Chapter Five
San Diego, California, Holy Empire of Britannia, January 2006 ATB
The jousting was over.
Down below, men and women in the uniforms and high-visibility jackets of stadium staff were swarming around the field, preparing it for the main event of the day. The screens above them played a series of interviews with various talking heads claiming to be knightmare experts; a distraction for the more technically-minded among the audience.
Bismark Waldstein took a moment to glance across the skybox. His son sat on the next sofa over, Princess Euphemia still clinging to his arm and talking excitedly about…something or other.
He reminded himself to compliment Alexander later. Having to deal with a six-year-old princess, even one as good-natured as Euphemia, was throwing him in at the deep end. But he was doing a good job of keeping the little princess entertained, and Euphemia seemed to have taken a shine to him in turn.
If Marianne had told him was true, some of Euphemia's contemporaries were not half so pleasant.
He turned away from the children, confident that they could not hear him, nor were likely to be listening. Even if they were, they were too young to understand what he and his guests were discussing.
Probably.
"You are certain, Lord Waldstein, that the Shah can be counted-upon?"
Cornelia lounged in her chair, her manner somehow managing to be elegant as well as casual. But her words, and the look in her purple eyes, were anything but.
"I am certain, your highness," he replied, primly. "He understands the situation he and his country are in. Their current prosperity and security are dependant on our good graces."
"Yet he is in the process of raising substantial forces. I have it on good authority that he has placed an order with Lockhart-Wright for three hundred of their new Hawk multirole fighter jets. Three hundred, when our own air force is still incorporating the first batches."
Cornelia cocked an eyebrow. Bismark kept his face aimed straight at hers, glancing only momentarily at his other two guests. Michele Manfredi wore his usual grin, while Gerard Bruckner was watching him very closely. They wanted answers just as much as she did.
"Yes, the Shah is purchasing Britannian fighters," he said mildly. "A force of three hunded Hawks will grant him an air force without peer in the Middle East. Even the Jordanians will not be able to withstand it."
"True," mused Manfredi. "But how long before they start buying European Typhoons? Or Chinese Jianlongs? Or maybe India could run them up something usable?"
"That is beyond our power to prevent," replied Bismark. "If I understand his Imperial Majesty's intentions correctly, then we must consider all states as potential targets for conquest. Inevitably, as we arm ourselves for this purpose, the nations of the world will arm themselves against us. It matters very little whether they arm themselves now, or later."
Silence descended, as they thought on his words.
"The final war," mused Cornelia. "Our destiny fulfilled. I don't know whether to welcome it, or to fear it."
"Surely your highness does not fear defeat?" declared Manfredi, still smiling. "Nay, Princess, we cannot lose."
"It's not defeat I fear, Lord Manfredi," Cornelia went on, her countenance darkening somewhat. "But rather the consequences of victory. Our culture, our people, our empire, they thrive on challenge, on war, on conquest. If the world is ours, if there is no one left to fight, what shall challenge us then?"
Another silence. It was something Bismark had never paid much thought to, for he had never really considered it possible. The world was too big, too complicated, for one man, one nation, to conquer it. But if Britannia was by some dark miracle to succeed, what would it do with itself? A nation born in war, that thrived on war and even yearned for war. A nation in which national prosperity and personal advancement depended on war.
He could not tell them what he knew, what he and the Emperor had planned. He could not tell them that, in time, all of it would cease to be relevant.
"And yet," Manfredi spoke up, "your highness will surely lead our troops into battle when the time comes. Surely you would not refuse?"
"I would not, Lord Manfredi. Though I dread it, I have a better reason than most for seeking a world united, and at peace."
Bismark knew where she was looking. He would not embarrass her by pointing it out.
"Even so, I cannot help but feel your lordship's plan for Area Seven is wrong-headed," Cornelia continued, returning to her previous subject. "If Krugis is Area Seven, then surely its denizens are Numbers, subjects of the Empire. Yet you allow them to behave as if they were still free citizens of their own country. Such a thing can only cause confusion among our people, and give the other Numbers ideas."
"Is that so terrible, your highness?" Bismark asked. "To question the way in which this empire is run?"
"Our empire has been run this way since the time of Theseus the Great," replied Cornelia, a dark edge to her tone. "Do you claim to understand these matters better than my grandfather?"
"I can never claim to be wiser than Emperor Theseus, of blessed memory." Bismark paused a moment. "But the system he created was in response to the difficulties of his time. He changed what went before, and so must we."
