Chapter Eleven
Imperial Military Academy, Caerleon, Holy Empire of Britannia, March 2009 ATB
It was ready.
Alexander sat back, allowing himself a moment of satisfaction as he admired his handiwork. All was in ready, everything set to his Princess's precise specifications; specifications he knew better than anyone.
Ready for this day of days.
He looked around, taking in the cockpit. The viewscreens in front of him, the dashboard below, the twin joysticks with their red rollerballs. Even after two years, the Glasgow Trainer was a wonder to him. To pilot one, to drive its movements with his very thoughts, was like nothing he had ever experienced. He understood, only too well, the almost mystical tones with which the cadets spoke of their machines, their knightmare frames.
But this was not his machine, however much he might wish it so. This was Princess Cornelia's knightmare, and today was the day of the grand tournament, arranged by the commandant as a treat for the cadets.
And today he was her squire, and this was his responsibility.
He ran his eyes over the settings one last time. All was perfect. All was ready.
And not before time. As he touched the hatch release, and the seat slid back into the open air, he could see Cornelia approaching. With her were five other cadets, dressed like her in the g-force suits of knightmare devicers.
He stepped out of the cockpit, and onto the maintenance gantry that surrounded the Glasgow. From his vantage point, he could see the other five Glasgows standing at their own gantries. Surrounding them all was a great marquee of crimson cloth, hiding the knightmares and their devicers from prying eyes and potential troublemakers.
Seeing his princess approaching, Alexander hurried down the gantry and snapped to attention at the bottom, just in time for Cornelia to arrive.
"Ah, Alexander!" Cornelia greeted him with an indulgent smile. "I trust all is ready?"
"Checked, set, and done, your highness!" replied Alexander confidently, forcing himself not to smile too broadly.
"Excellent!" Cornelia turned to her teammates. "Devicers, this day we will represent our division in glorious and chivalrous battle."
She looked from one to the other, Alexander following her gaze. Graham Aker was there, of course, along with his two friends Howard Mason and Daryl Dodge. Villetta Nu was only a slight surprise, for although a latecomer to the knightmare program she had shown up well.
Only the fifth member of the team had particularly surprised him. Gilbert G.P. Guilford stood at the end of the line, straight black hair hanging down his back, brooding eyes staring straight ahead from behind horn-rimmed spectacles.
Alexander had yet to find an opportunity to speak to him, to ask him about the grand tournament, where Alexander had seen him come within an ace of winning. But after three years at the academy, he had learned when was and was not a good time to bother someone with inane conversation.
To one of the finest devicers in the academy, some said in the entire empire, almost anything a twelve-year-old boy had to say was by definition inane.
"I have seen you handle knightmares, on and off the field," Cornelia went on. "Even the neural synchronizer holds no horrors for you now. I have seen you, and I know, that you are the equal of any devicers in this academy, or the other academies, and yes, the knight schools too. We will go out there, and we'll wipe the floor with the lot of them, especially those Eastern perverts!"
All but Guilford grinned at the reminder. Cornelia gritted her teeth into a snarl of triumph, and thrusted her clenched right fist into the air.
"Glory to the brave!" she roared.
"Glory to the brave!" they all roared back. Alexander's heart leapt. It was all he could do not to join in, even though it was not his place.
"Yes glory! Glory to the brave! The bravest of all!"
The voice was a sudden and rather high-pitched intrusion. Alexander looked up, and saw a richly-dressed young man strolling towards them, beaming like the morning sun, a clutch of well-dressed flunkies scurrying along behind him.
"Clovis?" Cornelia was incredulous.
Alexander forced himself to attention, his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. For it was indeed Clovis la Britannia, Fifth Prince of the Empire. He had elegantly-curled golden hair hanging to his shoulders, pale blue eyes, and the face of an angel. It was a combination that could reduce women of all ages and classes to warm puddles on the floor.
"Sister! It's been so long!" Clovis clasped her unresisting hand as he reached her.
"Clovis...what are you doing here?" Cornelia managed to reply. Graham and his friends grinned at the sight. To see Princess Cornelia caught off-guard was a rare treat.
"I just got back from Drakenland, and father said I should stop by and pay you a visit!" declared Clovis, still beaming. "And when I heard about this tournament, I just couldn't stay away!"
He then made a great show of noticing the devicers.
