The Guardians of Sol (6 page)

“You have plans every night,” Spicy replied.

“And I’d like to keep it that way.” Without even looking at him, I replied to Voodoo’s unspoken advice. “Yes Voodoo, I’ll make sure she takes it easy on me. No, we haven’t had a sleep over yet. Thanks for asking. By the Light, you dregs are be predictable. And no snickering, laughing, or giggling while I’m around. I don’t care about your stupid jokes.” They kept grinning at me. “I’m so glad I can be a source of amusement for you. Get out of my sight, you’re dismissed. Whatever, I’m out of here.”

Spicy lugged the heavy pieces of my ruined armor away, and Squatter and Voodoo hooked up with Haywire on their way out, leaving me alone for a few moments. I took a long breath and steadied myself. Then I left to meet my date.

June 8, 2289. The Forge, Block 7

I rushed from one side of my apartment to the other trying to tidy up. In between that I kept checking on the food that was on the oven so that nothing burned. I was a little exasperated. At least I could count on my battlefield experience to help keep me calm. As bad as this may sound, it took me two days to clean my apartment up so that it was fit for company. Well, female company at least. Of course, if I had been living with Haywire and his brothers, the same job would have taken a month or two. I hadn’t been this nervous since right before the first time I kissed Rachel.

I was in the kitchen when the door chimed. I rushed over and answered it. The door rose up with a whoosh, revealing a most cherished and gorgeous woman clad in a close fitting, though modest outfit. Rachel laughed when she saw me. In my hurry I had forgotten to put down a saucepan or take off an oven mitt.

“Do you need me to do a few laps down the hall? Give you a few more minutes to get ready?” She asked me.

I rolled my eyes and waived her in with the oven mitt. “It’s all good. I just got a late start is all. Have a seat. Um… I guess we’ll eat on the coffee table.” I walked into the kitchen, and started dishing up the spicy curry and naan bread. “So how was work today?” I asked her through the gap in the wall that separated the spaces.

“Not too bad. You know how I got transferred to Chief Ruiz’s bay? They have me working on repairs for Demonsblood squad. They got ambushed while tracking down some Corporation spies in Zimbabwe. Their armor has some very complex transformation systems.”

“Isn’t Zimbabwe in the middle of Zulu territory? And why do they call themselves Demonsblood, anyway? Sounds kind of… not good.”

“Very eloquent, Rhys,” She said sarcastically. “I don’t really know the answer to either of those questions. I guess the Zulus asked for help? Maybe? And I don’t know why they called themselves that originally, but their armor transforms them from reasonably normal looking Castigars to dark and glowing Demonic figures. Lots of reds and blacks and glowy bits and sharp edges. I’m sure it scares the hell out of whomever they fight.”

I handed her a bowl of rice and curry. “Makes you wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“Whether the Sentinel asked me to join the Specials to present a clean cut image for them.”

“That’s completely out of left field. How would you get that from talking about transformation systems?”

“Oh, that’s because I’m easily distracted. And I’ve been thinking about it for a little while now. The first squad is full of the borderline criminally insane, the Fallen are just… off… and no one has ever seen them outside of their armor, the Shadowstealers are made for stealth, and the rest of the squads all have something in their history that makes them unsuitable to be poster boys. They knew who I was and how I run a squad before they approached me, I know it sounds crazy, but… I don’t know. I guess we’ll see what happens once the armor is finished.”

“I have the feeling I’m going to be saying this a lot to you,” She said with a smile. “But you should really think your ideas through before you try to explain them to people. You tend to ramble.”

“You probably have a point, darlin. That kind of thinking just isn’t my strong suit though. How do you like the food?”

“It’s delicious. A bit hot though. Do you have any milk? That’s supposed to help a lot. Where did you learn to cook?”

“Well, my parents were off on business a lot, and that left me to take care of my sister most of the time. And it only got worse after they disappeared. Maybe they died; no one was sure what happened… accident with an earlier Archimedes drive they were doing tests on. But let’s leave the sad stories for some other time, okay? We have plenty of time to get to know each other. And hey, I got some real ice cream for dessert. None of that reconstituted, synthesized crap.”

“What kind of money do they pay you? I haven’t had real ice cream in… well; since before I left my parents' ranch on Earth, actually.”

“I’m single and my apartment is supplied by the Corps. I put most of my checks into savings, and I haven’t really had anything to spend money on because I’m usually out on assignment. I don’t have any real hobbies besides cooking, so let me treat you right every now and then and don’t complain about it. Alright?”