"Even so, such a policy blurs the line between rulers and ruled." Cornelia seemed to have conceded the point, but her tone betrayed her disquiet. "To allow the Krugisians to run themselves as a country, even to maintain their own armed forces, is taking a grave risk."
"It is a risk, your highness. But one your father the Emperor empowered me to make, and one for which I carry full responsibility; for better or for worse."
Bismark found himself glancing at Alexander again.
"In the meantime, if your highness and your lordships will forgive me," Bruckner spoke up, "we must consider the weapons of the future. The...entertainment today will have a significant affect on the final decision."
"I suppose it can't be helped," mused Cornelia, resting her chin on her hand as she gazed out over the field. "The public do tend to take these displays seriously; moreso than they should."
"People don't understand war," Manfredi cut in. "They focus on specs and features because numbers can be compared. The imponderables are forever a mystery, forever unpredictable."
"In other words, we'll end up with some impressive-looking toy because the public loves it," snorted Cornelia. "That could be unfortunate for your family, Commandant."
"Your highness must not underestimate my brother, or his subordinates," replied Bruckner, his face splitting into a confident smirk. "Britannic may not be as creative as the Ashfords, or the Steiners, but they have long since mastered the skill of turning a good idea into a useful product. Technik, the Germans call it."
"You say it with pride," commented Manfredi, grinning. "The pride of your German heritage?"
"As you say, Lord Manfredi."
"What the hell was that all about!?"
Gilbert Guilford pulled himself to his feet, forcing the frown of irritation from his face as Martin Bruckner, Duke of Rochester, CEO of Britannic Incorporated, came storming across the hangar floor. The balloon was well and truly up.
"Your grace." He inclined his head respectfully, then straightened up, carrying himself as a knight should. He could not give Bruckner an excuse for further fury, not in his current mood.
"I let you risk yourself in the lists because you asked it as a personal favour!" barked the Duke. "Then you go and fluff your last joust! Deliberately!"
Gilbert could see a group of technicians glancing up from their work. He thought of denying the accusation, but found that he couldn't see the point.
"It was...a matter of conscience, your grace."
"Conscience!?" The Duke looked ready to explode. "You think I employed you as my test-devicer for your conscience!?"
"I am sorry, your grace."
"You will be, if you fail because of it!"
The Duke paused, some of the angry red fading from his face as he mastered himself. He was not exactly old, but his hair was greying at the temples, and Gilbert could see the stress-lines around his eyes. He had poured his time and energy into the Humanoid Armoured Knight project, working desperately to produce a knightmare frame capable of outdoing the Ashford Foundation, and winning the contract for Britannic. So much so, that some within the company and even his family were worrying about his health.
Gilbert could hardly blame him for getting angry. After all the struggles and sacrifices he had made, all the time and resources he had poured into the project, to fail because his test pilot wasn't up to scratch would be heartbreaking.
And he had risked himself, allowing himself to be thrown from his horse, for a gesture.
"I will not fail you, your grace."
"You had better not," the Duke growled. "Not after we've come this far. Not when we're so close."
He looked past Gilbert. Gilbert turned, and saw Dr Willibald, Bruckner's personal physician, approaching with professional calm.
"Well?" demanded the Duke.
"The scans came up all clear, your grace," replied Willibald. "A bump on the head, but nothing a little fresh air won't cure. I'll happily clear him to compete."
"Good!" The Duke turned on his heel, and turned his head to glare at Gilbert.
"I won't hold it against you if you don't win the day," he said, his tone nevertheless harsh. "The competition here is as fierce as it gets. If you win two bouts I will be satisfied. Make the finals and I'll happily forgive your indiscretions, past and present. If you draw one of those foreign upstarts, I will not forgive failure."
"Be assured, your grace," replied Gilbert calmly, "that I will settle for nothing less than the victor's crown. For your glory, and for the glory of Britannia."
The Duke let out a humph that might have indicated understanding, and stalked off toward's the hangar's side door, where a group of flunkies had been watching nervously.
"You'll give him a hernia one of these days," muttered Willibald. The older man gave him a tired look. "Really, Mr Guilford. Letting yourself get unhorsed like that. You could've had a concussion, or broken your back."
"And yet I did not," retorted Gilbert.
"Why, lad?" Willibald looked hurt, and Gilbert felt a pang of conscience. "Why take such a risk?"