"Oh, but forgive me gentlemen, and mademoiselle..." there was a twinkle in his eyes as he noted Villetta. "It was not my intent to interrupt. Only to wish my dear sister the very best of luck."
"To your knightmares, devicers," Cornelia said, somewhat testily. The devicers saluted, and headed for their machines.
"And as for you, Clovis," she turned on her half-brother, a cold mask descending. "Did you really come all this way just to see me?"
"How cold, sister!" complained Clovis, apparently hurt. "May I not pay you a visit? You've been gone so long."
"What is it this time, Clovis?" Cornelia's tone had a hard edge. After a brief pause, Clovis sighed.
"It's mother again," he complained. "She's been stirring up trouble, and picking on poor little Lelouch and Nunnally. It's so embarrassing. The last time I had to go and apologize to Empress Marianne in person."
Alexander's heart sank. He would probably never forget that terrible day when Queen-Consort Gabriella had menaced Marianne's children, and he had been forced to fight her pages for their sake. It was because of that day, at least in part, that he had gone with Cornelia to the academy, instead of remaining in Aries Villa. Evidently Gabriella had not changed her ways, though Clovis's embarrassment seemed genuine.
"Don't blame yourself Clovis," replied Cornelia with a sigh. "She'll never change, and Lady Marianne would never hold it against you."
"I know, I know."
"In any case, how are things in Africa?"
Clovis opened his mouth to speak, then caught himself, glancing meaningfully at Alexander. Alexander's attention perked up at that. Something important was about to be discussed, and he would doubtless be sent away.
"Alexander has my complete confidence," said Cornelia firmly. "You may speak freely."
"Oh, very well." Clovis mastered himself. "Well...it all seemed to be going well. Lord Bismarck's troops had the settlements secured, and Schneizel was working on the various factions. It seemed like everything was going to work. I really thought the Senate would agree to Schneizel's proposal."
He trailed off, and looked very unhappy.
"And?" asked Cornelia, pointedly.
"They...reacted rather badly," Clovis went on. He seemed unsettled, and Alexander wondered just how frightened he had been. "The language they used…"
He trailed off again.
"So how bad?" Cornelia prodded him again.
"The hardliners are holed up in Pretoria with about fifty thousand troops, and the Transvaal and the northern frontier are in full-scale revolt. We're secure in Natal though, and we've got the Britannian settlements secured right up to Bechuanaland. Lord Bismark is confident he can handle it, but father has ordered more troops to be sent."
There was a long pause. Clovis' optimistic smile looked more and more forced as the seconds ticked away.
"This was a bad idea," Cornelia said grimly. "With all due respect to Lord Bismark, the Krugis plan was never going to work twice, especially not in a powder keg like Drakenland. An honest battle would have been better."
"You might be right, sister," agreed Clovis diffidently. "But Schneizel keeps saying we're not ready. He's worried that if we push things too far, the EU will get involved, and we don't have enough of the new weapons yet."
"The EU?" Cornelia let out a derisive snort. "They've been arguing among themselves about the SAA for decades. If they were remotely willing to shove their hands in that particular hornet's nest, they would have done so by now."
"I suppose you're right, Cornelia." Clovis seemed to want to end that particular line of conversation.
"In the meantime, everyone's so excited about your graduation!" He brightened as he changed the subject.
"Clovis, I haven't graduated yet." Cornelia suddenly looked nervous. "My grades haven't been posted."
"A formality surely!" insisted Clovis, his bonhomie returning. "Queen Victoria is arranging a grand gala celebration to welcome you home!" He nodded genially at Alexander as he warmed to his tale. "The court is all a-twitter! The Imperial dressmakers, bless their magic fingers, are positively run ragged!"
He grinned as he looked down at Alexander, a twinkle in his eye.
"You'll have to dance, my Lord San Clemente!" he teased. "There'll be riots if you don't!"
Alexander felt his cheeks heat up. Technically he could dance - both Marianne and Victoria had insisted that he learn - but in front of people?
That said, the idea didn't unsettle him as much as it might once have done.
"That woman..."
The muttered words drew his attention back to Cornelia. He had never seen her look so unsettled.
"That woman..."
"Oh, but I've kept you too long," Clovis spoke up. He seemed to have noticed Cornelia's mood. "They'll be starting soon. Bonne chance, sister, my lord."
