One and only Son

by Juubi-K

Written for Zaru. Bismarck Waldstein regrets only one thing; that he has no son. When he claims an orphan boy for his own, the course of history takes an unexpected turn.

21. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Britannian forward military base, Bejaia, Algeria, July 2017 ATB

Ensign Sir Alexander Bismarck Waldstein, Viscount San Clemente, regarded himself in the mirror.

He didn't have time to admire himself for too long. Princess Cornelia had summoned her knights, and it would not do to keep her waiting. But by the same token, he could not insult her by appearing at less than his best.

He supposed he had turned out well. It had been eight years since the death of Empress Marianne, and the banishment of her children; and seven since the conquest of Japan, and her children's disappearance. Since then, he had gone from a boy of twelve summers to a young man of nineteen. He was not particularly tall, at which he was mildly disappointed, but his body was lean and powerful; made so by years of near-constant training. His black hair was still curly, still stylishly dishevelled, even after all those years. His face was elegantly tapered, his chin not too prominent.

More importantly, the uniform. A red tailcoat with blue-grey braid emblazoned across the chest, white trousers, and tall black boots polished to perfection. The coat's colour marked him as a noble and a member of the Royal Guard; a subsidiary formation of the Imperial Guard, tasked with protecting members of the Imperial family outside St Darwin Boulevard. The coat itself marked him as a knight, and a devicer; one permitted to pilot a knightmare frame in battle.

And it was perfect. He had spent countless hours getting it to fit right. Though he was a knight and a noble, he was still a mere ensign, and did not entirely warrant a servant. Then again, none of Cornelia's knights kept personal servants; even those like Lord Guilford, who had both status and wealth to support a personal staff.

He knew the reason, and he did not resent it.

Satisfied, he strode out of his sparse but comfortable room, stepping out into the corridor. As he strode along, lesser officers and soldiers stepped smartly out of his way, saluting as he passed. Alexander did not return their salute, as he wore no headgear, but instead acknowledged them with a sharp nod.

His journey took him out of the officer's quarters, and across the courtyard. Around him stood the prefrabricated buildings that made up much of the base; their walls bare and metallic, their shapes simple and blunt, like a child's building blocks.

The entrance to the command centre was flanked by two Royal Guards; clad in the infantry formal uniform of field cap, high-collared tunic, and matching pants, all in the same shade of red as his own coat. They snapped to attention as he passed, and Alexander acknowledged them with a nod.

"Ah, he's here!" declared a familiar voice as Alexander strode into the briefing room. It was Andreas Darlton, of course; his craggy, battle-scarred face wearing a friendly grin. He was a general now, ever since Cornelia had chosen him for her personal staff. His uniform was the same as Alexander's own; but with gold braid, and the colour was closer to purple.

"General Darlton, sir." Alexander snapped smartly to attention. "Ensign Alexander Waldstein, reporting by her highness' command."

"At ease, ensign." Darlton's grin widened. "The Princess will be here soon enough. She's taking a call from the homeland."

Alexander paused, his heart sinking as he remembered what that likely meant.

"Is this to do with the campaign?" he asked.

"No," replied Captain Sir Gilbert Guilford, now Cornelia's personal knight and leader of her knights. "And it is not my place to say."

"It's about the goings-on in Area 11," Darlton cut in, his grin fading. "You know the one I mean."

Alexander did know. He had been in the officers' mess, shortly after the other matter had been settled, when the dreadful news came in; that Prince Clovis la Britannia, Viceroy of Area 11, had been assassinated.

A bizarre incident, by all accounts. From what he had heard, a truckload of poison gas canisters had been hijacked by local resistance fighters, who then fled into Shinjuku ghetto; one of many surrounding the Tokyo settlement. Prince Clovis had personally led a military interdiction of the settlement, only for the resistance to run his troops ragged. By the time it was all over, Clovis himself was dead.

He had not known Clovis well, though he had liked him a lot better than his mother, the Queen Consort Gabriella. Cornelia had always been short with him whenever he'd seen them together, endlessly criticizing him for wearing fine clothes that were no use in battle, and for neglecting his military training. But for all that, he knew what she cared for her half-brother, as she did for most if not all of her siblings. He knew that his death had hurt her, no matter how brave a face she put on.

"Has her highness been recalled to the homeland?" he asked.

"If she has, it's a pain," grumbled Darlton. "We were just about done here too. You know she hates to leave a job half done."

Alexander could not think of anything to say. He glanced around the briefing room, seeing which knights were present. There were fourteen of them, which with himself and Guilford made sixteen; five shy of a full company. Their numbers had remained incomplete since the Glaston Knights – the five near-legendary sons of Andreas Darlton – had been borrowed by the Chancellor, Prince Schneizel.

Alexander missed them, for they were the nearest he had to friends among Cornelia's knights. They were all young men like himself, all good enough to meet Cornelia's exacting standards. He didn't get on badly with them by any means, but nor were his relations with them entirely friendly either. He had the horrible feeling that at least some of them resented his connection to the Princess. Cornelia had always dealt fairly with her knights, but she still trusted and favoured him, and did not always care to conceal it.

It had been awkward, at times. It had forced him to push himself harder, to prove that he was worthy of her favour, and not just her pampered pet. Maybe that was why she did it.

"Atten-shun!"

Alexander snapped to attention as the doors slid open, and the seated knights leapt to their feet.

Princess Cornelia strode into the room. As always, she was magnificent to behold. She had grown her purple hair out, and kept it curled around her face in long waves. She wore a tight-fitting uniform of her own design, in the same purple as Darlton and Guilford war, the chest emblazoned with the same gold braid as her two knights. Tall white boots flared out at her knees, and her trademark white cloak hung at her shoulder.

Alexander waited until she had passed, then strode over to take the nearest empty seat, standing at attention like his fellows as Cornelia reached the podium.

"At ease, gentlemen."

The knights all sat down.

"I know you have already heard about the recent incident in Area 11," she began, her voice high and clear. "I have spent the morning in contact with my brother Prince Schneizel, Chancellor of the Empire, and have received his Majesty's orders. I have been commanded to take up the post of Vicereine of Area 11, until such a time as the security situation is stabilised and my brother Clovis' killer identified."

Alexander could hear his fellow knights shuffling in their seats, even as he felt his heart sink. Counter-insurgency was a grim business, with few opportunities for real glory. He knew them well enough to know that, like himself and the princess, they preferred a real fight; an honest, honourable, stand-up fight, where the rules were known and the realities clear.

For months they had battled the soldiers of the EU, and their African allies. Those had been good battles, honourable battles, against soldiers both brave and capable. It had taken all of Cornelia's formidable abilities to make progress, and he and his fellow knights had won battles and gained fame.

Until the hard work had begun, the work of taking cities, and snuffing out resistance; against men and women for whom freedom and love of country were of greater worth than personal honour, or restraint, or mercy. There, in those bitter struggles, had he seen the darker face of war.

And there would be more of that in the days to come, in unhappy Area 11, which had once been called Japan. He had knew that better than most.

"Nevertheless, I have made it clear to the Chancellor, and his Majesty, that I intend to complete this campaign. And today, we will do so."

She touched a button on the podium. The screen behind her lit up, showing a strategic map of the People's Democratic Republic of Algeria; already well on its way to becoming Area 18. To the west sat Area 17, formerly Morocco, and to the east was Libya, coloured red to show its hostility. Most of Area 18 was now blue, but for a handful of provinces along the eastern border and the Mediterranean coast.

"The EU supports its African vassals by air and sea via the states of the Arab Maghreb," Cornelia declared. "The purpose of our strategy has been to cut off those supplies by taking those states, and we are very close to succeeding. Here in Algeria, soon to be Area 18, the last main centre of resistance is Annaba, here on the coast."

The map zoomed in, revealing Annaba province, and the vital port city of Annaba. Alexander could see the Britannian forward bases, and the numerous division and army icons arrayed to the east and south, ready for the attack.

"Major General Straczynski will lead the main attack on Annaba, which will be activated within the next four hours. But we have another mission."

She tapped at her keypad again, and the map shifted, moving some way east of Annaba, to what looked like a patch of open desert.

"Officially, the Algerian government is still in Annaba, coordinating the national defence. We have it on good authority that this is not the case. They have, in fact, retreated to a palace complex deep in the desert."

The map halted, a series of icons appearing around a vague smudge on the map. New windows appeared nearby, showing satellite recon images of what looked like a cluster of large buildings; several of them with the round domes stereotypically associated with the Arab world. He wondered if they had been built in Ottoman times.

Then more pictures appeared, and he could make out the shape of armoured vehicles and dugouts.