Gilbert allowed himself to sigh. He was quite fond of Willibald, and didn't want to cause him unnecessary trouble. He supposed he owed the old man an explanation.
"It was a matter of conscience," he said. "The custom of the crowning is sacred. If they will not respect it, I will have no part of it."
"The crown?" Willibald sighed. "All that, because you wanted to crown another girl?"
"It is the champion's free choice," replied Gilbert coldly. "It is sacred tradition."
"Ah, you youngsters and your passions," sighed Willibald. "You'll be the death of me too, lad."
"I'm sorry to have troubled you, Doctor."
"Think nothing of it. Just watch yourself out there." The shook hands, and Willibald patted his arm in a friendly way before striding off after his master.
Gilbert gazed up at the heavy double-doors, leading out into the main tunnel that led in turn to the field. In an hour or so they would open, and he would drive his master's prototype out onto the field, along with all the others.
In his mind's eye he could see through the metal doors, and the concrete of the stadium. He could see the upper gallery, and the skybox where it was whispered that Lord Bismark Waldstein himself was entertaining guests.
She was there, he knew for certain. He knew, because he had overheard General Gerard Bruckner, who was among those same guests, reveal that fact to his older brother the Duke a week earlier. She was there, to discuss some important business, and probably to get out of Saint Darwin Boulevard for a while.
He could not blame the Duke for being angry, or Willibald for thinking him a fool. Tradition had indeed been violated, but that was not the real reason why he had thrown his last joust. He had not lost that fight for mere principle.
"Would that it was you, seated on the dais," he thought, his heart fluttering. "Would that I could crown you and you alone, your highness."
He shook his head, and turned to the leviathan standing behind him. He knew it well, after countless hours of practice, but still the sight of it enthralled him. Like most knightmares it was human-shaped, but it lacked the sleek, over-engineered lines he had seen so many times before. It was blocky, curiously mishapen, with the distinctive cockpit that poked out of the front of the torso and bulged out of the back.
The new Slash Harken rocket anchors were there too, set into the shoulders between the squared-off pauldrons and the torso. Unfortunately, their use in the tournament was forbidden for safety reasons. Its head was elongated, alien, with four eyes arranged in a grid.
X-1 Glasgow.
It would not impress on looks, not even with the black cape hanging down its back. People liked their knightmares flashy and shiny, and the Glasgow was the exact opposite. But countless hours of practice and testing had shown Gilbert its true virtues. Glasgow was light, fast, agile, sturdy, and easy to maintain; everything the army surely wanted for its mass-production knightmare. The tall lance at its shoulder was a personal affectation, but one whose use he had long since mastered.
Yes, he could go far with this Glasgow. He would make the final, and he would win.
And she would see him.
A brassy fanfare of trumpets drew Alexander's attention back to the field. The crowd was roaring with excitement. An announcement was underway, but Alexander had tuned in too late to make it out.
"Heads up, you two," Cornelia called cheerfully. "They're bringing out the knightmares!"
Alexander glanced at Euphemia. She was watching the field intently, and seemed reasonably interested.
A good sign. It was his duty as a noble, and technically a host, to keep her entertained. He could not enjoy the duels if she was bored or dissatisfied.
Another fanfare; the opening bars of Rózsa's Parade of the Charioteers. The cheers grew louder, and Alexander craned his neck to see as the first knightmare emerged from the great, dark tunnel from which the knights had ridden earlier.
"Steiner Konzern's Wakefield, piloted by Sir Mallory Lenard!"
Alexander stared, taking in every detail as the red and orange Wakefield came swaggering into the daylight. It's armour was smooth and form-fitting, though its pauldrons were large and angular, and its head topped with a tall golden crest. In its hands were a pair of gold-hilted axes, the blades extravagantly curved.
"Ashford Foundation's Ganymede ALI, piloted by the Black Flash!"
The cheers grew louder as a Ganymede ALI strode onto the field; a golden fleur-de-lys gleaming on its white and blue plastron, its decorative cape fluttering in the breeze. Alexander knew it well, from the accounts of his father' campaigns in Krugis. But as he saw it more clearly, he realised that this must be a new model. It had the same squared-off shoulders and armoured plastron, but the arms and legs – partially hidden by oblong ablative plates, were much less spindly. The head had changed too; now sunk so far into the chest that it was barely visible, its mono-eye camera glaring through its dark visor. The whole effect was bullish and brutal, a knightmare made to crush and destroy.