He gave Cornelia a quick bow and Alexander a slight nod, before hurrying off towards his entourage.
"That woman..." Cornelia covered her eyes. "The shame..."
"But your highness..." Alexander cut in. "You couldn't possibly have failed!"
That he knew for certain. He had seen how hard she had trained, how diligently she had studied. There was no way she could have failed, no way!
"I haven't failed, Alexander," Cornelia growled, raising her head. "But that doesn't mean I've graduated. If I don't make the top percentile, I'll have to show up at my grand gala humiliation as a third year cadet. Trust mother to jump the gun!"
She sighed, a very world-weary sigh Alexander had not heard from her in some time.
"Well, there's nothing to be done. Go and tell Amara that we're ready."
"Yes, your highness."
Alexander snapped his heels together, then grabbed his duffel bag and strode out of the tent.
Once outside the tent, it did not take Alexander long to find Amara Sandoval. She was standing with a gaggle of other eastern division cadets, and seemed to be in the middle of an argument.
"Whose crazy idea was this?" demanded Amara.
"It's okay!" replied Stephanie Franklin cheerfully. "I was a cheerleader in high school! I know what I'm doing!"
Alexander paused when he saw what she was wearing. It was a short sleeveless dress, with a pleated skirt and a silver chevron on the chest dividing the red bottom from the white top. His mind boggled as he saw that several more of the younger female cadets were similarly attired.
"Besides!" she added. "Everyone else is doing it!"
She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. Alexander followed her gesture, out across the main parade ground where the tournament was to take place, to the tents of the other three divisions. They also had cadets hanging around outside, along with cheerleader squads in their divisional colors; blue for the north, white for the south, and gold for the east.
"Hey, it's Alexander!" Seeing him, Stephanie turned to face him and held out a smaller version of her dress. "We got this one free with the shipment! Wanna be a cheerleader?"
"Franklin!" Amara growled. "Leave him outta this!"
"Oh but it'll be so cute!" pleaded Stephanie. "And the princess will love it!"
"No she won't!" barked Amara. She sighed, and looked at Alexander.
"Are they ready yet, young lord?"
"Yes," replied Alexander, remembering himself. "Her highness said to tell you they're ready."
"Great! Now we can get this show on the road." Amara muttered something into her comm earpiece. Stephanie yipped with excitement, and hurried to join her fellows.
All at once the band struck up a long and bellowing fanfare. The tent flaps were pulled aside, and the knightmares emerged, racing onto the parade group in single file. The cadets around Alexander whooped and hollered, while Stephanie and her cheerleaders leapt and chanted, waving enormous pom-poms. He felt this face heat up as he saw their pleats bounce and fly up, their underwear fortunately concealed by tight-fitting shorts.
Alexander was glad he had not agreed to join them. The idea of jumping around in an outfit like that did not much appeal.
"What is happening to our culture?"
Alexander glanced up, and saw that it was Amara Sandoval, her forefinger pressed to the centre of her forehead.
"I take it you do not approve, senior cadet?" he asked cautiously.
"Young lord, my great-grandfather rode with Lothar at Albany," replied Amara, with a strange mix of pride and sourness. "If he saw this, I don't know if he die of shame or laughing."
Alexander was impressed. He was about to ask her more, when he heard the fanfare change. The knightmares had pulled up in front of the rostrum in four single files, standing to attention like enormous iron soldiers. Someone seated on the rostrum stood up and stepped forward to the speaker's podium, and Alexander saw that it was Clovis.
"Officers, cadets, honoured guests!" he declared flamboyantly. "It is with pride, and great pleasure, that I welcome you all to this, the first annual knightmare tournament of the Imperial Military Academy!"
The crowds cheered, and the guests and officers around him smiled clapped politely.
"In the year 1889 my noble ancestor, Lothar the Iron-Handed, established this academy to train the very finest military officers in all the world!" Clovis went on. "The first of these assisted him in reuniting our great empire, in driving foreign foes from our soil, and in crushing our enemies near and far!"
More cheers and hoots. Alexander knew about the Knightslayer Wars of course, and the war with Spain, and of course, the conquest of Colombia. Lothar's reign had dragged Britannia kicking and screaming into the modern era, and had been probably been the most violent in all of Britannia's history.