"The complex itself is a pleasure palace, and officially abandoned. But as you can see, the site is heavily defended, and offers a clear run at the border. If Annaba falls, the government will almost certainly flee the site and escape into exile, from whence they will be in a position to coordinate armed resistance against our rule. If we are to rule in peace, this must not happen. Our mission, in short, is to take or destroy this facility, and capture or kill the Algerian government before it can escape."

The images disappeared, with the map shifting so that both the palace complex and the coast were visible, a new icon appearing around another blurred clump.

"This mission will serve a double purpose. The enemy is expecting an attack from the general direction of Annaba, so instead we will come at him from the north, at the Solar Power facility at Seraphaum. The facility provides electricity and water to Annaba and the entire province, so capturing it will further weaken Annaba's defences and make the task of developing this land easier."

A bright blue arrow split off from the units besieging Annaba, and a similar arrow materialized at Seraphaum. Both arrows converged on the palace.

"General Darlton will lead the main attack on the palace from the direction of Annaba," Cornelia went on. "I will personally lead the attack on Seraphaum. Whichever of us reaches the palace first will attack, while the other outflanks and attacks from the rear. Either way, there will be no escape."

Alexander's heart began to pound. He was not massively surprised by Darlton being given an independent command, but the Princess going off alone? Who would go with her?

"Sir Brandon Trask!" barked Guilford. "Sir George Bancroft! Sir Jonas Tyrell! Sir Travis Mortimer! Sir Manuel de Bracy! Sir Alexander Waldstein!"

Alexander's heart hammered in his chest as he leapt to his feet along with the others.

Silence.

"You six, down here!" commanded Guilford. "The rest, be ready to deploy in one hour. Dismissed!"

The other knights filed out of the room, some glaring jealously at the six chosen knights as they lined up before the podium. Alexander took them in one last time before standing to attention. All were capable young knights, capable enough to catch Cornelia's eye, and he had fought alongside most of them before. Only Tyrell was new, and that was doubtless why Cornelia had chosen him.

They were also handsome young men, of the sort the young ladies liked to ogle and fantasize about. That Cornelia tended to select such men had not gone unnoticed, unfortunately.

"I have selected you six to accompany me on this mission," said Cornelia. "We will deploy to Seraphaum by air, accompanied by the 156th airborne battalion, and . The paratroopers will secure the facility, then remain to guard it while we head south to the palace."

She stepped down from the podium, and stood directly in front of them. She regarded each one in turn, with those purple eyes.

"You are young, and relatively new to my service," she said. "But you have all served well, and have earned the opportunity to serve me directly. Serve well, and your futures in my service will be assured. Serve badly, and I will know. Are you all ready for this?"

"Yes, your highness!" they replied in unison.

"Good. Now ready your knightmares. Dismissed!"

(X)

---

EuroForce Military Base, near Tunis, Tunisia

Paladin Neil Dylandy, EuroForce Paladin Corps, scanned his eyes around the knightmare bay.

It was a big, tall building; no doubt converted from an aircraft hangar. The doors were open, letting a hot breeze blow in from outside; and the morning sun shone bright. A sharp contrast to the dark, stuffy briefing room from which he had just come; having received his orders for the mission ahead.

It was for the most part empty, with only six knightmares present; two short of a full section. They stood in broadly-spaced rows, facing eachother across the hangar floor, flanked by maintenance gantries. All but one of them were the new EFP-1D Orlando, their humanoid shapes clad in smooth, rounded armour.

As for the seventh…

Neil stared as he stepped closer, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing. It was like the Orlandos, at least up to a point. Like them, it had clearly been built from stolen or cloned parts from Britannian knightmares, with armour plates added and the head enhanced. But that was where the similarity ended. Whereas the standard Orlandos were in desert colours, this one was painted in leaping flames; a riot of orange, yellow, and red, as if it had just leapt from an inferno. Hanging down its back were a pair of enormous black scimitars, that looked long and sturdy enough to cut a knightmare in half.

Who the hell had a paint job like that? And who for that matter got swords? Actual, honest to goodness, metal swords?

Amid the low noise of the hangar, Neil heard the sound of typing. He looked around, and saw a technician sitting on the hangar floor near the strange knightmare. It was a young boy, or so he reckoned, with blonde hair shaven short. He was tapping furiously at a laptop keyboard, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Neil found himself in a quandry. He knew he should see to his own knightmare, and it didn't do to interrupt a tech while he was at work. But he really wanted to know whose mech that was!

"Okay, the autobalancer should be working now."

Neil looked up as the voice was replaced by the clatter of footsteps. A young man with dark brown hair emerged from behind the knightmare's back, stepping along a thin maintenance walkway and clambering down to ground level.

"A moment, Saji," replied the youth. His voice sounded strange, rather high for a young man. "Yes, it's reading all green."

"Great!" the other technician, who was apparently named Saji, smiled a weary smile. "Now it's just…"

Then he paused, noticing Neil for the first time.

"Can I help you sir?" he asked. He looked a little nervous. Neil paused long enough to read his rank insignia. Technician Second Grade.

Saji. A Japanese? He looked about right, but Neil couldn't be sure. There were no shortage of south-east Asians in the EU; and he didn't know them well enough to tell the difference.

"At ease, technician," he replied, trying to get the right balance of casual and professional. "I was just wondering whose knightmare this was?"

"It would be mine, Paladin."

The voice sent a shiver down his spine. Neil turned, mastering himself as he set eyes on a tall, muscular man clad in desert fatigues. He had a mane of red hair, as long as Neil's own; but whereas Neil kept his tied in a ponytail and topped with a field cap, the other's red locks hung around his shoulders. He looked like he would be at home standing at the prow of a longship, clad in chainmail, a large axe in his hand, his eyes gleaming at the sight of some rich, unsuspecting monastery.

And it was the eyes, more than anything. Those narrow, almost feral eyes.

He had seen them, during the briefing. He had been off to one side, in the shadows, but those eyes…

"Can I help you sir?" Neil asked. Like most soldiers who called someone they didn't know sir, he did so out of courtesy, not deference. It was a greeting he was not likely to go too far wrong with.

"Nothing for the moment, Paladin." The man stepped closer, his eyes fixed on a point behind Neil's shoulder. He glanced around, and realised that he was staring at a very scared-looking Saji.

"Technician Tsuji here seems to have forgotten my warning," he said, his voice a half-growl, half-purr. "I warned him about what happens to people who touch my knightmare."

"The system flagged up your autobalancer," Tsuji replied, barely managing not to stammer. "You seem to have some non-standard connectors as well."

"They're non-standard, because this knightmare is mine," growl-purred the man. "It has been modified to meet my personal requirements. As a result I am rather picky about who allow to lay their sticky fingers on it."

"Then you should ask for your money back, Monsieur Hamid."

The small voice brought them all up short. It took Neil a moment to realise that it had come from the other technician, who was still sitting on the floor working at his laptop as if nothing had happened.

"Oh?" The man whose name was Hamid turned and loomed menacingly over the young technician. "And what would you know about that?"

The technician did not reply, but stood up and turned towards Hamid, holding up his laptop with the screen forward. He had pale blue eyes, and a round, slightly soft face. Neil found himself wondering just how old he was. He looked so…young.

"They messed up the programming on your autobalancer," he said, in that same soft, high voice. "They stuck in some non-standard code, but didn't integrate it properly. Was this for something special, monsieur?"

Hamid stared down at the screen. Neil could see his eyes flicking back and forth, up and down.

"That coding just so happened to be for a little trick I spotted somewhere," he said. "And there was nothing wrong with it, technician."

"Indeed monsieur. But they forgot to update the secondary and tertiary subroutines to take it into account. In the event of a software clash, you would be relying on your Neural Synchronizer. Anything less than perfect synchronicity, and you'll be flat on your face."

Hamid lifted his head just slightly, staring into the boy's eyes. There was a flicker of fear there, but the boy stood his ground.

"And what, technician, is the possibility of that happening?"

"About two per cent, give or take."

There was a very long, very tense pause. Saji looked like he wanted to run and hide.

And then Hamid straightened up, his smirk restored.

"Then here's hoping that Jacque Sant-Clare is all he's cracked up to be," he growl-purred, a twinkle in his eyes. "I expect much of the boy who makes knightmares dance."

Neil's eyes almost popped out of his head. Jacque Sant-Clare? The Jacque Sant-Clare?

"Saji! Jacque! What are you doing hanging around there?"

Neil blinked as a young girl with blonde hair and an angry face came storming up to them. She wore the same uniform as himself; with a paladin's insignia at her collar, also like himself. Neil recognized her as one of the pilots at the briefing.