"Renard Sodality's Aureus, piloted by Sir Kara Tyrell!"
The cheering became an ohhhh as a sleek golden quadruped loped out of the tunnel, falling in behind the Wakefield and Ganymede as they began a slow circuit of the field.
"It's a dog!" declared Euphemia, evidently fascinated. "I've never seen one like that."
Alexander hadn't either. Almost every knightmare he'd ever seen was broadly humanoid. But this machine trotted on four canine legs, its head narrow and tapeing like a bullet, but with a pair of pricked ears and a chevron visor. A tail even hung from its rear, though Alexander could not think why the designers had included it. He wondered if the pilot sat in the quadruped's chest, or lay flat.
"Colchester Academy's Tetrapod, piloted by Miss Madison Beck!"
Another ohhhh as an even more bizarre knightmare made its entrance. It had a humanoid torso, with blocky arms and a low, oblong head. But its lower torso split into four bent legs, on which it scuttled like a crab or spider.
"Britannic's Glasgow, piloted by Mr Gilbert Guilford!"
Cheers, but somewhat muted this time, as the fifth Britannian knightmare appeared. It was more conventional than the last two offerings, but for all it was hardly impressive. The billowing cape gave it a certain je ne sais quois, and the great cone-shaped lance was certainly impressive; but the armour was lumpy and blocky, making it look like something made out of a child's construction kit.
But...there was something about it, something in the way it moved, that caught Alexander's attention.
"From Japan, Fujino Zaibatsu's Gennai, piloted by Mr Akira Okuzaki!"
Alexander stared in disbelief as something came lumbering out of the tunnel. It was low-slung, hunched, propelled primarily by two enormous hind-legs, while two smaller legs with human-like hands steadied it in front. Two large oval eyes were set to either side of its head, while another, smaller pair of eyes faced forward.
"What a silly knightmare!" declared Euphemia. "It looks like a great big toad!"
It did indeed look like a toad. Alexander could not think what else to call it.
"From Australia, Australis-Armstrong's Bunyip, piloted by Mr John Hobart!"
Another humanoid knightmare, this one big and bulky like the Ganymede ALI, but its armour was rounded and form-fitted. Its head was cylindrical, like a knight's great helm of old. The armour gleamed like polished chrome, but upon its plastron was emblazoned the five stars of the Southern Cross on a shield of dark blue.
"Finally, from Drakenland, De Vries' Springbok, piloted by Mr Robert Kruger!"
The final entrant, another humanoid, this one slim and graceful. Its head was slightly elongated, putting Alexander in mind of the antelope for which it was named. Its armour was tan and black, and a pair of long, horn-like appendages reached out from its forehead and curled back over its head. He wondered what their purpose was.
"Quite a lineup!" declared Manfredi, as the knightmares completed their circuit and gathered in a line in the centre of the field. Then, as one, they strode towards the box and halted, as the march reached its climax. The crowds were roaring themselves hoarse.
"Indeed." Bruckner was smiling broadly as he gazed down at the knightmares. "Especially that Drakenlander machine. They'll make a fine addition to the empire when their time comes."
"Should you be saying such things out loud?" Cornelia asked mildly, cocking an eyebrow. "Where the children can hear?"
Alexander and Euphemia looked up as they realised they were being included.
"I'm sure the young lord understands the need for discretion," replied Bruckner, chortling. "And I doubt such matters would be of interest to her highness."
"For a father of two daughters, you know remarkably little of young girls," retorted Cornelia.
"I big to differ, your highness. My girls seem interested only in horses."
"I know Sophie Bruckner," Euphemia whispered, cupping her hands around Alexander's ear. "She's the world's biggest gossip."
"Euphie..." Cornelia turned to her sister. "I can trust you to keep a secret, can't I?"
"I won't tell anyone anything," replied Euphemia primly. "Not if it's important."
"There, you see?" Bruckner gestured from one to the other of the princesses. "Like her sister, a model of decorum."
"And good sense, hopefully," mused Cornelia. "But if you are done flattering me general, I think the first bout is about to start."
And it was. Alexander saw that all but two of the knightmares had withdrawn up the tunnel; leaving Wakefield and Bunyip on the field. The knightmares took up their positions at opposite ends of the field, flexing their arms and posing for the crowds. Alexander could detect no particular hostility, but it was clear whom the crowd favoured.
But...Bunyip? He had not known Australia to be a country that produced knights, but then, why a name like Bunyip? What could it mean?