"To stand here before you, even if only as a descendant of the great Lothar, is to stand humbled and proud!" Clovis continued, his tone softening slightly. "And prouder still, of my dear sister Cornelia, who in the finest traditions of our family stands among you!"
The Western Division cadets erupted in cheers and hooting. Alexander imagined Cornelia blushing and glowering inside her cockpit. She hated such flattery.
"Devicers, you have surpassed your peers, and proven yourselves worthy to man these mighty machines!" Clovis swept his arm across the rows of knightmares, as if there could be any doubt to whom he was referring. "Today is your chance to show us your bravery and skill, and to show yourselves worthy of the traditions of knighthood!"
"Now to the battle, to the pell-mell, and the victory!" Clovis thrust his gloved hand into the air. "Glory to the brave!"
All present responded in kind, a roar like thunder that washed over the parade ground. Alexander felt a little bad about it, but could not help but think that Cornelia would have done much better in Clovis' place. The words and gestures which from her were inspiring, from him just seemed a tad…gauche.
The knightmares split apart and returned to their marshalling areas, the crowds cheering and clapping. Clovis waited a while, until the cheering began to subside.
"Let the first challenger come forward!"
Alexander's heart leapt as Cornelia's knightmare rolled forward, not stopping until it reached the centre of the parade ground. The crowd cheered, but not half so loudly as the Western Division cadets and servants. He could have sworn he heard a rebel yell.
"Cadet li Britannia has entered the list!" proclaimed a delighted Clovis. "Who dares pick up the gauntlet?"
Cornelia slammed down her lance butt, and stood proudly where she was, daring anyone to challenge her.
There was a pause, an increasingly long and awkward pause. Alexander began to wonder if anyone would dare.
And then, finally, a knightmare rolled forward from the Southern Division's lineup.
"Cadet Peron has entered the list!"
Alexander racked his brain as the knightmares squared off. He vaguely remembered the name of an Adan Peron, but it didn't stand out.
He watched as Peron's Glasgow rolled closer to Cornelia's own. The two were identical, but that Cornelia's was marked in red and his in white. The crowds fell silent, waiting for the challenger to call the terms of the fight.
Peron raised his lance high, and tapped the blunt butt against Cornelia's shield.
"Cadet Peron challenges a plaisance!" called out Clovis, the crowd cheering appreciatively.
Alexander felt himself relax a little. This would be a disciplined show battle, following strict ritual. Best of three with lances, then k-mauls if both sides agreed. The chances of injury, or of serious damage to the knightmares, was slim. Peron was evidently playing it safe, either for fear of harming Cornelia or to ensure that his knightmare was not wrecked too early in the tournament.
Alexander watched with bated breath as the knightmares split apart, curling away from one-another like water swirling down a hole and heading for their starting positions. The crowd cheered and clapped, enjoying the showboating.
All at once they reached their positions, and faced off. Alexander's heart hammered in his chest as Clovis was handed a small flag, which he proceeded to raise. The entire academy held its breath.
The flag came down. Klaxons sounded. Cornelia dropped her lance and charged, landspinners screeching as they forced her across the parade ground. Peron did likewise, and the knightmares raced towards each other, lances aimed for each-other's shields. Alexander's breath caught in his throat. Closer they came, and closer…
They clashed, the impact ringing across the parade ground, so sharp it made his ears hurt. The knightmares passed, and on Cornelia's side of the rostrum, a light came on.
"To Cadet li Britannia, one point!"
Stephanie and her cheerleaders were screeching at the tops of their lungs. It was all Alexander could do no to join in. His princess had scored a point! She was winning!
The combatants came around, returning to their start positions. Alexander felt the tension rising again as the rituals were observed.
And then the flag fell, and the knightmares charged. Alexander stared, entranced, as the knightmares drew closer and closer. He could almost see…
The clash, and it was over, the two of them speeding away. The chime sounded…
But the light was on the other side!
"Cadet Peron! One Point!"
"No way!" roared Amara. "That was a hit!"
"That's so unfair!" wailed Stephanie. The rest of the Western division cadets were equally unhappy, shouting curses at the rostrum or at the cheering Eastern division cadets. Alexander was starting to feel uncomfortable. He understood their frustration, but this was supposed to be a tournament, not a soccer game.
The pair lined up once again, and Alexander waited for them to ready lances.