"Uh, Louise…" pleaded Saji, raising his hands to placate her.

"My mech needs a tune-up!" Louise complained. "And you're goofing off with Jacque and these jerks!"

Saji looked like he wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.

"Paladin Halevy," Jacque interjected. "This is Paladin Dylandy, and Monsieur Hamid."

Neil blinked again. He was sure he hadn't introduced himself.

"Oh right, you're the greenhorn who was supposed to arrive today." Louise Halevy, if that was who she was, looked him up and down. "You seen any action?"

"No, I haven't," he replied. She was pretty, he supposed, but her manner did not appeal. "And you, Paladin Halevy?"

"None, so far." Her cheeks reddened a little. "Anyway, who the heck are you anyway?" She rounded on Hamid. "You're out of uniform mister!"

Neil heard Saji gulp. Hamid did not reply, but regarded Louise with a look that put him in mind of a crocodile.

"Unfortunately, I have no uniform," he replied. "I am, you might say, an independent contractor."

"Oh really?" Louise glared suspiciously at him. "For whom, might I ask?"

"For us, today anyway."

A look of surprise and fear shot across Louise's face. She turned, and snapped to attention as three newcomers approached. Two of them were officers, in the same uniform as himself and Louise, but with a Lieutenant and a Captain's insignia respectively. Between them was a woman wearing an officer's short-sleeved blouse and knee-length skirt.

And a lieutenant colonel's insignia.

There was a crash of bootheels on concrete as all present, except Hamid, snapped to attention. Neil did likewise, for he recognised them. All three had been at the briefing, and the lieutenant colonel had given it.

"Hamid here is on loan from EuroSec," the lieutenant colonel said. "He was here on another matter, and they've agreed to let us borrow him for today. I trust no one has any problems?"

Neil stared at the lieutenant-colonel, fascinated. She had soft brown hair tied in a braid at the back of her neck, and a pair of gentle brown eyes that seemed to twinkle in mild amusement. There was something warm and pleasant about her, not quite right for an officer, but nevertheless a bright confidence that made him feel good just to see it.

Her blouse was tight. A little too tight. Make that a lot too tight.

"What are you staring at, Paladin?" demanded the lieutenant, stomping closer to glare at him. He was a few years older than himself, with red-brown hair hanging down the back of his neck. "You wouldn't happen to be staring at the Lieutenant Colonel, would you?"

"Uh, no lieutenant!" Neil snapped to attention once again. "I'm terribly sorry for my rudeness, lieutenant colonel!"

The lieutenant colonel gave him an indulgent smile; the sort she might have reserved for a hyperactive puppy, or a child who had gotten muddy. Neil felt something inside him melting like chocolate.

Too damn tight!

"I am Lieutenant Colonel Leesa Kujo," she introduced herself. "Ideally there would be time to get you introduced properly, but there isn't. Is your gear stowed?"

"Yes lieutenant colonel."

"Good. I see you've met Louise, as well as Saji and Jacque too. Just to get this over with, this is Lieutenant Patrick Colasour, and Captain Emilio Ribisi."

She gestured from the brown-haired lieutenant to the captain. He was a taller, slightly older man with curly black hair and a narrow, but not unpleasant face. He had a friendly air about him.

"Any more introductions will have to wait," she went on. "In the meantime, I trust there are no problems here, Hamid?"

"None at all, Leesa." Hamid gestured to Jacque. "Jacque was just showing me his work."

"Oh really?" Leesa brightened. "May I see it?"

"Of course, lieutenant colonel." Jacque blushed a little as he opened his laptop, which he had stowed under his arm, to show her. Leesa stepped forward, and bent over to peruse the lines of code.

Damn it all! Her skirt was too tight!

Neil saw the looks Louise and Patrick were giving him. But he could not bring himself to look away. It was just so…so…

"Excellent work as ever, Second Technician." Leesa shot Jacque a smile as she straightened up. "In the meantime, Hamid and I need to discuss something. Carry on, Captain Ribisi."

She headed off, with Hamid in tow. Neil stared after her, unable to tear his eyes away. Louise grabbed Saji by the hand and hauled him off towards her knightmare. Jacque shrugged and followed.

"Great, now he's gone," said Emilio, smiling. "Welcome aboard, Paladin. I am Captain Emilio Ribisi, and this is my company."

He gestured fulsomely around the hangar. Neil followed his gesture, not knowing what else to do. Eight knightmares did not make much of a company, but he could not bring himself to say so.

"Yes, we're a little short-handed at the moment," Emilio went on. "Hard fighting, first in Turkey, then here. You and Louise are the first replacements we've had in months."

Neil was not all that surprised. For seven years the EU's armies had struggled to hold back the tides of darkness, otherwise known as the Britannians and their allies. The news media was relatively honest about it, if only because disaster sold as many papers as victory, if not more. No one knew for certain how many had died, but there was whispered to have been millions. Maybe tens of millions.

"Anyway, as our sniper you'll stay at the back, watch our backs, and put down anything you see that isn't us," Emilio said cheerfully. "Louise will be your partner. She's young, and she's got an attitude, but she's capable, and she'll never abandon a friend.

"Yes lieutenant."

There was another reason, Neil knew. She was the newest aside from him, and still young. Better to have her hang back and guard him than join the dance of death.

Neil could live with it. He had seen death before, and did not really fear it.

"Something you want to say, Paladin?" Emilio asked. The question was friendly, but with a hint of insistence. Neil paused, then found that he wanted to answer.

"What the hell is this about, Captain? Why are we going on this mission? Whose idea was it? His?"

He nodded towards Hamid, who was following Lieutenant Colonel Kujo around while she inspected the knightmares. Emilio sighed.

"Hamid just brought us the intel," he said. "It was the lieutenant colonel who decided on the mission. You did see that badge, didn't you? The crossed batons?"

He had seen it. He hadn't registered right away, but he had indeed seen that badge; the badge of the crossed batons.

"She's with the Strategos Corps?"

"Indeed, Paladin." A gleam of pride flashed in Emilio's eyes as he gazed over at her. "And if she says this mission's good, that's good enough for me."

Neil regarded him for a moment. There was something about him, something that was friendly, and yet impressive; welcoming, and yet inspiring. It wasn't something he could put into words, but somehow he felt at home there, in that moment.

"Anyway, I'll leave you to get your mech ready. Over to you, Lieutenant." He nodded at Patrick, turned on his heel, and strode away.

"And that, Paladin, is our beloved Captain," said Patrick. "He's a fine officer, but not half so fine in a knightmare as me!" He smirked.

"Yes, lieutenant." He didn't know what else to say.

"Whaddya mean, yes lieutenant!" snapped Patrick. "Don't you know who I am? I'm Patrick Colasour! Ace of the EU! I got twenty-five kills on the Syrian front!"

Neil was at a loss. He didn't doubt that the lieutenant was an ace, for there were no shortage of them, and something told him Captain Ribisi wouldn't tolerate a liar in his company. But he honestly hadn't heard of the man until that moment.

Neil sighed, and found his eyes wandering back towards the lieutenant colonel, still on her tour of inspection.

"You're wasting your time with that one, Paladin."

Neil jumped almost out of his skin. Patrick was smirking like the cat who swallowed the canary, got rid of the feathers, and secured himself a nice tub of cream into the bargain.

"You're about ten years too early to have a shot with our dear lieutenant colonel," Patrick went on. "Besides, she's already spoken for."

Neil almost gaped, wondering who he meant. And then he remembered the way Captain Ribisi had looked at her.

"The Captain."

"Hey, good eye!" Patrick's mood seemed to lighten. "They've been at if for years, as long as I've known them anyway."

Neil sighed. Of course she would already have a boyfriend. Someone as beautiful and charming as her, and talented enough to join the Strategos Corps? What chance did a simple Irish lad from Donegal have with a woman like her?

A lad from Donegal, who'd joined EuroForce with nothing but his name and a heart full of pain.

He would forget about her.

He had to forget about her.

(X)

---

Seraphaum, Algeria

The facility was quite a sight.

So Alexander thought as his cockpit opened, the seat sliding up and out. He stood up and looked around, taking in the facility in its entirety.

Heliostats, gleaming like polished silver in the morning sun, stretched for a kilometre in all directions. They stood in clusters around cylindrical towers, reflecting sunlight onto their gleaming walls. Inside those towers, Alexander knew, sea water pumped in from the coast – just visible in the distance – was being boiled into steam. The steam then turned turbines, and was collected and condensed into water.

Alexander could see why the facility was so important. It provided not only power, but clean water. Such facilities, if they could be taken intact, would make the task of colonising the new Area Eighteen so much easier.