The klaxon sounded, and the crowd roared as the two knightmares dashed towards eachother. Alexander was spellbound; he had never thought such machines could move so quickly.
Wakefield twirled its axes as it charged. Bunyip drew no weapon, but lashed out with its heavy fists as the two came close. Wakefield halted, dropping to one knee as a fist flashed past its head, then swung with one axe, then the other. Bunyip caught the first blow on its armoured forearm, then bent back to avoid the second. Wakefield swun again, and again, the axeblades singing as they the cut the air.
Alexander could not take his eyes of the struggle. Every detail, every movement, every sound imprinted itself upon his mind, his memory. To him, the knightmares were like living creatures, living men. Never had he seen anything quite so...alive.
"Wakefield seems to have the edge," said Bruckner. "The Steiners have done well with this one."
"It's fast, certainly," mused Cornelia. "And it handles well. Poor old Bunyip's fighting manfully, but he'll be worn down soon enough."
"The lighter and faster warrior will wear the slow and heavy one down," Manfredi replied mildly. "As in swordsmanship, so with knightmares."
Alexander fixed his attention back on the battle. Wakefield indeed seemed to have the upper hand, dancing around the Bunyip on light feet, swinging its axes in elegant, scything blows. Still Bunyip defended itself, catching the blades on its heavily-armoured forearms and fists, falling back before Wakefield's onslaught. The crowd was roaring, their cheers growing louder with every swing of the Wakefield's axes. It was obvious whom they preferred.
"But...it isn't..." Alexander whispered, his thoughts slipping out. There was something, something he knew instinctively, a memory from all that training with his father, and all the old battles he had learned about. Something he couldn't put into words.
Then he saw it. His heart froze as he saw Wakefield swing its axe, reaching just a little too far.
Bunyip moved, lashing out with its heavy right fist, catching a glancing blow on Wakefield's over-reaching arm, scoring away the armour in a shower of sparks. Wakefield fell back, but Bunyip came on, knocking the damaged arm aside with its left hand while lashing out with its right, the armoured fist driving into Wakefield's gleaming plastron. Wakefield staggered back, the crowd screaming as Bunyip punched again, and again, and again. Wakefield staggered, wavered, and then fell backward like a felled tree, hitting the ground with a crash.
There was only the roar; the announcer barely audible over it.
In the skybox, there was stunned silence.
"Well, that was unexpected," commented Manfredi. "That hulk from Australia, beating a Britannian knightmare."
"I have to admit, I didn't see that one coming," muttered Cornelia.
"Alexander did!" declared Euphemia.
"Uh...Euphie..." Alexander felt his cheeks redden as all eyes turned on him.
"You did!" insisted the princess. "I heard you whispering! You saw something!"
"Well...I...?" Alexander saw the expectant looks on the grownups faces, and realised there was no getting out of this.
"I...I knew what Bunyip was trying to do," he said, awkwardly. "He was...he was holding out and waiting for an opportunity to damage the Wakefield."
"Oh?" Manfredi smirked. "It would seem that good eye extends to knightmares as well."
It had happened. It had finally happened.
Gilbert Guilford drew a long, slow breath, trying to calm himself. He had defeated two enemies. He had made it to the final. Only one enemy stood between him and his destiny.
The Ganymede ALI stood opposite. Its armour, blue but for the white plastron, was pristine; the scored and bent plates replaced by its pit crew. It stood with swords drawn, twirling them lightly, with all the ease and arrogance of a young warrior facing his first battle.
Gilbert was not fooled. He had seen this machine fight, seen how this mysterious Black Flash handled it. That she was a woman did not unsettle him; not half as much as it might have done. She was his opponent, and his opponent existed to be defeated. That was the long and the short of it.
He took another breath, willing his heart to slow as the countdown chimes began. 3...2...1...
He lowered his lance and charged, landspinners screaming as he tore across the field. The Ganymede stood still, making no move but to cease twirling its swords. Gilbert's heart hammered as he saw the blocky machine draw closer and closer; so close he could he see the contours of its plastron; emblazoned with the Ashford family's fleur de lys crest. Closer, closer...
The Ganymede moved, jinking to the right almost as his lance-tip touched the plastron. But Gilbert had seen it coming, and jinked to his own right as the sword came flashing up, spearing for his plastron. He caught it with his lance, the blades shrieking and sparking as they clashed.