But Peron did not ready his lance. Instead, a gasp went up from the crowd as he dropped his lance and reached behind his back, drawing his K-maul. Alexander blinked in surprise. This wasn't supposed to happen, not yet anyway.
Up on the rostrum, Clovis was looking a little nervous, and the guests and officers were having what looked like an argument. Alexander turned to stare at Cornelia, wondering what she would do.
Then the muttering turned to cheers as Cornelia dropped her own lance and drew her own K-maul. Challenge given, challenge accepted; no foul.
The pair squared off, drawing slowly closer. As they moved, a pair of heavily-armoured worker frames hurried out to carry away the dropped lances. All eyes were on the combatants, watching and waiting, wondering who would strike first.
Cornelia swung her maul. Peron caught the blow on his shield, and swung with his own maul. Cornelia darted back, the heavy flanged head swinging through empty air. She struck again, and again, Peron falling back before the onslaught. The crowds cheered with every blow.
Then Peron threw himself forward, knocking Cornelia back, the crowd gasping. Alexander felt his heart leap into his mouth, as the cadets booed and cursed around him. It wasn't an illegal move, but it wasn't entirely appropriate either.
Cornelia was on the back foot, and she fell back, Peron hammering at her shield. Alexander clenched his teeth, forcing himself not to call out. She had been winning just moments ago, but now she was losing!
Then she moved.
Alexander stared, hardly believing what he was seeing. Cornelia's Glasgow dipped lightly, more like a ballerina than a machine of war, and slid to her right. Peron swung, the blow passing through empty air, the momentum dragging him forward. Cornelia drover her shield-arm against his k-maul-arm and swung hard, catching Peron on the shoulder. Peron staggered away, and Cornelia was upon him, slamming him with her k-maul and knocking him down. As Peron's Glasgow fell, she stepped forward and thrust her k-maul at his plastron; the unspoken command to surrender.
For a few moments, all was silent. Then Peron's hand opened, and the k-maul fell clattering to the ground.
"The victor! Cadet li Britannia!"
The crowds bellowed. Alexander found himself cheering too, all reserve forgotten.
And then Stephanie and the cheerleaders started glomping him, squealing all the while, leaving him mildly stunned. It had been a while since he had been hugged that much.
Out on the parade ground, Cornelia stowed her k-maul and, to the delight of the crowd, held out a hand to Peron, pulling his knightmare to its feet. This done, they headed back to their respective areas.
The cadets clustered around as Cornelia descended from the cockpit. Alexander, free of the group-glomp, remembered himself and reached into his duffel bag, pulling out first a towel, then a bottle of water from the cooler-bag inside. He had to wait a few moments before the crowd dispersed sufficiently to let him reach his princess.
"That was magnificent, your highness!" he proclaimed, holding out the towel and bottle. Cornelia took the bottle, and downed it in one gulp.
"Damn those heat-sinks!" she griped, ruffling his hair in thanks. "It's like an oven in there!"
"Princess, why did you help that jerk up?" complained Stephanie, fists clenched under her chin. "He broke the rules!" Several others shouted their agreement.
"He was only being chivalrous, in his way," replied Cornelia. "It was the least I could do."
Most of them looked bewildered. It took Alexander a moment to understand what she meant.
"He was just showing off," he said, thinking aloud. "He just wanted to prove he could strike your shield. His motive was pride."
Cornelia nodded approvingly, and the other cadets glanced at one-another in mild confusion.
"The young lord's right," Amara spoke up. "He knew he couldn't beat our princess."
"Yes! That's it!" Stephanie was bouncing again. "Our goddess of victory!"
The other cadets all agreed, and Cornelia endured their approbation.
"Cadet Jeremiah Gottwald has entered the list!"
Alexander pricked up his ears as a new knightmare rolled to the centre of the parade ground. There it stopped, slamming the butt of its lance down.
And waited.
Alexander looked from one to the other of the knightmares, his heart pounding with excitement. Who would answer the challenge? Who would take him on?
He heard the sound of landspinners. His head snapped round, and saw Guilford's Glasgow rolling out onto the parade ground. The cadets were cheering again, their confusion forgotten.
Guilford rolled closer, Gottwald turning to face him. Guilford stopped in front of him, and paused a moment. Alexander felt the tension rising. Which would he choose?