“Alright" she agreed cheerfully. "I’ll give you that one. So what’s next?”

What was next was the ice cream, cuddling during the movie we were streaming, and then sitting and talking for hours after that.

“What are you doing tomorrow morning?” I asked her.

“Sleeping in, why?”

“I was just wondering if you were up for some exercise. I need to see if a hammer can really be practical in a fight anymore.”

“I might be up for it, say ten?”

“Sounds good. See you in the gym.” She finally got up and left me alone in my cramped apartment, which suddenly felt larger and colder than ever before.

*****

Her tonfa blasted towards my nose for what had to be the third time in as many minutes. I barely deflected it with the shaft of my hammer. The second tonfa swept at my neck, but I threw myself backwards, using one hand to steady my roll and end up facing Rachel again. The girl had a beautifully wicked grin.

In the Guardian Corps, everyone, from the Castigars, to pilots, to engineers and doctors all have a basic level of combat ability. While technicians didn't usually require such capabilities, Rachel’s skills well exceeded that basic level. I hadn’t known that before today. She was equal to someone on the fourth or fifth Swordmaster tier, perhaps. Even with me beginning training for the second tier she was pressing me hard. And then she had another advantage on me. I have made no secret of my physical attraction for her, but the tight outfit she wore would have driven me to the highest levels of distraction at even the best of times. At this rate, I was just lucky she hadn’t broken anything.

She came at me again, dancing from side to side and twirling her forearm long tonfas. She came at me from the bottom on my left, and straight in from my right. I managed to block the former blow with the head of my hammer, and deflect the latter with the haft. I pushed in and twirled my weapon, catching both her arms. While she was distracted I dropped down and swept her legs. Making use of my momentum, I rolled and caught her before she could hit the mat.

“Smooth, right?”

“Very smooth, Mister. You want to let me up so we can work out some more?”

“Nah, I like you where I got you,” I leaned over and kissed her. “Besides, I found out what I needed to know.”

“So how does the hammer feel in a fight?”

I held the wooden weapon up so we both could see it. “Once it gets moving it’s a lot like the great axes they had us practice with in the academy, except it crushes instead of cuts. My squad’ll be a real terror with these, even if that… destructive harmonics… thing… doesn’t work.”

“It’ll work. I can almost guarantee that.”

“Is that right?”

“I’ll work on them myself. Well, yours at least. Ruiz has been talking about splitting up the work.”

“Well that’s wonderful news, sweetheart. So tell me, are you ready for a little lunch?”

June 10, 2289. Sol System,
Kyoto Japan

As the shuttle’s ramp lowered onto the landing field, Telamon was glad that his helmet hid his face. The Emperor’s city was beautiful, a study in both elegance and humility – on the outside. Even after all the times he’d been there as part of Michael’s bodyguard, it never failed to stir something in him.

He really couldn’t help but stare at the ancient buildings, with their curving lines, white-washed walls, and slate blue rooftops. For the Spartans, the city was a major upgrade from the shine and glamour of Tokyo’s glittering, crystal buildings. Where Tokyo was a monument to the progress of technology, Kyoto represented the glory and elegance of the past.

Telamon took a deep breath and exchanged a look with Michael. Military men, they both hated politics, but some things had to be done. Michael shrugged, and seemed to don that ‘leader’ mantle he had worked so hard over the years to perfect. He started down the ramp to the receiving party, Telamon and three other Spartans following in their ceremonial armor.

Once again, Telamon felt great appreciation for the face obscuring qualities of his helmet - the Emperor himself had come to meet them! He was even more surprised at how old the man seemed to have gotten over the last few years. Telamon knew that the Emperor was pushing two hundred… but still, he looked so frail. The Spartan had always known him as vital and energetic, with a wicked sense of humor. It was a shame. The man, arguably the most powerful in the world, simply looked small swathed in the thick, rich robes of his position. The Samurai flanking him were clad in the armor of this Emperor’s household. The color of it, purest white and cobalt blue, matched those of the Emperor’s robes.

The Sentinel stopped in front of his counterpart, and bowed deeply. Then in perfect Japanese, “You honor us with your presence, old Friend.” The Spartans followed suit, bowing even lower than their leader. Telamon grimaced; he really hated this kind of ceremony. Spartans never bowed to anyone… which had caused Michael to have a rather large battle with Telamon a few years back to get them to acquiesce. The Spartan still had the scars.