All around he could see soldiers on foot, clad in their grey armour, inspecting the heliostats. There was little for them to do, as both the facility and the small town of Seraphaum nearby had proven to be deserted.

It struck Alexander as very odd. He understood that the enemy, be they Algeria or EU, not attempting to defend the place, for it was not particularly defensible. What he didn't understand was why they had left the place intact. They had destroyed other such facilities rather than let them fall into Britannian hands. So why was this one untouched?

His lip curled. He didn't want to hang around there getting scorched when there was clearly nothing to see. But Princess Cornelia had ordered them all to spread out and cover all likely approaches, at least until the paratroopers were done checking the towers. His place was there, at least for another few minutes or so.

He glanced down at his watch. The attack on Annaba was surely underway. He could see it in his mind's eye; the Sutherlands swarming over the land and down the streets, the Caliburn assault guns rolling along in support, the Raven VTOL gunships hovering overhead, like raptors searching for prey. He could see the flashes of gunfire; hear the chatter of the autocannons, the cracks of the heavy guns, the crump of explosions.

He could see the enemy too. He could see the Algerians, with their old-style APCs and armours, the infantry holed up in buildings, RPGs whoosing from windows and loopholes. He could see the EU troops in blue, and the knightmares; those ugly yet terrifying Panzer-Hummels, and the nimble, unsettlingly familiar Orlandos.

A beeping drew him from his thoughts. He slid his chair down into his cockpit, and saw that his comm screen was showing an incoming call.

"Waldstein."

"Tower is secure, my lord."

"Anything to report?"

"No, my lord. Nobody's been here for a while."

"Good. Carry on."

Just like the others. The place was deserted, and they hadn't even set explosives or booby traps. Not that they really needed to. If they still wanted to destroy the facility, they could do it from the air, or with artillery.

He keyed for the Princess.

"Report," came the familiar voice.

"Sector four is secure, your highness. No signs of sabotage or traps."

"That's the same report I'm getting everywhere else," replied Cornelia, sounding almost disappointed. "No signs of life, as if they just dropped everything and cleared out. Almost like the…"

Her voice became a crackling warble. Alexander tapped at the comm screen, trying to regain contact, but all he got was white noise.

White noise…

His heart jumped into his mouth. The next thing he knew he was moving, his feet slamming down on the pedals, his Gloucester almost leaping into motion. Behind him, the tower vanished in a flash of light. An instant later he felt the blast wave, the sound hammering at his ears.

He looked around, eyes flicking between the three screens that were his windows on the world outside. All the while he raced onward, darting between the gleaming reflectors. His heart thundered in his chest, matching the drumbeat in his temples. He had to get away, he had to…

Then he saw it. A shape emerging from behind one of the other towers. It was vaguely humanoid, putting him in mind of a Sutherland or Gloucester, but covered in smooth, rounded armour plates. Its head was different too, regarding him with a chevron visor that flashed red as it fixed on him.

His factsphere latched onto it, running through the registry and posting it in the corner of his forward screen. But Alexander didn't need to look. He already knew what it was.

The Orlando brought up its weapon; a longer and heavier-looking analogue to his own Assault Rifle. It fired off a burst, and then another, forcing Alexander to jink hard. Around him, reflectors disintegrated under the Orlando's fire, filling the air around him with glittering shards. Again and again he dodged, until the Orlando stopped firing and began to move, relocating to a better position.

Alexander brought up his assault rifle with a thought. He squeezed the trigger, sending a missile straight into tower wall beside the Orlando. The missile hit, blowing out the wall in a cloud of debris. But the Orlando was moving, sliding away to his right, then turning hard to run parallel. Its heavy rifle blazed, bullets whipping past his Gloucester, hitting so hard he could feel them even in his cockpit. Unable to jink, Alexander threw himself forward, his stomach churning as his Gloucester rolled over its head and onto its back, sheer momentum taking it back up and onto its feet.

He turned left, rounding the door at speed. As he came around he brought up his rifle again, ready to empty his clip into the tan-painted enemy.

But he wasn't there. All he could see was debris and scored sand.

Alexander halted, but only long enough to turn and continue on his previous course. Only a rookie, and a doomed one at that, stood still in a combat zone.

Controlling his breathing, willing his heart to slow, he collected his thoughts. This enemy was no rookie, that much was clear, and Alexander doubted he was alone. There would almost certainly be more of them, taking advantage of the jamming to move about unnoticed, catching his brother knights isolated and alone, picking them off.

He gritted his teeth, forcing down the bile that bubbled in his already churning stomach. He couldn't afford to rage, not now. No time for Orlando's fury, even without the irony.

And what an irony. He knew about the Orlando, of course; the EU's umbrella designation for Britannian knightmares salvaged from the battlefield for their own use, or built from stolen parts, or purchased on the black market. Many knights scoffed at such scavenging, while a few raged at the sight of them; sickened to see their own machines sent back at them, changed.

Alexander cared nothing for such notions, especially not now. He could see the low, rounded shape of the control centre in the near distance, and turned towards it. It was the obvious thing to do, the first place the enemy would look for him, but he had no choice. It was the last place he knew the Princess to be, and his place was at her side.

There was a reflector up ahead, blocking his path. Alexander waited until the last moment, then jinked right, slaloming around the reflector. The control centre was right in front of him.

The explosion flung him forward. It was all he could do to turn, to land on his shoulder and roll; his head smacking hard against his headrest, warning lights flashing on the monitor.

He stuck out his knees, letting the momentum take him up onto his feet. He looked around, and saw a scorched crater where the reflector had once stood. A half-second sooner, and the blast would have crippled him.

His nerves stung as he snapped his eyes from left to right, and forced his Gloucester into motion. Someone was out there. Someone was hunting for him.

Then he saw it. That tan shape again; though whether the same one or another he couldn't tell. It emerged from behind the nearest tower, rifle spitting those same tight bursts. Alexander slewed left and right as he moved away on an angle, firing his missile launcher again, and again. But while he blasted debris from the tower and scorched the sand, the missiles would not strike. The Orlando was just a little too fast, a little too agile. Always they missed, just by a little.

Alexander judged his moment, then jammed to a halt and spun on his heels; his head aching with the pressure as he slammed down the pedals and sped away, straight at the Orlando. The Orlando fired, but Alexander jinked, dodging the worst of it as he sent back a stream of 20mm rounds. He felt the thrill of victory as the stream strafed across the Orlando's chest and shoulder, scoring and blackening the armour. The Orlando began to fall back, and Alexander pressed on, ready for the kill.

Then the Orlando stopped, spinning around to face him, lashing out with its free hand. Alexander began to slow, and then his heart clenched as he saw the narrow blade sliding out from its wrist. He flung himself to the side, hearing the shriek of metal on metal as the blade slashed across his plastron, scoring the armour.

His head was aching, his stomach churning; his whole body felt like it was being crushed in a vice. But Alexander forced himself to concentrate, stowing his Assault Rifle and activating both Stun Tonfa. The enemy came on, stowing its own rifle and extending another blade from its other forearm; its movements so smooth, so fluid.

It lashed out with one blade, forcing Alexander to dodge. It thrust with the other, but Alexander was ready, his armoured forearm catching it and deflecting it away. He thrust with his other forearm, the Stun Tonfa crackling, but the Orlando dodged left, his thrust bouncing off its pauldron. He lashed out again, and again, but always the Orlando caught his blow or dodged.

Alexander gritted his teeth. He had to end this fight, and quickly. But how?

The Orlando came on again, thrusting with its left forearm for the protruding front of his cockpit. Alexander caught his blow, but in came the right forearm, forcing him to block with his left. The Orlando threw itself forward, tackling him hard and throwing him back. It was all Alexander could do to block his blows, to stop him getting that single thrust that might prove fatal.

Alexander gritted his teeth. He had to finish this! He had to find something, anything!

The Orlando thrust out its left forearm, the blade glittering as it flashed towards him. Alexander reached out, and grabbed the outstretched arm. He turned hard, breaking right and dragging the Orlando along. As the Orlando stumbled, he thrust his right forearm, driving the Stun Tonfa into the Orlando's hip. The Orlando staggered away, its armour cracked and blackened where the Stun Tonfa had struck. Alexander struck again, and again, until the knightmare staggered, crumpled, and toppled to the ground.

Alexander paused, staring down at the stricken knightmare. It was an alien thing, a design so unlike any Britannian knightmare. But looking closer, he could see the familiar shapes, the familiar lines, albeit partly concealed by the EU-made armour plates. He felt a strange shiver, a sense of something wrong. It was uncanny, unheimlich, almost like…

Then he remembered, and he moved. A bolt of lightning flashed past him, tearing away his right pauldron. He kept moving, zig-zagging hard, cursing himself for having been distracted. He rounded one of the towers, his mind blank with terror and fury, desperate to get away…

And then he slammed to a halt, as he saw the three figures in front of him. Three knightmares, rifles aimed one-handed at him, ready to fire.