Gilbert withdrew, rolling back on his Landspinners. He knew better to continue that deadly pas de deux. The Ganymede paused, as if surprised by his move; giving him a moment to think. He thought of charging again, but dismissed the notion. This Black Flash was too agile, too aware, to be taken in a charge.
It wasn't his only trick. Unfortunately, she knew that. She must have seen him fight Gennai, and what that bizarre knightmare had forced him to do. She hadn't seen everything, but enough to make her cautious.
Gripping his lance in both hands, Gilbert advanced. He accelerated, lance levelled; and once again the Ganymede stood still, waiting for him to attack.
He slammed on the brakes, his Glasgow halting with a screech. Ignoring the gasp from the crowd, Gilbert swung the lance like a poleaxe. The Ganymede fell back, barely avoiding the lance as it flashed past. He swung again, building up force, then jabbed it forward, aiming for the bright plastron.
But Ganymede wasn't there. Gilbert stared, awestruck, as the Ganymede danced out of reach of his lance, its bulky form twirling around the point, swords outstretched to cut him down. He fell back, raising the lance to block, and then cried out in horrified disbelief as the blades cut into the lance-head, shearing it in half. The crowd roared their delight
Too rattled for finesse, he flung the useless handle at the Ganymede. It bounced off the plastron, making the bulky knightmare flinch. A yell arose from the crowd; of anger or approval, Gilbert neither knew nor cared. He twirled his joystick's rollerball with his thumb, bringing up the sword option on the screen, and then jabbed the rollerball down.
His Glasgow reacted, reaching over its back and drawing out its sword; eliciting a cheer from the audience. It was longer than the Ganymede's blades; a longsword, styled like a knightly sword of old, light enough to be wielded with one hand, yet with a grip long enough for two hands. Its blade was two metres of Tungsten Carbide, like his lance.
The lance her blades had cut.
He swung, a mighty two-handed blow aimed for the Ganymede's shoulder. Ganymede brought up its right-hand blade to catch it, the blades meeting with a clang that made his ears ache. He saw the left-hand blade, and dropped back as Ganymede thrusted, bringing his sword around overhead and down, knocking the blade aside.
Ignoring the cheering crowds, Gilbert fell back again, holding out his sword in front; the Posta Longa he had learnt as a child. Ganymede came on, swinging left, then right, the blades whistling as they cut the air. He caught each slash with a swift, light parry, falling back before the onslaught. Ganymede spun and slashed, playing to the crowd.
Gilbert waited, then matched with a spin of his own, twirling his Glasgow around and bringing his sword down. The blades met in mid-air with a clang, so hard that he could feel the vibrations even in the cockpit. He pulled back, the Ganymede doing likewise, then darted forward again, this time bringing his sword up from the right. But Ganymede caught the blow, deftly deflecting it and lunging with her free blade. Gilbert spun away, the blade sparking as it scored Glasgow's waist. The crowd roared.
He glanced down at his screens. No damage; or at least nothing the systems could detect. He had gotten lucky.
He looked again at the Ganymede, standing there in a ready position, both swords at the ready.
It wasn't working. He couldn't go on, not like this. Either she was holding back, or they were evenly matched. They would struggle on all day, until even this crowd grew weary, fighting and fighting until their Energy Fillers ran out.
Could it be true? Could it really be her? Back after all these years?
No. He wouldn't settle for it. He couldn't lose like that, and nor could he win like that. To have defeated the mighty Black Flash because her battery ran out would be a disgrace, not an honour. He would win with flair, or lose with flair.
If only he could use his Slash Harkens...
Alexander was transfixed.
He had never seen a battle like it. He had never imagined that knightmares could move with such speed, such power, such rage.
Ganymede
suddenly charged at Glasgow, blades twirling. Glasgow tried to dodge, but Ganymede was too fast, darting in and curving away at the last possible moment, leaving a sparking rent in the Glasgow's right arm. Glasgow turned to face its enemy as Ganymede came around in a tight figure-of-eight, charging in again. Glasgow swung, and Alexander was certain Ganymede would be cut in half. But Ganymede swayed, barely avoiding the blade, and rammed one sword down on Glasgow's outstretched Landspinner, slicing the trailing wheel free and sending it spinning across the field.
"The Flash..."
Alexander could not see who had whispered the name; though he was sure it was Cornelia. His eyes were fixed on the duel, on the two knightmares at the centre of their own world. Glasgow was at bay, one Landspinner gone, forced to pivot on the spot as the Ganymede screeched around it. Again and again Ganymede charged and struck, each blow leaving Glasgow more ravaged.
