changed every day so as to fool anyone trying to infiltrate the palace.

His little tour had taken him into the street outside. The streets around the palace were all but deserted, despite their proximity to the government ministries. The elegant streetlamps shone bright, illuminating the streets down which the guards patrolled in groups of two. Bismark came upon two of them as he stepped out, returning their salute without a word. Their uniform was a tunic of blue, so dark that it was almost black, with a matching beret, red trousers, and tall black boots.

On their beret badges and breasts was emblazoned a Faravahr, a robed man shown side-on, flanked by a pair of spread wings. It marked them as members of the Javidan, the Shah's faithful Royal Guard. They had remained loyal through the dark days of 2001, and proved their worth in battle and as the Shah's protectors time and time again. To return their salute was an honour, even for a Britannian.

As he approached the street corner, Bismark saw something even more impressive. It was a vaguely humanoid shape, towering over him at twice his height. Its armour was painted red and black, its plastron emblazoned with a golden Faravahr. In its hands, at the end of spindly arms sat what looked like an assault rifle or sub-machine gun, scaled up for the mechanical giant's hands.

Ganymede All-terrain Land Intervener.

It had come a long way from the gangly machine that Marianne had piloted to glory so many times. The arms and legs had been shortened and strengthened, and an improved battery pack added behind the torso. It was the latter that had really made a difference, allowing the Ganymede ALI to remain active for several hours without the encumbrance of a power cable. The armoured cockpit lid, strong enough to stop sniper rounds, had also been a considerable improvement.

There were eighteen of them protecting the palace that night; six distributed around the perimeter, six concealed in reserved, and six patrolling in pairs. It was more than enough, in combination with the foot guards, to keep the palace secure. Between its armour – which nothing less than an RPG or an anti-materiel rifle could penetrate – and the assault rifle, the Ganymede ALI could handle most threats.

The sound of hurrying footsteps drew Bismark from his admiration of the machine. He turned his head, and saw two guards emerge from the shadows along the wall of the palace. Their torches were on, illuminating a small figure as it scampered with remarkable speed along the opposite wall and down a gap between two buildings. The guards hurried after it, coming to a halt at the opening, rifles aimed warily down the gap.

"Report!" Bismark barked, as he reached the pair. One of the guards turned, snapping his heels together.

"Street kid, Lord Waldstein," the guard replied in Farsi, his native tongue.

"He went down here?" Bismarck asked in the same language.

"Yes, Lord Waldstein."

Bismarck stepped past the two guards, ignoring their protests, and headed down the alley. He could hear the sounds of a scuffle up ahead. He halted as a blur flashed across the alley, stopping directly in front of him.

It was feral, vaguely human-shaped, about six years old if he was any judge. It was of a kind he had seen all too many times, on the streets of all too many cities and towns and villages; the detritus of civil war. Its matted hair was black, its clothes were torn and filthy. In its hands were clasped what looked like a length of narrow pipe, which it swung and thrusted like a quarterstaff.

And its eyes…

Bismarck watched in fascination. A half-dozen urchins, some of them noticeably larger, came at the boy from all sides. Again and again they struck at him, one with a switchblade, others with broken bottles or iron bars. He stabbed, swung, kicked at his tormentors, teeth gritted, eyes blazing.

He wasn't like the others; not like the dull-eyed, shrunken creatures he had seen so many times. His eyes were bright, his heart as strong as any grown warrior's.

Switchblade finally got lucky. The boy gave a half-hiss, half-wail and staggered backwards, the urchins cautiously gathering around, waiting for him to falter, waiting to make the kill. Switchblade grinned a toothless, feral grin. His hand darted forward to finish his quarry.

Bismark moved.

It was over.

Never in his life, not even on the night the orphanage burned down, or when the cops came after him, had Soran felt pain like this. He could feel the blood running down his side, soaking into his clothes. His legs were going numb, through he strained with all his might to keep the pipe up, to keep them at a distance.

Switchblade grinned, waving his precious knife in front of Soran, jabbing teasingly, drawing out the kill. Soran gritted his teeth, anger mingling with the pain. He didn't know Switchblade's real name, but he had always been like that.

He hated that he had to die in that place. He hated that he had to be another of Switchblade's kills.

He hated that he didn't even know who he was, or why he was there.

Then Switchblade yelled, as something flashed at his hand, catching the blade and sending it clattering away into the darkness. The gang turned, furious that someone would dare interfere in their sport.

Then they saw it, emerging from the darkness like a nightmare made real. It was tall, taller than any man Soran had ever seen. Greying hair cascaded down its back, framing a craggy, scarred face with one eye sewn shut. In its glowed hand was a long, narrow blade that made the air hiss.

The gang fled, leaving Soran to his fate. Soran stared up at the apparition, even as he felt his strength ebbing. He stood his ground, even as his legs went cold, aiming the pipe straight at the man with the sword.

He fell to his knees, the pipe dropping from his hands. Surprise filled his clouding mind as the man knelt down beside him and picked him up. He looked up, through misting eyes, at that face with the one good eye.

"Fear nothing, little one," he said. "You will not die tonight."

Soran lost consciousness, wondering as he did who this man was.

Finally got this done. I decided to stick with the same broad pattern as the original chapter, since the alternative version had hit a brick wall. Also, I though that Soran should at least have a somewhat important role in his first chapter, rather than being reduced to a brief footnote; as including the new material would have done.