Alexander reacted, bringing up his rifle in reflex. And then he saw the purple armour, the long black capes, the tall lances, and the long antler-like communication vanes crowning the head of the middle knightmare.

"Your highness!" Alexander called out.

"Alexander!" It was his princess. It was Cornelia. "Be more careful next time! We almost shot you!"

Alexander almost wept with relief. No amount of mockery or scorn could take that moment from him. She was alive! She was safe!

"Your highness!" he called out, his heart clenching with dread. "There's a sniper!"

"I know! He got de Bracy and Trask! Follow me!"

Cornelia spun on her heel, her cape billowing, and sped away towards the control centre. Alexander followed on, as did the others; the transponder at last identifying them as Mortimer and Bancroft.

They reached the control centre. It was a large building, around four storeys tall, its walls smooth and rounded; looking to Alexander like something out of a science fiction show, as if it belonged on the Moon rather than in the desert. They rounded the corner, keeping the building's mass between themselves and the sniper, and reached the other side.

The town of Seraphaum, directly to the south of the command centre, was not all that much to speak of. The buildings were in the local style, but seemed new somehow, lacking the weathered, lived-in feel Alexander had seen elsewhere. They had been built as living space for the facility workers, but over time they had attracted other visitors and tenants. The desert tribes had come, collecting the tithe of water promised by the EU in return for their cooperation, and purchasing as much more as they could afford. Such a bounty had drawn more and more, until the little settlement had become a bustling town.

Not any more.

As the three of them rolled to a halt in the main street, Alexander saw no signs of life. The people who had lived and traded there had fled, perhaps not all that long ago. There was little to see, little in the way of debris or bric-a-brac, but that was no surprise. The desert peoples owned little that they could not pack up and carry away easily, and had not stayed so long as to break that habit. The place might as well have never been inhabited at all.

It was strangely eerie, in spite of everything.

"Your highness," he called out, trying to gather his thoughts. "What happened? Did anyone else survive?"

"Just us, Alexander," came the grim reply. "We got two apart from yours, but there's more of them out there."

"They came out of nowhere!" snarled Bancroft, the electronic fuzz of the comm doing nothing to hide his fury. "That damned sniper got de Bracy right in front of me! It was all I could do to get away!"

"You can mourn later," retorted Cornelia. "We're short on time as it is. Alexander, can you find that sniper again?"

"He was on a dune to the north-west," replied Alexander. "But he must have relocated at least once while tracking me. Doubtless he is doing so now."

"And it won't take the others long to figure out where we've gone." The jamming gave their voices an electronic rasp, even at such close range. But Alexander could still hear the frustration in Cornelia's tone. "Nevertheless, we make our stand here. We have some cover at least."

"Yes, your highness."

(X)

---

Neil Dylandy gritted his teeth as he scanned his eyes from screen to screen.

Normally he didn't mind relocating. A sniper was most vulnerable when he was in firing position, eyes fixed on the target, his whole world narrowed to that one tiny spot; reliant on his partner to shield him.

But as he slid across the sand, keeping his Orlando down behind the dunes, he did not feel at all safe. To move on the sand, his knightmare's feet were equipped with broad, curving plates; like skis and snow-shoes combined. They let him move across the desert sands easily enough, but they threw up one hell of a cloud if he put on any kind of speed.

"Keep an eye out," he called out to his partner over the comm. "They'll have help on the way for sure."

"No way!" retorted Louise Halevy, from the other Orlando at his flank. "We're jamming them!"

Neil rolled his eyes. It was a fair point on the face of it, but…

"If they've got half a brain between them, they'll be checking in automatically every few minutes or so" he said, trying not to be too terse. "When they don't check in, someone'll assume something's wrong and come looking."

"Whatever! There's no one here anyway! I've checked six times!"

"Well check one last time! We're almost there!"

Neil slowed to a halt and crouched down behind a particularly tall dune; not that it was all that tall. In the near distance he could see the small town clearly; a cluster of buildings directly to the south of the heliostat field's control centre. Even like this, he couldn't see much, not with all the buildings in the way. But the only better location was on top of the control centre; and that was far too close.

"You can't see anything from here!" complained Louise, taking up position a little way to his left. "Let's go a little further. You can shoot straight up the main street."

"No chance. It's too obvious." Neil settled down, readying his rifle. "This spot'll have to do."

He eased the rifle forward. It was an upgraded version of the Judgement rifle the others used, and fired the same 30mm rounds. The standard Judgement could manage about four kilometres, but in practice only about half that. His S-type Judgement was optimized for five kilometres, and he had managed longer ranges than that; at least on the training ground. Combined with the upgrade package added to his factsphere, he was as well equipped for sniping as any knightmare could be.

His comm crackled, and he tapped the button to open the channel.

"Lockon," he said, giving his callsign.

"This is Sultan," growled a voice that had become irritatingly familiar. "We're ahead at four to two. No more contacts on the field."

Neil shivered. Two down? It wasn't bad, but two of those four enemy kills had been his, and both of those had been completely by surprise. That meant one kill each, against a surprised and spread-out enemy.

Who were these people?

"I got two, but one got away," he replied. "Did ours pop out?"

"Cockroach got out, Turpin didn't."

Cockroach; as Hamid insisted on calling Lieutenant Colasour, much to the latter's annoyance. Oh well, at least one of them had gotten out.

"What do you need?" he asked, forcing himself not to dwell on it.

"The rest are in the town. At least three, maybe four. Got any HE rounds left?"

Neil glanced down at his console.

"One left."

"Listen very carefully."

(X)

---

Alexander let out a snarl as he squeezed the trigger, unleashing a stream of tracer at the tan knightmare in front of him. The Orlando ducked out of sight, and the bullets tore into the building behind him.

There were at least two of them, and had been harassing them since not long after they had taken up position in the town. They never committed, never pushed on hard enough that Alexander and his comrades could trap and overwhelm them. They merely darted in and out, snapping off shots and falling back before anyone could respond.

His heart hammered, his eyes flicking from left to right. This was dangerous. This was dragging on too long. They had allowed themselves to be tied down.

"Princess!" he called into the comm, snapping off a burst as one of the Orlandos fired at him. "We have to go! It's dangerous here!"

"Getting tired already, Alexander?" retorted Cornelia, as she sent a missile straight into one of the buildings, blasting it into a cloud of dust. "I thought you were made of sterner stuff!"

She sounded so confident. She sounded so brave, so bright. Did she no longer know where she was? What she was doing?

Was she truly without fear?

A flicker to his left. He spun, squeezing the trigger as a tan shape emerged from a side street. The missile flew true, striking the Orlando full in the chest. For an instant he saw the tan knightmare topple backward; then it blew apart, the wreckage tearing into the surrounding buildings.

"See what happens when you concentrate, Sir Alexander!" it was Bancroft, his tone light and easy, as if they were playing baseball in a park.

Something hit him, like a gust of a mighty wind, strong enough almost to knock him over. He heard the crump of the explosion a moment later, and felt the clatter of debris bouncing off his armour. More of it flew past him, chunks of scorched stone and blackened wood.

He turned, just in time to see a billowing cloud of smoke where one of the buildings had been.

And a shape leaping from the smoke, its body made of swirling flames.

For a moment Alexander froze, transfixed. Then he threw himself back as the knightmare attacked, swinging a great black scimitar to cut him in half. The blade flashed past him, cutting through the barrel of his assault rifle. Alexander dropped the ruined weapon, activating his Stun Tonfas as the monstrosity came on, its scimitar hissing as it cut through the air.

"Monster!" yelled Bancroft, lowering his lance and charging at the strange knightmare. Alexander stared in horrified fascination as the knightmare – some sort of modified Orlando - moved, swinging its sword to parry the lance tip away while drawing an identical weapon from its back. Alexander opened his mouth to scream a warning, but could only watch as the enemy moved, stepping past Bancroft and swinging the second blade around, slicing into his Gloucester's waist. Alexander saw the blade cut deep, through the purple armour and into the Yggdrassil Drive. The Orlando lashed out with one leg, kicking Bancroft's stricken Gloucester even as it smoothly turned away. The Gloucester skidded forward, and then blew apart.

