Chapter Twelve
Imperial Military Academy, Caerleon, Holy Empire of Britannia, March 2009 ATB
Hamid stalked towards the knightmare hangar, fighting very hard to maintain his act. He had to look like just another bored, overworked janitor on yet another late night cleanup job, or there was a chance someone would get suspicious.
The others did as instructed, spreading out around the hangar and setting to work on the litter and general detritus of the day's festivities. Hamid made for the side door, with Brad, Karin, and Billy close behind.
He paused at the door, and pulled out his keycard, the one his employers had provided. The Britannians were rather fond of their security technology, which was beyond what the underground could currently handle. Hopefully it would not be beyond his employers.
He slid the keycard into place. His body tensed as the seconds counted down, half-expecting a rejection, and the premature end of his mission.
But the light turned green, and the heavy locks clunked as they came open. Hamid smirked as he pocketed the card and pushed the door open, his teammates following him inside. His employers had not let him down, not tonight at least. The only problem was that the card had fritzed the whole lock, so now it would open for anyone. Hopefully anyone coming in behind would be on autopilot and not notice.
He had no time for subtlety. Not tonight.
He led the way up the stairs, Brad and Karin grumbling as they lugged the trash cart with them. The elevators had been shut down for the night – both a security and a safety precaution. Besides, the elevators almost certainly contained their own security cameras, and were probably bugged too.
They reached the second floor, and were about to continue up to the third when Hamid heard something.
He froze, straining his ears. There were indeed, muffled noises along the corridor.
There wasn't supposed to be anyone up there except the security staff, and the only reason for them to leave their posts was if the building was on fire. In the event of a security breach, they were supposed to shut everything down, seal all locks, and call for immediate backup. If they had done so, the doors would lock and the keycard readers would shut down, rendering a stolen keycard – or his own for that matter – useless. They would be trapped inside.
He glanced at the wall chart. Second floor, simulator chambers and teaching rooms. He relaxed a little; no doubt just some cadets having a late-night gaming session.
He shook his head, and continued up the stairs. He could not go after them without the security staff noticing. There was nothing to do but get it done, and quickly.
They reached the third floor. The corridor was deserted, the doors on either side locked and still. At the very end was the heavy security door, with the words CONTROL emblazoned on the wall above it. Behind it was the security station, and the hangar control centre; his primary objective.
Trying to look casual, he stalked along the corridor, the others close behind, every moment half expecting the doors to seal, and the alarms to wail.
He reached the door, and pulled out his keycard. Into the slot it went, and the light turned green. He nodded tersely at his teammates, who began reaching into the cart to pull out their weapons. Hamid reached into his jacket, clasping the silenced pistol hidden there, and put his other hand on the door's heavy handle.
The door clunked, and swung oh-so-slowly open.
"What are you doing here?" demanded a blue-uniformed officer. "You're not supposed to…"
Then he froze, his face turning white as he saw Hamid draw the pistol from his jacket. His hand dropped to his sidearm, and Hamid put a bullet through his throat. He stepped around the door, holding it open while Billy, Karin, and Brad, darted inside. In their hands were old-style assault rifles, cheap and plentiful on the underground arms market.
Another officer was standing up, drawing his pistol. Hamid put him down with a quick shot, and then another as he dashed for a nearby alarm panel. Hamid let go of the door, letting it swing shut, and turned his attention to the rest of the staff. There were about a dozen of them, clad in white uniforms, looking at him as if he were the Jersey Devil.
Billy snickered and opened fire, sending the nearest one sprawling over his console in a shower of blood. The rest screamed and ran for cover, some leaping behind stations, throwing coffee cups or manuals or anything else to hand. But all to no avail, as Billy Poole cut them down one by one.
Hamid shivered. It was not the bloodshed that bothered him, for leaving them alive had probably not been an option. It was the look on Billy's face that made him sick to his stomach.
"You done?" snarked Karin.
"If only!" retorted a delighted Billy, as he finished off the last whimpering, pleading technician.
"All clear!" called Brad, who taken the opportunity to check the rest of the room. "There's a stairwell in here, but the door's locked."
"Just like they said," mused Hamid. "It'll lead right down to the hangar. But first things first."
He pulled a lanyard over his head, and opened the container it held, revealing a datastick. He slid it into the first port he could find, and set to work on the computer. On the enormous main screen before him, the computer politely acknowledged the datastick, and asked if he would like to download its contents. Hamid clicked OKAY, and watched as the download began.
"How long will this take?" Karin asked, staring up at the screen.
"Not too long, hopefully," replied Hamid. He watched, his heart hammering with every passing second, until the download finished. The screen flickered, and then politely informed him that he now had administrator privileges.
"First, the doors." Hamid brought up the door controls. He heard the clunk behind him as the door to the hangar stairwell unlocked. Glancing out the observation window, he saw the main hangar doors begin to roll open. Now, if not before, he was against the clock. Even Britannians weren't so stupid as to not notice that.
"Billy, get down there. I'll unlock the knightmares," he ordered.
"Don't keep me hanging!" replied Billy cheerfully, and he dashed through the door.
"Brad, Karin, go with him," he said, turning his attention back to the computer. "This might take a minute or two." He brought up data storage.
"We'll stay," replied Karin. "Someone might come."
"You need to go," replied Hamid, forcing himself not to snap at them. "I might be on a little while here."
"Why?" demanded Brad, looking up at the screen in surprise. "What are you doing?"
"Just collecting my fee," replied Hamid mildly. The screen reported that the full download had begun, transferring the computer's previously secure files into the datastick.
"What do you mean?" asked Brad, suddenly suspicious. "You've been paid already! Now unlock the knightmares!"
"This is a little something for myself," said Hamid, without looking up. "Or do you really think I was working for the chump change your bosses offered me?"
"You never said anything about this before!" snapped Brad. Hamid heard him level his rifle. "Now unlock the knightmares! We're on a mission here!"
"Oh…too bad."
Hamid spun around, putting a bullet right between his eyes. Karin opened her mouth in shock, but Hamid's next bullet sent her on her way.
He glanced up at the screen. Download complete.
"Now…for the knightmares."
"That's the last time I trust him with liquour!"
Jeremiah Gottwald shuddered as he strode away from the barracks. He had just unloaded his close comrade Kewell Soresi, a young nobleman mightily skilled in all forms of combat, and one whom Jeremiah would normally be proud to call a friend.
Except tonight. Kewell, unfortunately, lacked both the stomach to handle his liquour and the sense to limit his indulgence. Jeremiah could have bottled and sold the contents of his toilet...if not for all the vomit.
He paused a moment, allowing the embarrassment to fade as he looked around him. He loved the academy, with its grand old buildings, and its traditions and discipline. It had been hard at first, for a young nobleman from Florida, used to sandy beaches and blue skies, and the sun on his face. But it had made him stronger, made him so much more than he would have been otherwise. He had done his family proud, and if the fates allowed, he would recieve the highest honour the academy could bestow upon a graduating cadet.