Guilford lowered his lance, and touched the tip to Gottwald's shield.
"Cadet Guilford challenges a l'outrance!"
The crowds roared their approval.
"They'll fight all-out," breathed Cornelia, her eyes fixed on the pair. "This will be one to remember."
Alexander shared her awe. Such battles were no longer to the death - duels unto death were strictly forbidden on the tourney field - but it would not end until one knightmare or the other was disabled; most likely battered to scrap.
The pair crossed lances, then split apart and raced to their starting positions. The crowds hushed as they settled into place, lances raised, shields held forward. Alexander could hear his pulse in his ears.
Clovis dropped his flag. The klaxons sounded. The lances came down. The landspinners screamed.
To Alexander, time seemed to slow down. Closer and closer they came, lances levelled, the tips hissing as they cut through the air, each aimed for the other's head. His heart thundered as the metres counted down, the challengers drawing closer and closer. One little mistake, a moment's hesitation, and this duel would end before it began.
Closer...closer...
He saw. He saw Gottwald jink right ever so slightly, and Guilford do likewise a fraction of an instant later. The knightmares closed, their lance-tips flashing through empty air. Gottwald thrust his shield forward as they closed, trying to bash Guilford with it. But Guilford was just a little too fast, raising his own shield to block. The shields clashed with a metallic clang, and the knightmares spun around and broke apart.
The crowds cheered as the knightmares circled each-other, looking for an opening, a sign of weakness. All at once, Gottwald turned hard, levelling his lance and accelerating. Guilford did likewise, and the pair jousted again, smoke and dust billowing from their landspinners. Alexander watched their lances, and saw them dip lower, this time aimed for the plastron. The lances struck...
Gottwald swung his shield, knocking Guilford's lance aside and spinning away, his plastron smoking where the point had struck. Guilford turned in after him, but Gottwald did not break away.
Alexander's heart clenched. He knew what Gottwald would do. He opened his mouth to shout, to scream a warning...
Gottwald dropped his lance, spinning to face Guilford as he drew his K-maul. He swung, and Guilford only just raised his shield in time. The maul struck, the head clanging like a bell on the shield, denting it. Guilford tried to back away but Gottwald would give him no respite, chasing after him and swinging his K-maul in a figure of eight. Guilford fell back, barely blocking his blows.
"He's on the ropes!" wailed Stephanie.
"Come on!" growled Amara. "You can do it!"
Alexander stared at the battle, his heart sinking. Why didn't Guilford just drop his lance? Why did he let himself be battered like that? Had he lost his grip?
Or had he...
"He's toast!" growled Graham, his voice bitter with disappointment.
"No!" Alexander called out, clinging to the possibility. "It's a trick!"
"It's a what-now?" Graham looked at him as if he were wearing his underwear on his head.
All the while, Guilford fell back, until he was only metres from the nearest wall. Back, back, still he fell back. The Eastern Division cadets were screaming their approbation. The crowd was going wild.
Then he moved. Alexander saw him move, so slowly, as if the world was stuck in treacle.
Guilford's Glasgow dropped, its legs splitting apart, so quickly that Gottwald's K-maul swung through empty air. He slid around in a circle, crab-like, thrusting his lance between Gottwald's legs. He let go and broke away, just as Gottwald's knightmare was toppled to the ground.
The crowds roared. All around Alexander, the cadets were cheering and clapping and stamping. But he barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the combatants, his mind racing as he tried to work out what would happen next.
Guilford drew his K-maul, holding it at the ready. But instead of attacking he waited, watching as Gottwald's knightmare struggled to its feet. It turned to face Guilford, then brought its maul across its plastron, head up.
En garde. A salute of honour, to one who might have finished him, but was not done fighting.
Gottwald charged. Guilford charged. Gottwald swung, his maul coming down on Guilford's raised shield. Guilford swung, this time from the side, but Gottwald caught the blow.
So they fought, maul-to-maul, shield-to-shield. The crowds cheered at every blow, gasped at every parry. Alexander stared, taking in every blow, every movement. He could see it somehow. It all came together, a logic he could not explain.
All at once, Gottwald pushed. He thrust his shield foward, throwing his knightmare's whole bulk behind it, risking all on the shock of the impact. Alexander saw them clash, heard the clang, saw it work.