With a shout of fury, Alexander brought up his rifle. His missiles were gone, but his rifle roared, throwing out a stream of tracer towards the flame-painted knightmare. But the knightmare turned, moving like water, zig-zagging over the sand. In the blink of an eye it was upon him, a black scimitar swinging to cut him in half. Alexander flung himself back, the blade slicing through his assault rifle, the other rising to cut down at his head.

Alexander cried out, and flung the maimed rifle at his enemy. It bounced off the head, and the Orlando hesitated. Alexander saw his chance, and hurled himself at the Orlando, the impact hammering through his Gloucester, shaking his head so hard his vision filled with bright lights. The Orlando staggered back, and Alexander activated his Stun Tonfa, lashing out with his left.

But the Orlando's pilot was equal to the task. As Alexander's left stun tonfa came for him, he dipped and turned, vanishing under the outstretched arm and grabbing it with his own. Alexander saw the danger, but too late, as the Orlando turned hard, spinning him around and hurling him away. He crashed into one of the buildings, thrusting out his legs as the impact made his head ache. Masonry and prefab plastic tumbled down around him as he manged to stop, just before the back wall.

He looked up, forcing himself to focus. The flame-painted Orlando had turned away from him, and was looking towards the Princess and Mortimer. Mortimer was battling with the other Orlando from before, while the Princess was in close combat with yet another Orlando. This one was in the same tan colours as its fellow, but its head was somewhat different; somewhat larger, with what might have been comm vanes on either side of its brow.

A command unit? Was this their leader? If so, then what was that flame-painted machine doing there? What was its purpose?

No time for that. It was heading towards Cornelia, scimitars brandished high.

Alexander screamed, and his Gloucester erupted out of the ruined building. He raced towards the flaming Orlando, Stun Tonfa at the ready. Closer and closer he came, the gap closing ever smaller, thrusting out with his right arm.

The Orlando began to turn, the stun tonfa catching it in the shoulder. It broke away, the pauldron coming away in a shower of sparks. Alexander snarled with triumph, rounding on the Orlando as it turned to face him. The crimson visor flashed, and a shiver ran down his spine.

There was something…strangely familiar about that machine, about the way it moved.

"Well done Sir Alexander!" Mortimer called out, as he swung his lance hard, knocking his opponent to the ground. "That was…!"

A flash of light cut through Alexander's vision, like a bolt of lightning or a distant reflection. Mortimer's Gloucester stumbled, and then exploded, the lance dropping to the ground and bouncing away across the blackened sand.

Alexander's heart leapt into his mouth, but he didn't have time to cry out. The flaming Orlando was on him again, scimitars hissing as they cut through the air. He had no choice but to fall back, to dodge those deadly blades as they slashed and sliced. He had seen what they did to Bancroft. One blow would likely be enough.

He had to think of something. Something!

(X)

---

Neil gritted his teeth.

He couldn't do anything. Even with so many buildings trashed, he couldn't get a clear shot. With that last one down, the only survivors were in close combat; whirling and striking in their deadly dance.

He could not fire. He dared not fire. He could not risk hitting either of them.

"This stinks!" complained Louise. "I wanna go out there! I can't do anything from here!"

He understood her frustration. Escorting a sniper was simultaneously stressful and boring, in a way that only warfare could be. She wanted to go down there and join the battle, to prove her worth. But instead she was stuck guarding him, watching the places he dared not watch for himself, looking out for an enemy that might or might not ever come.

Even so…

"Just stay where you are," he retorted. "Watch the horizon. They might have reinforcements."

"I can't see anything!" Louise snapped back. "Besides, they can't call with all this jamming!"

Neil ignored her, fixing his eyes on the battle. He could see the two surviving Britannians; a pair of purple Gloucesters, their armour scorched and pitted, their cloaks torn to shreds. But one was different; the purple of its armour a darker shade, those great antler-like comm vanes reaching out from its head.

It was her for sure. The lieutenant-colonel had been right. Princess Cornelia had come in person to Seraphaum. How she had figured out that it would happen, Dylandy would never know.

There she was, their objective, their great chance. To kill her here and now. One single kill that might, just might, change the course of the war.

And he couldn't do it. He couldn't take the shot. Captain Ribisi was in the way.

"Captain Ribisi!" he called out, jabbing at the comm screen. "Captain! Get away from there! Help Hamid!"

Hamid seemed to be having trouble. That other Gloucester, the standard model, seemed to keep slipping through his grasp no matter what he did.

"Don't worry about me!" came the Captain's voice, distorted but clear. "Take the shot!"

Neil's blood ran cold.

"Negative!" he replied. "Get out of the way! Get away from her!"

"Take the shot!"

Neil's blood had turned to ice. The world had fallen away, leaving only the image in his telescopic sight; a tiny reality, containing two figures. Two knightmares, whirling and flashing, dancing back and forth across his targeting cross, the reticule bouncing back and forth as it tried to acquire.

His finger tightened around the trigger, readying to fire, waiting for the moment. He saw the purple Gloucester move into position, but then it was gone, and there was Captain Ribisi. He froze, holding back, waiting for a chance. But too quickly they moved, back and forth, one then the other.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't fire. He didn't have a clear shot. They had told him this in training. Don't like, don't take. Don't settle for second best, and don't put your comrades in danger.

"Take the shot, Paladin!"

His finger tightened, almost in reflex. He waited, breathing in and out, willing time to slow down, to let him take the shot.

He waited, and waited, and waited.

Until Cornelia drove her stun tonfa into Emilio's plastron, and flung him to the ground, and vanished out of sight.

(X)

---

Alexander was at his limit.

Never before, not even at the academy, had he battled like this. His head ached as if his brain was trying to force its way out, and his entire body felt as heavy as lead. All around him, red warning lights flashed, making his eyes hurt. Every breath was an agony.

The flame-painted Orlando stood before him in a combat stance. Its armour was scored and blackened where he had struck it. It wasn't much, but he had hurt it, even if only a little.

A small consolation, before he died.

The Orlando moved. Alexander willed his agonized, exhausted mind to respond, to make his knightmare move. He had one last trick he could try, one last roll of the dice.

The Orlando swung, the black scimitar coming down on his head. He jinked to the left, cutting across the enemy's front, barely avoiding the blade, waiting for the second to come from his left, to cut him in half.

He grabbed it, and flung himself straight at the Orlando. Warning buzzers squawked at the impact, but he grasped at the arm and spun around on the spot. He felt the Orlando move, saw it spin around him and stagger away as he let go. He readied his stun tonfa as the Orlando stumbled to a halt and spun around, its visor flashing as if in anger.

But it did not attack. And Alexander wondered why.

And then he saw Princess Cornelia's knightmare, stooping to pick up Bancroft's dropped lance. Tears of relief welled in his eyes as she held the lance two-handed, levelling the point at the Orlando.

"You can surrender to us, or die here and now!" bellowed Cornelia over her loudspeaker. "Tell your sniper to come out too! Our reinforcements will be here in moments!"

A bluff, Alexander knew. A bluff, but a grand and magnificent bluff, as grand and magnificent as anything else she did. Even through his weariness, his heart ached with pride.

The Orlando did not reply straight away. Its head moved, glancing from one to the other, with a curiously languid manner. Then it reached behind its back and sheathed both scimitars.

"I'd like to make a counter-offer," it said, in a voice that gave no indication of being afraid, or in any way unsettled by its owner's situation. "You can run away, very fast."

For a moment, Alexander did not know what to think or say. Was he out of his mind? Even if he saw through Cornelia's bluff, his sniper companion could not help him; or else he would have done so.

"Your arrogance does you no credit," retorted Cornelia. "Come out of that machine peacefully, and I might find it in myself to treat you as a prisoner of war, and not as a knightslayer."

"A knightslayer, am I?" mused the Orlando. "Well, I suppose I've done worse things."

Alexander was getting frustrated, not to mention confused. A part of him wanted to rip him out of that wretched machine and smash it to pieces, just to get him to shut up. That voice got on his nerves; that growling voice, so irritatingly languid, yet clad in an air of menace. How could he be so wretchedly calm, when he was about to be killed or captured? How could he speak so lightly of being a knightslayer, with the blood of Alexander's comrades on his hands?

Then it hit him. Was he wasting time? Was he expecting reinforcements? Holding out for the sniper? Or was it something else?

"Alexander! Run!" It was Cornelia, her voice frantic. "He's transmitting a homing signal! Get out of here now!"

For a moment Alexander froze, too bewildered to respond. Then he glanced down at the comm screen, and saw that the jamming signal was gone.

A cold spike twisted in his gut, adrenalin thundering through his body, driving away the fatigue. He spun his Gloucester around, slamming down the pedals. The knightmare almost leapt into motion, falling in beside Cornelia as they raced down the street, and out into the desert.