The hallowed white sash, on the day of the graduation parade. He would stand among the favoured few, those judged good enough to pass directly into the Imperial Guard.
But even if he did not, it did not matter. He had felt the fire of ambition burn within him all his life, but that was not his only motive, nor could it be. It was not worthy for a nobleman, let alone a Gottwald, to live only for himself. A knight, a nobleman, had to have principles, ideals. He had to have a code by which he could live, a standard to which he could hold himself. For Jeremiah, that was the code of the Purity League, into whose ranks he had been inducted as a first year cadet.
He had committed himself wholeheartedly to the Purist ideals, to the maintenance of Britannia's ancient social order, to the sacred bonds that held Britannian society together, and to protect these things from dangerous foreign influences. Above all these things, he had sworn to devote himself to the cause of the Imperial family, and to live and die by the Emperor's command.
But for all that, he was not satisfied. He envied those who were pure of heart, who could live and fight for honour alone. He had yet to meet such a person, but he knew in his heart that such a person must exist.
Unless...that one...
His route took him past the knightmare hangar, and he paused a moment to regard it; the site of many harsh trials, and wondrous achievements. He had...
His reverie evaporated suddenly, as he released something was wrong, on the second floor of the hangar's admin and training wing.
The lights were on.
Jeremiah stared, wondering what to make of it. He supposed it could just be cleaners, or the control room staff. But the building should have been cleaned hours ago, and what reason would the staff have to go down there? Their control room was on the third floor.
He paused, wondering whether he shouldn't just wander on and leave it. There was nothing obviously amiss, and he was due back at the soiree, even if it was winding down.
But then again, it would only take a few minutes. And if there was one thing Jeremiah had learned as a monitor at Colchester, it was never to let something slide for the sake of a few minutes. He had caught more than a few malefactors in the act that way.
His keycard got him into the building without difficulty. He hurried up the stairs to the first, and then the second floors. Only when he reached the second floor, and saw the SIMULATION IN PROGRESS sign glowing above one of the chamber doors, were his suspicions finally confirmed.
Glowering, he pressed the door control, and the door slid open. Inside, three of the simulator pods were online, jinking wildly about. On the main screen ahead of him, three knightmares were in the midst of a deadly battle.
"Gah! Almost got me!"
"Watch yourself Alexander! Those bunkers aren't going to just let you attack them!"
"Yes your highness!"
"Watch your left, Gilbert! There's more coming!"
Jeremiah scowled. Who was he calling highness? Could it possibly be...
No! Impossible! Princess Cornelia was a paragon, a cadet worthy of the highest accolades! There was no way she would blow off the soiree, shirk her responsibilities as a graduating cadet, to go off and treat valuable training equipment like a video games console!
Would she?
And who was this Alexander and this Gilbert?
No! Surely not!
"Only three panzers! Alexander, light them up! Gilbert, provide covering fire!"
"Yes, your highness!"
Jeremiah stared at the main screen. The three Glasgows moved like a trio of acrobats, leaping over or swerving around obstacles, pouring fire into panzers and slab-sided bunkers. For a time he was spellbound, wonderstruck. Even the most promising cadets had never performed that well on the training field. He glanced around, looking for the difficulty indicator.
KNIGHT LORD
He was amazed. Whoever they were, they were talented indeed, at least in simulators.
But even so, there could be no excuse.
All at once, the simulation ended, and the pods clunked open. Jeremiah strode over to the nearest pod, readying one of the trademark put-downs he had honed to perfection at Colchester; the ones that could reduce even the most arrogant jocks to red-faced humiliation.
And then he gaped as the chair slid back, revealing a young boy. A young boy he had seen many times before.
"Phew… we did it. Somehow. That was a-"
"Alexander Waldstein!"
Alexander, for it was he, jumped at the sound of his voice. He turned, looking sheepish, to regard Jeremiah. Jeremiah stared down, mastering himself just in time.
"And just what do you think you're doing, my Lord?"
"Uh..." The boy was caught off-guard.
"He's with me," said another, worryingly familiar voice. Jeremiah's head snapped around, a particularly cruel put-down ready on his lips.
Then he gaped again as Princess Cornelia stepped gracefully out of her simulator. The third, in the simulator next to hers, was none other than Gilbert Guilford.
Gilbert Guilford, who only hours ago had bested him on the field of honour...
"But...what...what are...?" Jeremiah was dumbstruck, his mind a whirl. How could the princess be here?
"Cadet Gottwald," Gilbert spoke up. "I trust your friend Cadet Soresi is all right? He was looking a little off-colour the last I saw him."
"He...had the fish," replied Jeremiah, trying desperately not to stammer.
"Which one?" asked Cornelia, eyeing him sourly. "The one marinaded in neat scotch?"
No one laughed. Jeremiah forced his addled mind back into line. This was no time to show weakness, especially not with him standing there.
"Your Imperial highness, with all due respect..." He had to force the words out. "This is hardly appropriate conduct."
"Oh?" Cornelia cocked an elegantly-curved eyebrow. "You mean to pass judgement upon me, Cadet Gottwald?"
"Your highness!" Jeremiah could bear no more. "You are still a cadet at this institution! You have spurned the Commandant and his guests in favour of amusing yourself in this simulator chamber out of hours! This is a severe breach of protocol, both military and courtly!"
He was furious, that was the truth of it. He was angry with her for being like this, for embarrassing him like this. The ambivalent, contradictory feelings that had tormented him for three years were warring afresh within him. He so admired her as a cadet, as an officer...but she was a princess! She couldn't act like this!
"To be blunt, Jeremiah," retorted Cornelia languidly. "I can't stand events like that. And since my page here was trying to improve his mastery of the knightmare frame, I thought I'd lend him a hand. Is it not worthy enough for your rarefied ideals?"
"Then consider your page at least, your highness!" Jeremiah went on, grasping at the straw she had inadvertantly held out. "He is only a boy, and is in any case far too young to be here! You have long been over-indulgent of him, and this only sets a bad example!"
He felt a twinge of satisfaction as he saw the boy deflate. He didn't bear Alexander any particular ill-will, but it had to be said.
It faded swiftly when he saw the look Cornelia was giving him.
"If you've got a problem, Jeremiah, then out with it." Her voice was icy cold, her eyes narrow points of amethyst, boring into his very soul.
"Your highness." There was no going back now. He was likely about to ruin his career, but his pride would not let him keep silent. "I am a sworn brother of the Purity League. My loyalty and devotion to the Imperial family is absolute. I will say what I must, and do as I must, even if it costs me my life."
"And?" Cornelia did not look impressed.
"Your highness...you are self-indulgent!"
The words cut through the air like breaking glass. He saw Alexander's face twist in outrage, his mouth opening to yell a retort; but Gilbert's hand squeezed his shoulder, silencing him.
Unable to bear it any longer, Jeremiah turned on his heel and stormed out of the chamber. His rage buffeted him like bombs going off in his head. It was all he could do not to break something.