But Guilford moved, spinning around, breaking past Gottwald like water splashing over stone. As Gottwald passed, Guilford swung his maul, bringing it aroud with the momentum of his swing. The head caught Gottwald's knightmare in the waist, crunching through the armour and throwing it forward. Gottwald staggered, and crashed to the ground.
There he lay. The crowd had fallen silent, watching and waiting. Alexander's heart stood still.
"The victor, Cadet Guilford!"
The roar filled the air, hammering at Alexander's ears. He heard himself cheering, screaming at the top of his lungs, bouncing on his heels. All around him, the cadets were doing likewise, some clasping hands, others wrapping eachother in bear-hugs. Stephanie and her friends squealed as they danced in a circle, hand in hand.
The crowd was still cheering as Guilford parked his knightmare, and descended from the cockpit. Alexander watched as he was mobbed by his fellows, and marvelled at how awkward he seemed. He seemed embarrassed at the attention, at the hand-pumping, the back-slapping, the stolen kisses.
"You've done us all proud, Cadet Guilford," declared Cornelia. She alone had stayed aloof from the celebration, awaiting her moment. "You are truly the best of us."
"Such words are more than I deserve, your highness." Guilford bowed low, his cheeks red.
"In the meantime, you can have some more from Alexander."
Alexander blinked, taken aback. Cornelia turned, and with a smile on her face bade him approach. He did so, Guilford looking at him as if he had never seen him before.
"Alexander here saw what none of us could," Cornelia went on proudly. "Is that no so, Alexander?"
"I..." Alexander paused, feeling their eyes upon him. The normally unflappable Guilford actually looked surprised.
"I...I didn't see it, your highness," he admitted, awkwardly. "It just didn't seem right. A devicer like Cadet Guilford would not lose control like that. It made more sense that it was a trap."
There was a pause.
"Yet I must confess, my lord, I very nearly lost myself," admitted Guilford, his dignity returning. "How can you be sure that I did not?"
"Because...I saw you fight once before," said Alexander, smiling. "I saw you at the Grand Tournament in San Diego, three years ago. You swept all before you, all but the Black Flash. All those styles, all those different strengths, yet you defeated all but her. Someone like that would not fail so easily as that."
There was a much longer pause. And then Guilford snapped his heels together, and bowed low.
"Your praise is an honour, my lord San Clemente."
Alexander felt his cheeks heat up.
It was past midnight, and the festivities were just beginning to wind down.
Inside the academy's great hall, the revelry had passed its peak. Most of the champagne and cocktails had been drunk, and the guests were either settling into drunken lethargy or preparing to move on to the Caerleon nightclubs. The neatly-uniformed servers forced themselves not to glance at their watches or the clocks, as they laid out the last of the refreshments and conferred quietly over how much more was likely to be needed. If all went well, and they managed a quick cleanup, there would be time for a quiet nightcap in the back rooms.
Outside, the academy janitors were hard at work, cleaning up the debris of the day. Kiosks, chairs, balloons, trashbags, the occasional puddle of vomit. Every so often a cadet staggered past, sometimes helped by fellows, heading for the dorms after over-indulging earlier. The janitors barely looked up from their work. They had seen it all before, and would laugh about it over a few beers when their work was done.
On the main gate, the sentries were cold and tired. Their shift was almost up, and their thoughts turned to the guard house and its comforts, before settling into warm beds and sleeping a richly-deserved six hours. Swing shift was rough, but none of them envied the unfortunates who pulled graveyard shift. A man could go funny if he did it too many times.
As such, when yet another garbage truck pulled up to the gate, the sentries on duty were neither surprised nor particularly interested. One of them stepped up to the truck, and the driver handed down his ID docket.
The sentry glanced at it, then up at the driver, and the man sitting next to him. He didn't recognise either of them, but he hardly recognised any of them these days. Waste Disposal had been having staffing problems recently, and new faces were no real cause for alarm.
Satisfied, the sentry waved at the security camera. A moment later the gate clunked open, and the garbage truck drove inside. As it vanished down the main road towards the campus, the sentries returned to the business of keeping warm, and surviving the few minutes left to shift change.
The truck passed a few outer buildings, then made a right turn, stopping next to the Waste Collection unit. It backed up to the wall, easing itself backwards into a covered alcove, where a hatch was set into the wall. Behind that hatch was the building's main trash dump, which at the touch of a button would tip its contents forward into the back of the garbage truck.