Behind him, he could hear the explosions; the blam-blam of detonating warheads, melding into an overwhelming, incoherent roar.

Cornelia swung around to a stop. Alexander did likewise, and turned to see what had transpired behind him.

All he could see was a pall of billowing smoke, punctuated here and there by crackling flames. The entire town, the entire Seraphaum facility, was a sea of fire.

For a long time they watched in silence. Alexander could not tear his eyes away, nor entirely believe what had just happened.

"Are you all right, Alexander?" Cornelia asked. Her tone was regal, but he could detect just a little worry.

"I am all right, your highness." Alexander felt so very weary, in body and in soul, as he gazed over the inferno.

"You fought well out there," she said. "That fellow with the scimitars was no weakling."

"Your highness." A lump rose in Alexander's throat. "How…how could it happen?"

"They were surely EuroForce Paladins," Cornelia replied. "And they took us by surprise. You've nothing to be ashamed of, Alexander. You did well just to survive."

Alexander wanted to say something noble, something knightly. But he could not think of anything. He could not even find the will to speak. The thought of such destruction, of so many brave young knights killed so suddenly, weighed down his soul like so many iron chains.

"We will honour them later," Cornelia said, as if sensing his mood. "For now, we still have our mission. Can you still fight?"

Alexander glanced over his screens, taking in the red warning lights and damage alerts. His Gloucester had taken considerable punishment, and he had no weapons but his Stun Tonfa. To make matters worse, his Energy Filler was running low.

"I stand ready, your highness."

"Well then." Cornelia hefted Bancroft's lance. "Let's not keep Guilford and Darlton waiting."

(X)

---

EuroForce Military Base, near Tunis, Tunisia

Neil Dylandy was in hell.

It had been two days since the mission to Seraphaum. Two days since he had returned, along with Louise and Hamid, carrying a sand-caked and very grumpy Patrick Colasour in his knightmare's hands. Four returned, out of seven that had gone. Three paladins and four machines lost.

Paul Turpin. Ladislas Brezina. Emilio Ribisi. Three more names on a memorial somewhere. Three more dead in a war that had killed millions

And for what? For a single heliostat facility that had cost millions of Euros to build, and had to be destroyed so the Britannians couldn't use it? For five Britannian knights, and a battalion of paratroopers? Heck, they hadn't even gotten the paratroopers themselves.

And yet Princess Cornelia had gotten away. Cornelia, who had been the real target of the mission; whom Lieutenant Colonel Kujo had somehow guessed would be leading the raid herself. And not only that, she had managed to join in an attack on the Algerian government's secret HQ to the south of Seraphaum; flanking the defenders while her knights attacked head-on. Anyone not killed in the fighting was surely a prisoner, or dying of thirst in the desert.

He could have lived with that. He could have lived with knowing that they had lost Algeria, lived with five kills for three losses, even lived with that damn princess living to fight another day.

What he couldn't live with was knowing that it was his fault.

No one had actually said so. Some of them had even seemed sympathetic, to the point where he could almost believe that they did not, in fact, despise him for the coward and failure he surely was. Even Lieutenant Colasour had pitched in, yelling that he had no business wallowing in self pity after good men had died.

In the end, he could see only one path, one way out of the darkness that threatened to swallow him up. It was this that had brought him to the corridor outside Colonel Kujo's office.

He had been standing there for at least an hour, trying to find the courage to knock on the door. Then, after a strange notion that someone was watching him, he went ahead and knocked.

There was no reply. He knocked again, only for the door to slid open a crack. Forcing down his nerves, Neil stepped through the door.

"Excuse me Lieutenant Colonel…" He trailed off.

Leesa Kujo was seated at her desk, looking about half the woman she had been before. Her brown hair was a frizzy mess, and her eyes were in shadow. The room stank of liquor.

"Lieutenant Colonel," he said, his voice quavering. "I…came to apologise."

"Apologise?" Leesa looked up, and he saw the dark circles under her eyes. "For what?"

For a moment he faltered. He couldn't say it. He couldn't bring himself to say the words; the words that marked him, condemned him.

"It's my fault, lieutenant colonel." He had to say it, though his soul withered with every word. "It's my fault that Captain Ribisi died."

For a long time, what felt like an eternity, she stared at him with those eyes. Those big eyes, once so bright, now dull and empty-looking. It was almost too much to bear.

"No, Paladin Dylandy, it was not." Leesa's voice slurred slightly as she stood up. "It was my fault. My plan, my fault."

"Lieutenant colonel…!"

She stepped around the desk, and stood in front of the window, staring out over the base.

"I saw the footage, Paladin." There was a sour edge to her tone. "I saw all of it. Had you taken the shot, you might just as well have hit Emilio. Then you would have killed the man I loved, instead of merely allowing Cornelia to kill him."

Neil's heart clenched. Why, oh why did she have to say it out loud? Why did she have to torment him with it, even now?

"Tell me something, Paladin Dylandy," she went on. "Would that be justified in your opinion? Was his life worth sacrificing for a chance to take down Cornelia li Britannia?"

Neil cleared his throat. He knew what his heart wanted to say, but that didn't make it right.

"I would have given my life for that chance, lieutenant colonel."

"That's not what I asked, Paladin." She turned to stare at him again. "Would you have sacrificed Emilio Ribisi for that chance?"

His mind cried out, and his heart ached. What the hell was he supposed to say?

He already knew.

"I could not, lieutenant colonel." His voice was hoarse, his throat aching where a lump had arisen. "Maybe that makes me unworthy, but I could not."

Kujo closed her eyes, and Neil braced himself.

"Emilio would be very happy to hear that," she said, seeming to relax a little. "And not just for himself."

"I don't understand, lieutenant colonel." And he didn't.

"It's what makes us different from Britannia," she said, opening her eyes. "It's what makes the Paladin corps worthy to defend Europe. In Britannia they would have said take the shot, shoot the stragglers, abandon the wounded, cull the weak from the herd. That's their way, and they're forcing it on the rest of humanity."

She paused, and Neil saw something strange in her eyes; a pain, but also a light.

"Our union was created to bring peace to Europe," she went on. "And EuroForce was created to guard that peace. If we win this war by becoming like Britannia, then Britannia may as well have won. The world will be no better off, and we will have lost our souls for nothing."

She sighed a deep and world-weary sigh.

"At least, that's what Emilio believed. He believed it, and I want to believe it too. I want to believe that if I can go on believing it, if I, and the corps, and EuroForce, and maybe Europe too, can go on standing for something better, then Emilio's life will not have been in vain."

For a moment, Neil was amazed. For her so say such words, at such a time as that, with the man she loved gone without a trace, lost forever in the desert. Who was she really? What kind of heart beat within her chest, that was capable of such conviction?

A wounded heart, he knew. A heart that had already suffered, and had endured yet another blow; perhaps one too many. A heart that was on the verge of breaking, yet forced itself to live on, to live for something greater than itself, soothing its hurt in the light of a higher cause.

If that was the case, then who was he to judge? What else had he been doing those past years?

He knew what to say.

"Permission to speak freely, lieutenant colonel."

"Speak, Paladin."

He paused, and cleared his throat.

"When I was ten years old, I went on a trip to Dublin with my family, for Christmas. On that very day, a young boy with skin a slightly darker shade than mine went wandering into the shopping centre we happened to be in, with a backpack full of explosives. By the time it was all over, one hundred and seventeen people were dead, including my family."

He paused a moment, the lump rising in his throat once again. Kujo fixed her eyes upon him, and somehow he knew she wanted to hear more.

"In the years since then, I found myself in a dark place more than once," he went on. "There were times when I just wanted to hurt someone, to kill someone. I wanted to make someone pay for what happened to my family. It got so bad that I…I very nearly fell in with a very bad crowd."

Another pause. He wasn't sure he could say what came next, but knew he had to. No going back now.

"I got caught in a roundup. I was underage so they couldn't charge me, but one of the garda gave me hell over it. He called me an ungrateful little scumbag, and didn't I know how much effort and how many tax Euros had been spent trying to keep me on the right path? My social worker threw a fit, yelling at him that I was a vulnerable child, and that he should keep a civil tongue in his head."

He swallowed hard, trying to drive down the lump in his throat.

"But he was right. I knew it even then. People had tried to help me, spent good money to help me, and I was throwing it all on the fire; just because I wanted to hurt someone. I wanted to hurt people not that much different from me, for people not much different from the ones who killed my family."

He sighed.

"Lieutenant colonel, there's a point to this. The point is that I needed a light too. I looked for something greater than myself, something that wasn't just about interests, or filling someone's pockets. I wanted to fight for those who couldn't fight for themselves, no matter who they were or where they came from. I wanted to protect my country, and the rest of Europe too. That's what I saw in EuroForce. That's what I want EuroForce to be."