Out in the corridor, alone in the quiet, he tried to calm himself. How could she be like that? How could she be so blasé about her obligations? How could she be such a disappointment?
He shook his head, trying to vent the blazing heat of his anger. He knew what to do. He knew how to get back at that trio of troublemakers.
He spun on his heel and strode along the corridor. One more stairway took him up to the third floor, where the control room and the admin offices were.
There was no way those three could be playing in the simulator chambers without the control room staff knowing. Jeremiah pictured in his mind what he would do as he stormed up the stairs to the third floor, and drew out his keycard. He would give those swing-shift wastrels a piece of his mind, and then have some amusement at the expense of those three.
He paused as he approached the control centre. There was a trash cart sitting in the corridor right outside the door, seemingly abandoned.
Jeremiah stared at it for a moment, perplexed. He supposed there would be cleaning staff on duty; he had seen some working around the main doors. But why would they just leave their trash cart lying around?
Muttering angrily to himself, he pushed the cart aside and stepped up to the door. He would be issuing a complaint about that too. He pictured how he would word his complaint as he unlocked the door and pushed it open.
Then he stopped, as if his mind had skipped a gear.
There was no one in the room. There was no one seated at their stations. The only person present was a tall, swarthy-looking man with long red hair, standing before the main computer terminal, looking at him with an expression of mild surprise.
For a few moments, Jeremiah just stared, utterly discombobulated. There was just no way a man like that could be in there. What was going on?
Then, in the corner of his eye, he saw something on the floor. His eyes flicked to regard it.
A puddle. A dark, red puddle, like red wine but a little too thick, spreading slowly across the floor.
"I don't have time for this!"
Jeremiah saw the man's right arm come up, the silenced pistol in his hand. He tried to move, to dive for cover behind the nearest duty station, but the whole world seemed to have slowed down. He felt like he was swimming in treacle.
Hot pain erupted in the centre of his chest, and he felt himself fall.
Lost in his agony, he only barely heard the footsteps as the man strode out of the room. It was all he could do to master himself, to focus on his situation. He was bleeding, dying, and there was a man with a gun loose in the building. What if he found the princess?
He looked around, desperate for something he could use. But sprawled on the floor as he was, he couldn't reach any of the duty stations, and the nearest visible alarm was right next to the door, well out of reach. He scrabbled about, trying to pull himself up, his bloodied hand slippering and sliding over the glass front of the trophy case.
The trophy case!
Jeremiah grabbed at the case, scrabbling and pulling to haul himself up against it. His legs were turning to lead, his fingers cold and numb, but still he pulled, pulling himself further and further up the cabinet, laying all his body weight against its front. If he could just...
Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he felt the cabinet lean forward. A little more, and a little more, the cups and plates and bric-a-brac inside it clattering and sliding about, the wooden frame groaning. He pulled backward, pulling with what remained of his strength, willing the cabinet to lean, to topple, to fall.
It fell.
"Calm down Alexander," admonished Cornelia. "Don't get angry over the likes of him."
"But..." Alexander clenched his fists, trying to force down his anger. "He...he insulted you, your highness!"
"And he still has a few days left in which to do so," replied Cornelia, her tone remarkably mild. "Until graduation parade, I'm still just Cadet li Britannia, and he can insult me as much as he likes. It's beneath my dignity to respond."
"But...you're not self-indulgent, your highness!" wailed Alexander. He cursed himself for sounding like a child. "No one works harder than you!"
"He's just annoyed because I wasn't perfect," said Cornelia, ruffling his hair. "He's annoyed that I'm not more like my mother and Euphie, flouncing around in frilly gowns and never putting a foot wrong. That's these Purist types for you. Loyalty and devotion unto death, but only if they like you."
"That is not loyalty, your highness," Guilford cut in. "Had you given the word, I would have broken his jaw."
"And got yourself into trouble for no worthwhile reason," retorted Cornelia sourly. "Enough of..."
She trailed off, as a low thud reverberated down from the ceiling.
"What was that?" she asked, half-rhetorically.
"It came from upstairs," mused Guilford.
"That fool!" Cornelia rolled her eyes. "What's he doing now?"
Without another word, she strode out of the room. Seeing little choice, Alexander followed on, Guilford falling in beside him. Their route took them back along the corridor, up the main stairs, and to the third floor.
At which point, Cornelia froze.
"What the...?"
She broke into a run. Stunned, Alexander stood where he was for a moment, wondering what was going on. She vanished into the control room, and Alexander scurried after her.
He paused in the doorway, confused. For Cornelia was standing in the middle of the control room, looking around as if she had seen a ghost.
"Your..."
"Don't look!" Cornelia rounded on him, her face ashen. "Don't look! Stay there!"
"Your highness!" Guilford pushed past him, racing to Cornelia's side. "What's the...dear god!"
Now it was his turn to turn pale. Unable to contain himself, Alexander stepped through the doorway, looking around to see what was wrong.
And then he saw them. The blue-uniformed officer, lying on the floor in a pool of blood. There were more bodies nearby, scattered around the room where they had fallen, their white technician's tunics red with blood.
His blood ran cold. His mind was a blank. What was going on? Why were they lying there like that? Why were they...?
"Shoot the traitors!"
Gunfire, like a thousand hellish drumrolls. A man dashing into the alley in front of him, then thrust against the wall as if by an invisible hand, blood spurting from holes in his chest. Men in black armour sprinting after him, levelling guns.
"Just a kid! Move on!"
"Alexander!"
Alexander awoke, and there was Cornelia in front of him, grasping his shoulders. "Alexander, focus!"
Alexander breathed in and out, remembering himself. But his heart still fluttered with fear.
A groan rose from behind a line of duty stations. Cornelia stepped away and looked around the stations, Alexander doing likewise.
It was Jeremiah Gottwald, lying on the floor, blood staining his blue tunic red. He lay next to the fallen trophy cabinet, broken glass scattered all about.
"Guilford!" Cornelia yelled, as she rushed around the stations and knelt beside him. Alexander did the same, watching in fearful wonder as Cornelia tore open Jeremiah's bloodstained tunic, and clamped her hands over the wound.
"P...princess..." Jeremiah groaned. He was very pale. "Man...red hair..."
"Keep quiet!" order Cornelia. "Alexander, fold his jacket up tight, then when I remove my hands, press it down hard."
Alexander obeyed, pressing the folded jacket down as hard as he could. Jeremiah groaned in pain.
"Hold it there!" Guilford stepped around Cornelia, a First Aid box in his hands. He set it down, then opened it and pulled out a sealing pad.
"This will stop the bleeding," he said. "On my mark, pull the jacket away. Mark."
Alexander pulled the folded jacket back, revealing a mass of dark blood. Guilford quickly wiped the blood away, revealing a small, dark hole from which more blood almost immediately began to rise. He tore the pad open, and set it down on the wound, pressing down around the edges to seal it in place.
"That's all we can do for now," he said, closing the First Aid box. "We need to call for help."