He could not deny that he was impressed, both with the Ganymede ALI and with its mysterious pilot. But he could not help but feel for the Glasgow, and the young man in its cockpit. He had fought so hard, and so well; only to be defeated at the last by one who outclassed him; even if only a little.
A gasp went up from the crowd, as the Glasgow finally slumped to one knee. Alexander felt Euphemia's grip on his arm tighten, and his breath catch in his throat. This was it, for sure, yet still the Glasgow kept its head up, its sword raised. It made his heart pound to see it.
Ganymede charged one last time. The entire stadium held its breath. Alexander's heart stopped as Ganymede leapt, spinning in mid air to slice Glasgow's head from its shoulders.
Then Glasgow thrusted, driving its blade up and into Ganymede's left shoulder. The crowd's cheer became a collective shriek as the point tore into Ganymede's shoulder joint, ripping away the entire left arm in a shower of sparks. Alexander heard himself cry out along with them as the arm fell to the ground, the gleaming sword still clenched in its hand.
Ganymede lashed out, its remaining blade slamming into the knightmare's collar behind the head. The blade stuck, and the Ganymede's momentum flung the Glasgow backwards, smashing it to the ground. Ganymede fell alongside it, hitting the ground hard, rolling over, and leaping to its feet with a flourish.
The Glasgow lay still. For a few moments all was still, silence hanging in the air like a storm cloud.
Then the klaxon. And the cheers.
Pain.
Gilbert Guilford had known pain, too many times and too deeply to be particularly unsettled by it. His body felt numb, his head aching as if someone had struck it with a hammer. Lying on a stretcher, staring up at the hangar ceiling, he could only listen to the Duke's medical team as they examined his injuries.
And contemplate his failure.
He blinked, trying to clear his blurred vision. The faces looking down at him were familiar.
"How bad is it, Doctor?"
"A bad bump, your grace, but he'll live. I recommend a few days under observation just in case."
Gilbert opened his mouth, but only a dull croaking came out. Tears of shame pricked at his eyes.
"Just stay down, Gilbert." The Duke patted his shoulder, looking down at him with almost fatherly eyes. "No shame Gilbert. No shame."
"I do hope I didn't hurt him too badly," proclaimed a loud, confident voice from nearby. "But I'm afraid that's what he gets for maiming my poor Ganymede."
Gilbert managed to turn his head towards the sound. He recognized the blue g-force suit, the black-vizored helmet, and the shapely figure they concealed. The Black Flash sashayed towards him, with all the arrogant swagger of one who was master of her own destiny.
"Have you come to gloat, Black Flash?" growled the Duke, straightening up to face her. His face was grim.
"Gloat?" The woman sounded amused. "Is that what you think, Martin?"
"I think..." the Duke almost spat the word, "that your Majesty should look to her children, and leave the field to the new generation."
"Such concern for eager young knights." The woman took off her helmet, and black hair tumbled down her back. "How nobly disinterested you are, Martin Bruckner."
Gilbert's blood ran cold as he saw her. Those purple eyes, that small nose, that porcelain complexion, that mane of gleaming black hair. It was a face that could stun any man into silence, even if it were not known to every man, woman, and child in the empire.
"Oh get off your knees and do your jobs!" snapped Marianne vi Britannia, Queen-Consort and Empress to his Imperial Majesty Charles zi Britannia, 98th Emperor of the Holy Empire of Britannia. She dropped to one knee beside his stretcher, and looked down at him. Her face, that had briefly flashed with anger, was now much gentler, almost motherly.
"I didn't meant to hurt you," she said. "Not after you fought so well. See to it that he doesn't die, Doctor Willibald. It would be a shame not to see him at the academy."
"I shall do my utmost, your majesty."
"I certainly hope so." She stood up, and turned away.
"Your Ashford friends won't last forever!" barked the Duke. "Don't think this is over!"
Marianne paused, and Gilbert felt a pang of fear.
"Oh, it's never over, Martin. But fear not. The tournament circuit will have to do without me for a while."
She half-turned to face him, smiling mischievously.
"I've got someone special coming to stay." Her eyes sparkled. "And things are going to get interesting."
Chapter done at last. I decided to go with the consensus and get this one over with. I hope the fight scenes are to your liking.
In case anyone was wondering, the Ganymede ALI wasn't carrying Maser Vibration Swords; it's a bit soon for those.