He paused again, his heart aching.

"I just wanted to say, lieutenant colonel, that you're not alone. You're not the only one who cares about these things. And there's more than us two. You're not wrong for wanting something like that."

Tears pricked at his eyes.

"I wish I could have saved Captain Ribisi. I wish I could have taken Cornelia down; not for the medals, and not because I hate her or anyone. I wish it, because lieutenant colonel, we've got to win this war. If we don't, then there's going to be a lot more people like me and that little boy, in a lot more places all across the world."

He fell silent, his whole body feeling like lead. Kujo stared at him for a while, and then smiled.

"Then we have something in common, you and I," she said, her tone a little lighter for all the pain and weariness in her eyes. "Let's live on, for that. For Emilio, and for all of us."

"Yes, lieutenant colonel."

(X)

---

Area Eleven

The settlement was a magnificent sight.

Alexander gazed out of the window, taking in the view as the Albatross bomber banked for its final approach. Tokyo Settlement glittered in the near distance; a city of silver towers set on an artificial plateau, set in what had once been the centre of the near-megacity of Tokyo.

"The captain expects to land within thirty minutes," reported Sir Gilbert Guilford, returning from the cockpit.

"Good," replied Princess Cornelia, seated by herself directly opposite her knights. "I'd like to get settled before it gets too late. We've a lot to deal with tomorrow, and plenty of jetlag to sleep off."

Her companions chuckled with good humour. Alexander was not inclined to disagree. The flight from Algeria – now Area 18 – back to Pendragon had taken nearly twenty-four hours, and Cornelia had paused only to requisition some additional equipment and quickly visit her mother and sister before jetting off to Area 11; a journey of seventeen hours. Jetlag was not the worst thing Alexander had ever endured, but this ride came close.

"Incidentally, Guilford," Cornelia went on, as her knight sat down in his seat. "Tell me again about these latest incidents."

"Yes, your highness." Gilbert Guilford cleared his throat. "Based on the reports we've received, Colonel Gottwald – who had declared himself Acting Consul - had succeeded in identifying a suspect for Prince Clovis' assassination; a private of the 5th Colonial Regiment, who had been deployed to Shinjuku during the initial incident. Gottwald had him arrested, but failed to elicit a confession. He then arranged for what amounted to a show trial, selecting the presiding officers himself, and had the said private paraded through the streets."

"Which is when this Zero character revealed himself," Cornelia cut in, eyes flashing with anger.

"Indeed, your highness. He confronted the cavalcade in what appeared to be Prince Clovis' car, and offered one of the poison gas canisters in return for the prisoner. When Gottwald refused, Zero claimed responsibility for the assassination, and then threatened to reveal the nature of something he called orange. Gottwald then ordered his troops to allow them to leave with the prisoner, and even used force to ensure it."

Alexander listened, rapt. He had already heard this, but still he could not bring himself to believe it. It seemed so unreal, so bizarre, so utterly unlike the Jeremiah Gottwald he had once known.

"He must have a screw loose!" commented Sir Ricard Endover.

"Or he was a traitor," mused Sir Emil Flandre darkly. "Even then, I can't see the logic."

"Continue, Guilford," ordered Cornelia. "What happened today?"

"A few hours ago, four of Colonel Gottwald's subordinates lured him to an abandoned stadium near Shinjuku Ghetto and attempted to murder him," Guilford went on. "He was saved by the intervention of another of his subordinates, a certain Lieutenant Nu, along with the prototype knightmare Lancelot. During the battle, her highness Princess Euphemia personally intervened, and commanded all present to lay down their arms."

"Yes…" Cornelia sighed. "Maybe I was wrong to send her on ahead. Wandering the streets without so much as a chaperone. Did she at least play her part?"

"Yes, your highness. Your orders were passed on and obeyed. Gottwald and his confederates were arrested, and those he imprisoned released. The sole exception was General Bartley, who is currently on his way to Pendragon for trial."

"Schneizel can decide his fate. But what about this fellow she mentioned, the Lancelot's devicer?"

"We've confirmed his identity as Private Suzaku Kururugi, the same private who was scapegoated by Gottwald and his Purists. Apparently Professor Lloyd Asplund of ASEEC took charge of him during the Shinjuku incident, and granted him control of the Lancelot on his own authority."

Alexander perked up at the name. Suzaku Kururugi. He had heard it before, but where?

"Trust one of Schneizel's men to pull a stunt like that," commented Cornelia. "But surely he could have vouched for Kururugi?"

"By then, all the senior IMP and JAG officers had already been imprisoned, your highness," replied Guilford, with clear distaste. "The court declared Professor Asplund's evidence inadmissible, almost certainly on Gottwald's orders. I suspect it was only his bizarre behaviour the night before, and knowledge of your highness' coming, that caused the presiding officers to acquit."

"In other words, they wanted everything spick and span for the new Vicereine," Darlton cut in, smirking. "They know what's coming, your highness."

Cornelia nodded, and Alexander knew he was right. Since Cornelia had begun her official duties, she had become a holy terror within the army; the scourge of sloth and corruption wherever it festered. Alexander had no doubt that the Area 11 administration was dreading her coming. The place had become a byword for incompetence, laziness, and outright graft ever since the war started; in spite of, or perhaps because, of the precious sakuradite that poured out of the former nation of Japan by the shipload. Plenty of money in that treasure, and plenty of sticky fingers for it to stick to.

All the same…Kururugi…

He knew that name.

"There's just one thing I don't understand," grumbled Cornelia, brow furrowed in thought. "Why this Kururugi character? Why pick him for a scapegoat and not someone else? There must have been others like him at Shinjuku."

"Begging your highness' pardon," Alexander spoke up. "I believe I may know the reason."

He paused, awaiting her permission. Cornelia nodded, and Alexander turned to Guilford.

"Sir, did the reports contain any information on Private Kururugi's family? His parentage?"

"They did, ensign," replied Guilford; his blue-eyed gaze hard and exacting behind his horn-rimmed glasses. "Private Kururugi is the scion of an old noble family; one of the Six Houses of Kyoto. They disowned him after he joined the army. He is also the son of the late Prime Minister, Genbu Kururugi."

A strange melancholy settled over Alexander. So it was indeed him, that same Suzaku.

"Does that name mean something to you, ensign Waldstein?" asked Darlton.

"It does, sir," he replied, forcing down a lump in his throat. "If he is who he claims to be, then he is the same Suzaku Kururugi who played host to Prince Lelouch and Princess Nunnally during their exile."

The cabin went dead quiet; the only sound the hum of the engines outside.

"I see…" mused Cornelia, a strange look in her eyes. "Yes, I remember Euphie mentioning him. What a strange coincidence, after so many years."

"It would certainly explain Gottwald's interest in him," Darlton said. "The son of an old noble family, who joined the army only to betray it. It suits the Purist narrative perfectly."

And it did. The Purist movement had many interests and goals, but one of them was to exclude Honourary Britannians from service in the armed forces. Officially this was due to the security risk such people apparently posed, but the real reason – Alexander suspected – was their belief that to serve under arms was the ultimate honour, an honour of which Honourary Britannians were unworthy.

Up to a point, Alexander could understand. The colonial regiments had a bad reputation, for they seemed to attract the very worst sorts of characters; misfits, extremists, sycophants, sadists, and outright criminals. It was reckoned that any Number with a scrap of soldierly honour would be carrying on the fight, either at home or abroad. So then, what sort of people would join the army of their country's conqueror?

What sort of people had Suzaku Kururugi – whom Lelouch had claimed was gentle and kind – spent his days among?

He shivered. In another world, under different stars, might he have been one of them? Might he have still been Soran, a grim soldier in an unpopular regiment, despised by his masters and loathed by his former compatriots?

How might the world have been, if not for his father?

The warning buzzer sounded, drawing him from his dark thoughts.

"Seatbelts, gentlemen," declared Cornelia, as if she were a schoolmistress ordering a pack of rambunctious boys around. "Let's set a good example."

She fastened her own belt, and her knights began to do likewise. Alexander fastened his belt, and glanced out of the window by his seat, as the plane began its descent.

And wondered what awaited him in this land that had once been called Japan.

(X)

---

And here it is. Posted at last, after a long delay.

I can only apologise for the long delay. It was caused by IT problems, further complicated by Covid lockdowns and my income being clobbered as a result. But now that I can, I'll do the best to catch up with my posting. I hope that you all enjoy this chapter; I feel rather proud of it.

Good luck to all, in these hard times.