"Well we can't from here," replied Cornelia. Alexander straightened up, and saw Cornelia standing at the main computer terminal, glowering as she tapped at the keyboard. "Whoever did this has done something to the system. Everything is locked out."
As Guilford went to her assistance, Alexander thought he heard a strange sound. It was coming from the nearby observation window. He straightened up, and looked down at the hangar.
"Your highness!" he yelled, horrified at what he saw. Cornelia strode over, and snarled a curse as she saw what he had seen.
The Knightmares were moving. Some were already gone, others rolling slowly towards the open door, one or two still closing their hatches.
"Guilford!" Cornelia rounded on her other companion.
"I'm sorry your highness!" Guilford looked ashamed. "I can't make it work! They must have uploaded a virus!"
"Use this!" Alexander pulled his phone from inside his tunic. Cornelia took it, and dialled furiously. For a few tense moments she held it to her ear, waiting.
"Security central," said a tired-sounding voice. Alexander realised he had left the speaker on.
"This is Cadet li Britannia!" Cornelia identified herself. "I'm in the control centre of the knightmare hangar! The staff are dead and the knightmares are being taken. Also I have a wounded man. Send help immediately!"
There was a pause.
"Oh yeah, sure," drawled the voice sourly. "Listen to me whoever you are, I've had just about enough of your freaking pranks! I'm getting an all-clear from the control room computer, which means you are officially talking out of your ass! Get off the line and quit wasting my...!"
"Listen to me you blithering incompetent!" Cornelia roared. "I am Cornelia li Britannia, Third Princess of the Empire! You are getting an all-clear signal because the system has been sabotaged! You will sound general alert and summon reinforcements immediately, or you and your colleagues will be held personally responsible for the consequences!"
Another pause.
"Stay where you are." And the line went dead.
"Like hell we will!" Cornelia snapped the phone shut and tossed it back to Alexander. "There's still some knightmares left! I'm going after them!"
"And I also, your highness!" replied Guilford.
"Alexander, stay here and watch over Jeremiah," Cornelia ordered. "Help will come soon, one way or another."
"But..." pleaded Alexander.
"Do as I tell you!" Cornelia cut him off, in a tone harsher than she had ever used on him. "You're too young to fight!"
Before Alexander could say another word, she and Guilford headed for the stairwell, leaving them alone.
Alexander's heart sank. She had rejected him. She had made him stay behind while Guilford went with her to fight. Did she truly have so little faith in him? Was his devotion, his loyalty, of so little worth?
He felt tears prick at his eyes as he turned back to the stricken Jeremiah.
"My lord..." Jeremiah croaked through dry lips.
"I'm here, Cadet Gottwald," replied Alexander, kneeling down beside him. "Help will come soon."
"My lord...you must go..." Jeremiah forced the words out. "You must go with her...help her..."
"But I can't," pleaded Alexander, feeling ashamed of himself. "I have to stay with you."
"You can't...help me..." Jeremiah croaked. "It doesn't matter...if I die. If I die here...it is...no more than I deserve."
Tears began to run down Jeremiah's face. At first, Alexander thought they were because of the pain, or fear of dying.
Then he saw the eyes behind them, and knew he was wrong.
They were tears of shame.
"You must...go..." Jeremiah groaned, his voice hoarse and fluttering. "You can...still help her. You can...still save her."
Alexander's heart was torn in two. If he did as Jeremiah asked, then he would be disobeying his princess, and leaving a wounded man all alone. But if he refused, then Cornelia and Guilford would be all alone out there, against at least a dozen knightmares.
"But..."
"I am...a Purist..." Jeremiah coughed. He somehow managed to grab Alexander's hand, in a grip that was remarkably strong. "I swore to serve...to die. This is...my fate. This is...my pride. Now please...I beg you...go..."
Alexander stood up, his hand sliding from Jeremiah's fading grip. He tried to think of something to say, but nothing meaningful would come.
"Please stay alive, Cadet Gottwald."
He turned, and ran out of the room.
It had been a long time since Hamid had enjoyed himself this much.
The Glasgow was like nothing he had ever piloted before. He had heard vague rumours about the Neural Synchronizer, but had never expected it to work like this.
He slid easily over the tarmac, slewing from side to side between the other Glasgows. Not being used to knightmares, they were taking it slow and steady for the moment. But for Hamid, it was as easy as riding a bike.
"No wonder they're paying me so much for this tech."
His employers had been emphatic about how important this mission was. Their own efforts to create a similar system had suffered delay after delay, made worse by certain political and ethical concerns that Britannia did not share. With this data, if it was what they said it, the gap would close fairly quickly.
"Hey Ali! Nice moves!" called the lead knightmare, whose pilot was a young fellow named Harris.
"I do my best!" replied Hamid, with false modesty. "How are you holding up?"
"Great!" Harris sounded excited. "These controls! It's like moving...hey, what gives?"
Hamid was momentarily puzzled, and then a warning buzzer sounded inside his cockpit. He checked his HUD, and his heart clenched at the sight of an icon flashing red. With a sneaking suspicion as to what it meant, he switched on his audio pickup.
"Repeat! Security breach in the knightmare hangar! Seal all exits!"
Then followed the unmistakeable howl of the klaxon.
"Damn it! They're on to us!" snarled Harris. "We have to get out of here!"
"No way!" retorted Willy Poole. "We can't leave now! We've barely trashed the place!"
Hamid ignored their argument. He had suspected that this would happen, one way or another. Even Britannians weren't stupid enough to not notice a bunch of knightmares going walkabout, at least not for more than a few minutes. But there was just one thing he needed to do before he took his leave, and left this lot to their fun, and their fate.
"All right! Speed up and follow me! We'll hit the HQ building and take out the comm system!"
He sped up, racing away from the group. The others did likewise, with Willy Poole slaloming past and speeding away ahead. They rounded a corner, and found themselves on the main boulevard. Up ahead was the academy HQ building, with a line of limousines pulling up in front. Guests were milling around the main entrance, making their last farewells.
"Burn 'em up!" roared Poole. He levelled his assault rifle and fired, sending a stream of tracer into the parked cars. The nearest one exploded, hurling burning debris in all directions. The guests scattered, the smarter ones fleeing back into the building, while others dashed and staggered in all directions; too drunk or frightened to think further than getting away from the blast.
Poole let out a snarl of triumph as he turned his rifle on the unfortunates, cutting them down in quick bursts of tracer. Hamid felt a twinge of...something at the sight, but put it out of his mind. He had something more important to do.
As he approached the HQ he looked up, his sight passing over the neo-gothic upper floors and roof. It did not take him long to find the comm-tower, sticking up from the roof like a silver needle in the darkness. Rolling his joystick's rollerball with his thumb, Hamid selected the missile launcher, and drew the reticule over the target.
He fired, sending a missile straight up at the base of the needle. The missile exploded, sending out a shower of blasted stone. He fired again, and again, pouring missile after missile into the roof until the clip was exhausted. Debris flew in all directions; stone shards, half-blasted gargoyles, and shards of glass.