The passenger got out, and headed for a small side-door about ten metres along the wall from the hatch. Next to it was a control panel, with which he would ordinarily open the hatch and activate the tipping mechanism. It was a relatively old piece of technology, with different handles for different functions; ostensibly for safety reasons.
For the passenger, who was not in fact an employee of the waste disposal department, that was all to the good.
The passenger looked back at the driver, who gave him a wave. Nodding in reply, he looked to the controls and pulled the lever to open the hatch. He heard the clunk and groan as the hatch opened, but instead of pulling the second lever as soon as it was open, he stood where he was, counting down the seconds in his head. He waited, feeling a twinge of tension as the seconds ticked away.
Then the driver waved again. The passenger pulled the leaver, and the trash rumbled and thundered as it slid into the back of the truck. He pushed the lever back up, and waited.
The door clunked open, and the passenger smirked as he stepped inside. Two men and a woman were there, clad in janitor's uniforms, carefully misappropriated from the manufacturer, who would not notice their disappearance from the warehouse for a few days yet. All three stank of garbage, and all three looked distinctly disgruntled.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," quipped Hamid, unable to stop himself.
"You are shutting up, right now," retorted Brad, the nearest of the three. "Thanks to you, I smell like a dumpster!"
"Quit complaining," snapped Karin, the woman behind him. "We're inside, and that's what matters. Is George ready?"
"He is. What about the others?"
"They're fine, just pungent. They've got the stuff and they're ready."
"Good. Ben, get going."
The second man nodded, and stepped around him to get to the door. Choosing him had been one of the trickiest parts of the planning process. But between red hair-dye and some spray-on tan, they looked sufficiently similar that the tired, bored sentry would notice that the passenger on the way out was not the same as the passenger on the way in.
It was risky, but if it worked, they would have a little more time. If it didn't, then he would just have to get drastic.
Hamid could hear the truck pull away, heading for the main road. He ran the numbers in his head. They had maybe ten minutes before he reached the gate. Ten minutes to get to their objectives.
He followed Brad and Karin along the corridor to a storage room, where the rest of the team were gathered. There were eleven of them, dressed in the same janitorial uniforms, transferring mops and cleaning equipment from wall racks to three large trash carts. With those, they would appear to be just a bunch of janitors at their work. They looked up as he approached.
"All right," Hamid said, regarding them with his most commanding stare. "Our objective is the knightmare hangar. Follow me, and try to look bored and tired."
Willy sniggered at his words. But the rest just nodded and started pushing the carts.
Hamid led the group across the academy grounds, counting down the minutes in his head, until they reached the knightmare hangar. Whereas the older buildings were in the neo-gothic style popularized by Emperor Lothar, the hangar was a new building, in a style that looked to Hamid like it had been made out of giant building blocks. As they approached, Hamid checked his watch.
01:05. Shift change should be underway. They had minutes at most.
"I hope George and Ben made it out okay," muttered Karin.
"Nothing we can do about it now," replied Hamid, in what he hoped was a kind but not too indulgent tone. He had spent too long earning their respect, or at least their obedience, to coddle them now.
"George knows what he's doing," said Brad, smirking viciously. "Just remember, tonight we kill these scumbags."
"That's right," Karin snarled. "We'll show them. We'll show them what justice is!"
Hamid regarded them with a fatherly smile. The black-haired teenager had started as a student radical, but had gotten himself expelled from Caerleon Tech when he took his politics too far. Karin's older brother had been an activist for the Flare Party; a liberal faction in the Senate concerned with, among other things, trying to make life easier for Britannia's various subject peoples. But he and his friends had wandered into the same bar as a bunch of young army officers, a fight had broken out, and he had died in hospital hours later. The party had done its best, but no one seemed to know who had struck first, and thanks to Britannia's notoriously liberal self defence laws, the young officers - all nobles and members of the Purity League - had walked.
They all had stories like that. Stories of resentment, of injustice, of pain and hatred. At times he almost allowed himself to pity them.
But he knew what they were, what they had become, what they would sooner or later do.
"I'll go first," he said. "Clean up a little around the door, then follow me in."
"Got it."
Sorry this took so long. This chapter turned out a lot longer than I expected, so I had to split it into two. This little adventure will conclude in the next chapter.