As he raced past the HQ, the dust began to settle. The tower was down, and he had bought himself a minute or two, at least.
He halted and spun around, watching the proceedings. His allies were doing as Poole had done, pouring bullets and missiles into the HQ and the surrounding buildings. Explosion after explosion blossomed in the night, and he saw the flickers of a fire on the fourth floor of the HQ.
In spite of everything, in spite of himself, he couldn't suppress a grim, malicious satisfaction. This wasn't just an embarrassment, this was a debacle. Britannia's oldest military academy was being shot to pieces just days before graduation. Britannia would be sent into a tailspin. The senate and lords would be screaming and throwing chairs, the press would talk of nothing else for weeks. Blood would be howled for, heads would roll, deservedly or not.
His train of thought was disturbed by a beeping from the HUD. He looked, and saw that two knightmare icons on the tactical screen had turned into text boxes marked LOST. He blinked, momentarily confused.
Then two more disappeared, and he finally registered two new icons, moving quickly through the nearby buildings. Every time they reached an icon, it turned to LOST almost immediately.
Hamid's heart began to pound. Someone was coming, and he was running out of time.
The pair rounded the corner a few hundred metres down the boulevard from him. He had only eight knightmares left, all of which turned to face the newcomers. The nearest two turned their rifles on the pair, firing on full auto. The pair jinked and slalomed, dodging the twin streams of tracer, and fired back as they closed; downing both with short, tight bursts.
Hamid snarled in mingled irritation and pleasure. These two were an unwanted complication, but at least they could handle Knightmares. Taking them down might be fun.
"Out of the way!" he barked into his comm. "I'll take them!"
Fury.
Cornelia could not remember ever feeling like this. Not an anger, a rage, a fury like this. Not when her mother had scorned her, not when girls had laughed at her, not when boys had told her to go and play with dolls.
Not even when someone made Euphie cry.
These people, the criminals had broken into the academy, killed members of its staff, and stolen its precious knightmares; knightmares that, only hours ago, she and her fellow cadets had piloted in glorious battle.
And the fruit of their labours was all around her. The academy buildings, so grand and magnificent, were now shattered and aflame. Before the HQ building, blasted cars burned, and corpses lay strewn about.
They would pay for this! By all that was noble and good, they would pay for this!
But something was wrong. The villains would not fight her. They were falling back, stalking away like lackeys, while another rolled forth to face her.
There was something different about this one. As user-friendly as the Neural Syncronizer had become, the others were blatant amateurs; their movements uncoordinated, their tactics sloppy, their shooting wasteful. But this one was no amateur. Something in the Glasgow's movements, something in its manner...
"Guilford, stay back," she growled. "This one's mine."
"Princess..."
Before she could insist, the other Glasgow levelled its rifle and fired. Cornelia dodged, jinking left and right, as the enemy fired in short, tight bursts. She fired back, but instead of dodging the enemy drove forward, accelerating hard and coming around behind her in a tight arc. As she came about to match him, she saw him stow his rifle and draw a k-maul.
And she knew, somehow, that it was a he.
It was all she could do to dodge him as he came on, swinging the k-maul hard from right to left. She spun, dropping back as she drew her own k-maul. The enemy came on again, bringing his k-maul down in a scything cut, too fast for her to dodge. She lifted her shield, the impact throwing her against her crash webbing and making her head spin.
Forcing herself to concentrate, she fell back, angling her shield to deflect his blows. He struck again, and again, until Cornelia saw her chance. She thrust her shield forward and swung her k-maul, trying to catch him off-guard.
The k-maul struck, denting his shield. But the Glasgow fell back, too fast for her to get a second blow in.
This one was good. Very good.
Cornelia saw movement, and glanced at her side screens. The others were moving, circling around them like hyenas. She should have known better than to expect chivalry or restraint from a pack of terrorists, and she had little intention of showing them any herself. This was war, and she did not intend to lose.
"Guilford!"
"I have them, your highness!"
To her right, she saw Guilford move, as two of the enemy moved in on him. She could only trust him for the moment, for her opponent was back in the game. He came on again, shield forward, k-maul held high.
She caught his blow, and struck back, but hit only his shield. He struck again, and again, and it was all Cornelia could do to block his blows. Something was different, something was wrong. This wasn't like the duels before, against her fellow cadets. There was something more to this one, something savage, an almost palpable air of bloodlust coming off him like the heat of a bonfire.
She shoved him again and spun away. She didn't have to win this fight, just keep them busy long enough for the army to arrive. They couldn't be more than a few minutes away, surely!
She attacked, swinging her k-maul hard and battering with her shield. But he endured her every blow, battering them aside as if they were a kitten's paws swiping at him. She struck, again, and again, but to no avail.
She tried to think back, past what she had learned in the academy, back to when Marianne had taught her to drive the Ganymede. What would she have done?
The inspiration came as her enemy swung again, this time an overhead blow. She fell back as the maul came down, then swung her maul hard from the side. The flanged head swung inside his shield and struck the side of his cockpit where it jutted from the torso, sending him staggering sideways. Her heart leapt, and she swung again, battering at his torso and shoulders.
Then he swung his shield, so fast that she could not pull back, knocking her maul aside and spinning her around. Before she could react, he swung at her waist, smashing his maul into her Glasgow's hips and legs. Warning buzzers shrieked, and Cornelia fought for control as her knightmare wobbled and staggered. But her foe was upon her, bringing his maul down on her shoulders, sending her crashing to the ground.
"Your highness!"
Cornelia shook her head, forcing herself to focus. Through her flickering screens, she saw Guilford charging at her enemy, k-maul at the ready. The enemy Glasgow turned to face him, catching his first wild blow on his shield and lashing out with his k-maul. The blow caught Guilford in the shoulder, tearing away his plastron and exposing the mechanism with a shower of sparks. Guilford fought back, but the enemy was too fast, striking again and again, until the maul slipped through and struck the damaged shoulder.
With a crash and clatter, Guilford's maul-arm fell to the ground. He pulled back, lashing out with his shield, but the enemy batted it aside with his own shield, striking with his k-maul and knocking Guilford down.
Cornelia tried to focus, tried to think. Her knightmare was wrecked; the red lights on her HUD were proof enough. She had to escape, but if she climbed out now she would be an easy target. And what of Guilford.
"That wasn't half bad," crackled a deep, husky voice over the knightmare's loudspeaker. "But I'm afraid it wasn't good enough."
Cornelia gritted her teeth. This was surely it. She had never imagined that it would end like this, but there were worse ways to go. She squeezed her eyes shut as the knightmare raised its k-maul.
Hamid smirked as he drew back his maul-arm. A more challenging fight than he'd expected from a couple of cadets, but the time for fun was over. Now to put this pair in their graves and...
A long, piercing scream cut through the air, so loud and harsh that he almost jumped out of his seat. He looked up, reflexes crackling like lightning, to see yet another knightmare speeding towards him, k-maul brandished high. He spun to face the new threat, barely dodging as the newcomer swung his k-maul, catching his shield at just the wrong angle. The shield tore away, taking his left forearm with it. Warning buzzers screeched, and Hamid gritted his teeth as he saw the panoply of red lights. Whoever that first one was, he or she had done more damage than he'd realized. No time to mess around with this one.
"Get away from her!" shrieked the newcomer. For a moment Hamid was confused. What the heck as wrong with his voice? He sounded like a kid.
The kid skidded to an inexpert halt, his Landspinner wheels smoking. He turned, and tried to charge again, but Hamid was alert this time. He leapt at the newcomer, swinging his k-maul in a scything cut, smashing through the head and tearing away the top of the cockpit. The newcomer staggered, and Hamid came around and struck again, knocking the knightmare backward. It fell backward, its long cockpit wedging against the wall of the gutted HQ building, landing in a sitting position.
Hamid snarled in mingled frustration and triumph as he advanced on the stricken machine. That fight had cost him at least a minute, maybe two, when he had few enough of them to spare. He stepped closer, picturing how he would bring his k-maul down on that exposed cockpit, again and again until the fool inside was pulp.
Then the pilot looked up at him, and Hamid was amazed, for it was indeed a child; about ten years old if he was any judge. Blood was trickling from his hairline, running down a finely-shaped face with a tapering chin, topped with soft black curls. But his teeth were gritted, and his copper eyes glared up at Hamid with bitter, hateful determination.
Those eyes...
Hamid paused. He knew he should strike, finish it now, but for some reason his body would not obey. It was as if his conscious mind had been disconnected, and was slipping away into a strange, dark place...
Those big eyes, so wide and bright.
"Look who it is!"
Those hands, reaching for him. Stumbling towards him on little legs.
"Hamee!"
No! Not now! Why did it have to be now? He didn't have time for this!
Ashes. Lumps of scorched and blackened wood, the smell of burning. The ashes, hot between his grasping fingers. The tears warm on his face.
"WHY!?"
A buzzing sound, a sound he had heard before, loud and insistent, piercing his ears. He looked down at the HUD, wondering what it meant.
He had failed.
Alexander barely felt the pain in his head as he stared up at the stolen Glasgow. The despair, the knowledge that he had failed his princess, was far worse.
He waited. Waited for the thief to strike, to finish it. But he did not. He just stood there, k-maul brandished in the air, as if he was waiting for something. But what?
Then, all of a sudden, he turned and sped away, racing down the boulevard so fast that the road smoked where his wheels had rolled.
Alexander watched him, bewilderment overcoming the despair, and the pain. What was going on?
Then he heard it, just barely over the sound of the fires. It was a deep, buzzing hum, like the buzzing of a wasp but much much deeper, and much much louder. And it was drawing closer.
Then he saw them, racing in from the direction of Caerleon, dark shapes barely visible in the night sky. And as they drew closer, into the light of the fires, he could make out the sleek, elongated shapes, the rotors spinning overhead in time with the sound, the short stubby wings, and the old-style chaingun in the chin just below the cockpit.
Helicopters. Gunships. Old Hornet gunships of the Imperial army, not yet replaced with the new Raven VTOLs.
Help had arrived.
The stolen knightmares finally realised the danger, looking up as the helicopters circled gracefully around, raising their rifles to fire. But too late, as the gunships opened up with their chainguns, the fire so fast that it buzzed like an electric saw, the bullets so close as to seem more like a laser beam.
The beams slid over the hapless knightmares, cutting one down, and then another. Two managed to open fire, but the gunships effortlessly dodged the scattered shots, and put them down in turn. As the last one exploded, showering the boulevard with debris, the helicopters moved away.
"Alexander! Alexander!"
Alexander released his webbing with a click, and pulled himself up to see. Cornelia sprinted across the boulevard towards him, and Alexander braced himself, expecting a blow and harsh words for his disobedience.
Instead Cornelia flung her arms around him, and pressed his face into her shoulder.
"Forgive me," he whimpered, tears pricking at his eyes. "I failed."
"You didn't fail, you didn't!" insisted Cornelia. "You saved me!"
Hamid slammed his fist against his side monitor, cracking the screen. He breathed hard, in and out, in and out, trying to regain control.
But the memories, the visions, would not leave him. Still they remained, hovering over him like a dark cloud, chilling his blood and crushing his spirit.
Why? Why him? What was it about that brat that made him react that way?
No. There was no time. He had to get out of there.
He keyed the self-destruct, and pulled the emergency release. The hatch popped open, his seat falling back to let him scramble out. He almost stumbled as he landed, and forced himself to run for the treeline. He just made it inside before the explosion hammered at his ears, throwing him to the ground and washing over him like the breath of damnation.
He picked himself up, and looked around. He was some distance from the academy buildings, on the very edge of the grounds. There were no fences here, no guard towers, but Hamid knew better than to get complacent. The academy's perimeter was covered by hidden sensors and cameras, numerous and sensitive enough detect anything from a raccoon to a full-blown human, and run by a computer system smart enough to tell the difference.
He could only hope that he had inflicted enough damage on the HQ building's communications equipment. If the HQ was still in contact with the sensors, they would soon know that an adult human had crossed the perimeter at around this spot, and would know exactly where to look for him.
He glanced back, one last time. In the near-distance, the fires glowed like the rising sun, illuminating the academy buildings. He could see the shapes of helicopter gunships hovering overhead, hear the chatter of gunfire. And he could see new shapes approaching, larger helicopters moving in, and descending gently to the ground.
He was out of time.
He made his way down an incline, working his way through the trees. Before him was a mass of gleaming black, rippling gently in the night wind, reflecting distant lights on the far shore. The mighty Potomac river, along which a boat was supposed to have delivered himself and his erstwhile comrades to safety.
Except there would be no boat. Hamid had seen to that.
He fell to his knees at the river's edge, grabbing at the water with his bare hands and splashing it on to his face. It was icy cold, and seemed to suck all the heat from his body, chilling and slowing his racing mind.
He looked down, and saw the rippling reflection. That red hair, those amber eyes, that nose, that chin, those cheekbones; all the little features his ancestors had passed on to him, a thousand and one tiny inheritances.
Even after all that time; even after fifteen years that had turned him from freedom fighter to ruthless spy and assassin, even after fifteen years as Satan's Sultan, or Ali Al-Sajis, it was a face he knew all too well.
It was his face. The face of Hamid Ibrahim.
The all-too-familiar click drew him from his reverie, but too late.
"What the hell was that?" demanded Billy Poole. Hamid stayed where he was, staring down at the water, his disarrayed thoughts finally beginning to form ranks. There was nothing like being threatened with sudden and violent death to focus the mind.
"You said there would be no pilots!" Billy growled. "You said only we would have knightmares! You said the army wouldn't come for a full hour!"
Hamid stood up, forcing himself to appear calm and languid, as if this was really nothing worth worrying about.
"It was cadets, Poole," he croaked, without looking. "They took the ones we left behind, and came up behind us."
"You unlocked the whole hangar, idiot!" snapped Poole, his voice thick with rage. "You were only supposed to unlock ours! Did you kill Brad and Karin too?"
"If you hadn't gone wild butchering those idiots in the control room, there would have been time." Hamid turned, ever so easily, to face him. Poole's face was a mask of rage, his murderous eyes fixed on him. "If you had done it properly, like I told you, then there would have been time. There would have been even more time if we had just taken the knightmares and gone, like I advised your leaders."
"And they said no, because it's stupid," sneered Poole. "We're not thieves! We're the Sons of Liberty! They watered their fields with the blood of patriots! They built their empire on the bones of our ancestors! And tonight we made their descendants childless! We burned up their brightest and best while they were too drunk to fight back!"
His snarl of fury became a smirk of twisted satisfaction.
"Who are you really working for, Ali?" he went on, keeping the gun levelled at his head. "EuroSec? Veiled Pavilion? Peace Mark maybe?"
"Them?" Hamid forced himself to laugh. It wasn't difficult. "I'm in it for the money, Billy. Just like I told your bosses. This datastick around my neck is worth a freakin' fortune, enough to set me for life."
He paused, keeping his eyes fixed on Poole's own, and lifted the data stick from around his neck. He held it up, so that Poole could clearly see it.
"This is what you want, right?" he asked. "With this, you could get the Sons started up again all by yourself. No need for those other idiots."
Poole glared at him, keeping the gun levelled straight at his forehead, his aim unwavering.
"Throw it to me." He held out his free hand.
Hamid, praying to a God he didn't believe in that he had made the right choice, tossed the datastick. He watched it arc through the air, watched as Poole's eyes fixed on it, moving his hand to catch it, his hand closing around it.
Hamid's first bullet hit his gun hand, tearing through his fingers and sending the gun spinning away. Poole opened his mouth to scream, as Hamid's next two bullets shatters his kneecaps. He fell backward, screaming at the top of his lungs.
Hamid strode closer, and plucked the datastuck from his unresisting left hand. He stared down at Poole, and jammed his foot down on the younger man's throat, silencing his screams.
"You enjoyed yourself tonight, didn't you?" The hate was back, the old, cold hate that had frosted around his heart for so many years. "That must have felt so good. All those kills, that little rant. I'll bet you've even convinced yourself you actually believe it."
Poole stared up at him through bulging, bloodshot eyes. Was that fear Hamid saw, or hatred?
"You're probably wondering why I went to all this trouble," he went on. "Hanging out with your brat pack of wannabe terrorists for all that time, spending all that money, getting you all that awesome gear. You might even wonder why led you all in there, and left you all to die. You're probably wondering just what sort of monster I really am?"
He leaned down closer, grinning like the devil he knew he was.
"I'm a monster who hunts monsters," he hissed. "I take people like you for all you've got, and leave you to your fate. Whether it was them with their pointless grudges, or you because you enjoy it. With them, it's just business. With your kind...it's a pleasure."
He straightened up, and aimed his gun at Poole's forehead.
"Give my regards to Shaitan."
He fired. Poole twitched and lay still, eyes blank, blood spreading around his head like a halo. Hamid stepped away, moving back down the riverbank, and pulling out his phone; a phone with only one contact.
He dialled. It rang.
"Enjoy yourself, did you?" The voice, with its familiar Drakenlander drawl, was irritatingly cheerful.
"Don't screw with me Hassel," growled Hamid, glancing at the forest. "Are you ready?"
"Well that depends, doesn't it," replied the voice. "Do you have it?"
"Of course I have it!" Hamid slipped the lanyard back around his neck. "Did you seriously think I wouldn't?"
"I saw you playing with your food back there," said Hassel. "You might wanna stop screwing around. They'll be on you in minutes."
Hamid glanced up at the treeline, suddenly nervous. He couldn't see anything, but by the time he did, it would be too late. And how had Hassel been watching him?
He sighed. Trust Damian Hassel to come tooled up.
"All right," he said. "Get in here quick."
"No chance, Hami-baby," retorted Hassel. "They're too close, and our escape window is kinda tight. You'll have to get your feet wet. Just swim out and let the current carry you for a bit."
"Some help you are..." growled Hamid. At the sound of Hassel's sniggering, he ended the call. He dialled in a particular combination, and tossed the phone into the water. It vanished with a plop, followed swiftly by a quick whump and a geyser of water, like a depth charge going off in a movie.
He sighed, and checked the datastick and lanyard one last time. The datastick's casing was waterproof, so that wasn't a problem. He glanced back at the treeline, and saw the flickering of lights.
He strode into the water, willing himself to ignore the cold, and began to swim.
Alexander shivered, despite the heat blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
He was alive. He knew he should be thankful for that fact. He had disobeyed his princess and taken the knightmare, yet still he was alive! And he had defeated two of the enemy! Two!
But not that one. Not that man with the red hair and the cold, strange eyes. Not the one who had trouced him like the boy he still was.
He glanced up at Cornelia and the others, sitting around on the cadet lounge's chairs and sofas, their looks range from glum to bewildered to just plain tired. Technically they were supposed to be on alert, but with the army troops having arrived, there was little for them to do; and the hard-faced colonel who had taken charge of the situation had told them, rather curtly, to get out of his way.
There was no sign of the commandant, not since he had been seen getting into a staff car along with two men in dark suits. Alexander wondered if he was in trouble.
Someone would be, after a debacle like this. The enemy had been defeated, and quite swiftly. But the academy had been penetrated, a score of knightmares wrecked, and the buildings shot up badly. Alexander had seen the ambulances taking away the wounded; the unfortunates in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jeremiah Gottwald had been among them, still alive thankfully.
Someone would pay. Someone would have to pay.
"Well..." mused Cornelia sourly. "This has been a rare evening indeed."
"Much more fun than that soiree!" replied Graham, forcing a fairly convincing if tired-looking grin onto his face. "We must have all got at least two kills each! Even the young lord!"
He gestured at Alexander, who felt himself blush at the attention.
"Our academy was invaded by terrorists," retorted Gilbert coldly. "We will be fortunate if not too many died."
"I know, I know." Graham sighed. "I just don't see the point in dwelling on it. We're all alive after all, and we won."
"Yes, we did." Cornelia managed a smile. "The fact is...the fact is..."
She trailed off, disconsolate.
"Your highness?" Alexander asked, concerned.
"I...really don't know how to feel," she said eventually. "We won, and we're alive...but...it all feels wrong somehow. Almost like..."
"Cornelia!"
The strange mood was broken when Clovis came hurrying in, ashen-faced. Cornelia stepped up, and the others tried to clamber to their feet, but Clovis paid them no mind, rushing forward to glomp his sister.
"I was so worried! I thought you'd been killed!" wailed Clovis.
"Clovis...!" Cornelia growled, trying to extricate herself from him. "People can see you!"
But her anger and embarrassment faded as she saw the man approaching behind him. Alexander felt the air turn very cold.
It was a tall, thin, man, clad in a grey uniform Alexander had never seen before. He wore a helmet similar to those worn by the Imperial Guard infantry, but with no plume or decoration of any kind. He was carrying a tablet in a white-gloved hand.
"Please forgive this intrusion, your Imperial Highness," he said in a precise, rather clipped voice, snapping his heels together. "I am Major Lemuel, of the Gendarmes of the Guard. By his Imperial Majesty's command, I have been placed in charge of the investigation."
Alexander shivered again, only then understanding the frigid aura all around him. The Gendarmes were theoretically part of the Imperial Guard; originally raised by Emperor Henry, wiped out during the fall of Emperor Aurelian, and re-raised by Emperor Lothar. Their official responsibility was the safety and security of the Imperial family, but their real function was as the armed wing of the Office of Secret Intelligence. Little wonder they were all so afraid.
"You were very prompt in arriving, Major," Cornelia said, drawing herself up to face Lemuel as Clovis stepped nervously to one side. "I trust you will do your utmost to discover who is responsible for this atrocity?"
"Your Highness may depend upon it," replied Lemuel primly. "His Majesty has instructed that you are to be kept informed of all developments."
He paused, his narrow eyes flicking from one to the other of her companions. Cornelia stiffened a little as she noted his attention.
"You may speak freely in the presence of my companions," she said coldly. "They risked their lives to defend this academy, including my page here. They have a right to know."
"As your Highness wishes." Lemuel's tone was perfectly controlled and polite, but Alexander could not shake the impression that he was mildly irritated; like a waiter having to deal with a customer who couldn't make up his mind.
"We have accounted for all of the knightmares involved in this incident," he continued, bringing up his tablet and glancing down at it. "In the stolen knightmares, we found the remains of twelve persons. Unfortunately, they were too badly damaged to be easily identified, unless the DNA tests or dental records bring something up. Two other corpses were found in the remains of the security control centre, but we have yet to identify them.
Clovis glanced around his shoulder to look at the tablet, then shied away, shaking his head.
"Major, there were fourteen knightmares," Cornelia spoke up. "You said you accounted for all the machines. What of the others?"
"The other two machines were found a short distance away, badly damaged and abandoned," Lemuel went on. "One of them was destroyed, by its own self-destruct from the looks of it. We later found a single body near the perimeter fence on the south-west side. We have positively identified him as this man."
He turned the tablet around to show them the screen. On it was the face of a young man, with slightly straggly brown hair and a look of empty boredom; a classic police mugshot.
"His name was William Poole," continued Lemuel. "A known troublemaker, and a member of the Sons of Liberty."
"The Sons of Liberty?" Clovis was incredulous. "But...they're just a bunch of hooligans!"
"You would be advised not to underestimate them Clovis," retorted Cornelia, glowering. "They brought the empire to the brink of ruin more than once. It would seem this particular incarnation seek to match their predecessors achievements."
"As you say, your highness," said Lemuel.
"Then why didn't you foresee this?" bellowed Cornelia, rounding on him. "Why did your surveillance fail? Why didn't you see this coming?"
"Your highness..."
"You dropped the ball!" Cornelia roared, her eyes bulging. "And good men and women died for it!"
The room fell silent. Lemuel took a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed Cornelia's spittle from his face. The tension in the air was almost suffocating.
"We did not notice, your highness, because there was nothing to see," he replied mildly. "When organisations like this decide to take things to the next level, there is a noticeable escalation of rhetoric and capability. But this group jumped from vandalizing public monuments to planning and carrying out an operation of this kind in the relative blink of an eye."
One thin eyebrow rose just slightly. Cornelia glowered. Alexander shivered at the sight, amazed and horrified at the battle of wills playing out in front of him. There was his princess, full of passion and fury, raging over the destruction wrought on the academy, and the deaths of so many people. And there in front of her was Lemuel, looking at her through distant eyes, as if she was just a spoiled little princess stamping her foot and throwing a tantrum.
The tension was unbearable.
"Someone helped them," Villetta spoke up. "They were armed, organised, and led by an outsider."
There was a pause, as all eyes fell on Villetta. But Villetta stood her ground.
"Cadet Nu is quite correct," replied Lemuel. "Almost certainly the fourteenth man. We also believe he was responsible for the death of William Poole, to cover his tracks. This suggests either a foreign agent, or a professional terrorist. We have established search cordons and closed all highways, airports, and railway stations. Be assured, your highness, we will find him."
"Very well."
Lemuel bowed, and strode out. Clovis heaved a sigh of relief.
"The arrogance..." snarled Gilbert.
"A fool is what he is," muttered Graham. "That guy'll be over the Potomac and gone by now. They'll never catch him."
"Perhaps not." Cornelia sighed. "But enough of him. I'm exhausted, and all I want to do is sleep for a week."
"I think the dormitories should be clear by now," Gilbert spoke up. "Or at least, we can find out where we're supposed to sleep."
"Then let's be off," Cornelia replied. "Even a sleeping bag would be something."
They headed out into the street. Alexander walked alongside them, too tired to be all that upset, yet unable to rid himself with a terrible, withering sense of failure.
"Alexander?" It was Cornelia. "Are you all right?"
"I'm all right, your highness." Alexander knew he didn't sound all right at all, but was too weary to keep up the pretence.
"Alexander...you're blaming yourself again," Cornelia said with a sigh. "It's time you stopped doing that."
"But...if I had stopped him, he wouldn't have escaped," Alexander said sadly. "But he was too strong."
"Too strong for any of us, Alexander," admonished Cornelia. "But even then, you saved our lives. You and that pair over there."
She gestured at Graham and Villetta, who were walking hand in hand and smiling wearily at one-another, the rest of the world forgotten.
"In the meantime, look over there."
Alexander paused to follow her gesture. Their route had taken them along one of the outer roads, giving them a clear view across the fields to the east.
The sun was rising, bathing the land in red and yellow light. Alexander stared, wonderstuck, unable to remember when he had last seen a sunrise. He let the light wash over him, as it slowly advanced over the land, dappling the grasses in undulatig shadows, and making the academy buildings shine.
"Alexander, your trouble is that you're not used to failure," Cornelia went on. "You're so clever, and you work so hard at everything you do, it's little wonder you master things so quickly. But you must get used to failure, so that you can learn how to overcome it, and continue on. You must learn how to stop it from tormenting you, or it will drive you to dark places."
Alexander knew she was right. But it wasn't something he did wilfully; it was just the way he felt. He knew how to control his feelings, but he didn't know how to fight them, to defeat them.
"I'll do my best, your highness."
He looked up at her, as she stared out at the sunrise, a slight smile on her face. Even then, weary and drained, dishevelled by the night's travails, she looked magnificent.
Then she looked down at him, and her smile widened just a little.
"I know you will."
Finally got this done. Sorry for the long wait.