“Not so old as you would seem to think, young Michael,” The Emperor, who bowed just as much as the Sentinel. His Samurai bodyguards copied the Spartans perfectly, as was proper. “Now, if you’ll follow my attendant, he’ll lead you to your rooms until it is time for all of us to dine. I must wait for the young King Pendragon, who is due to land in a few moments.”

The aforementioned attendant, who introduced himself as “Takeda,” seemed to pop up out of nowhere. Telamon noticed that Arkadios jumped slightly. Young men, they sure didn’t make them like they used to. Granted, the man was well over thirty… but who didn’t think of people half their age as young? He was sure that the other Spartans had noticed that smallest of flinches as well, Telamon chuckled to himself; Arkadios was really going to get a ribbing when they arrived in the privacy of their rooms.

*****

Michael and Telamon stood on the balcony of their rich estate rooms, the other Spartans lounging uncomfortably on the rich furniture inside. They were overlooking a beautiful garden, filled with dozens of different exotic flowers and trees. In the distance, the landing field was barely visible.

“Here come the Europeans. Hm… They seem to be running a little hot for such a short trip,” Telamon pointed at the boxy new shuttle that was setting down. "I think I can see another transport in the distance as well. Probably Republic or Zulu. It’s too old to be from the Corporations."

“I can barely see anything; maybe I should get one of those bionic eyes.”

“Want me to poke one out for you?”

“Eh, maybe next week,” Michael said. “Two-hundred credits say that Pendragon makes trouble within an hour.”

“Now where is the gamble in that? Europeans are still as power hungry as they have been for the last few thousand years. They’ll probably do something tiring to get on the right side at the Emperor’s table. Because if there’s one thing Uther loves, it’s scoring minor and meaningless points,” Telamon considered something for a moment. “Three hundred credits that they ask for an honor duel or some such ridiculousness to establish their superiority. What say you?”

“I think I’ll be taking that bet. Even Pendragon wouldn’t be so foolish to try to beat the best of his rivals’ forces at a supposedly peaceable meeting.” Michael stepped back and stretched. “I’m going to the garden; don’t see too many non-edible plants up on the Forge, yeah?” Telamon simply shrugged and followed his ‘leader’ out the apartment and down the stairs, where he promptly started napping on one of the garden benches.

*****

Almost an hour later, Takeda dropped by the gardens to retrieve the Guardians. He didn’t find what he expected. He carefully peeked around the corner, trying to make out the words from the raised voices.

“… and I’m telling you that the Tigers have got the title next year!”

“Are you going to start up with that again? Heck, they didn’t even take down any of the Tortoises or Falcons in their matches this year! How can you expect your team to compete against the champions after such failures?”

“Come on… The Tigers had big mechanical issues that my engineers are already weeding out. My pilots are the cream of the Spartan crop, we’ll hit’em good next year. No leaky hydraulics are gonna stop us.”

“You only say that because you’re so stubborn, if you didn’t own the team…” Michael turned suddenly to the doorway. “Well, come now lad, don’t be afraid. What’re you here for?

Takeda tentatively stepped forward and bowed, “Honored Sirs, the Emperor asks for your presence in the court before supper may commence.”

Michael returned the bow. “We’ll be down in a few moments, and yes, I do remember the way. Is there anything in particular that we’ll need to bring?”

“You… may wish to have your bodyguards come in their armor… with their weapons, Sir.”

“Weapons?” Michael looked at Telamon, who simply shrugged. “Fine, we’ll be there as soon as they have their armor back on. You may return to the Emperor now.”

As the servant slunk away, Telamon turned back to his friend. “What do you make of that?”

“Who knows? Better get the men ready.”

“So, all of our weapons?”

“All of them, spears, swords and shields. Maybe even daggers if you like it.” That seemed to make Telamon happy enough; Spartans always liked the chance to show off their toys.

*****

They came into the court from one of the side entrances. Inside, Uther Pendragon and his men were already waiting with the Emperor. Uther’s men were armored in plate mail, and each one had different details. One had a lion’s head crest, and the others included an eagle, ram, and wolf. In contrast, the Spartans and Samurai were attired more simply and almost identically, per their particular traditions.

Michael and his Spartans bowed low to the Emperor. “What is this about? I thought we were going to be eating dinner soon,” the Sentinel questioned.

“That was the original plan… However, Young Pendragon here has asked that the matters of honor be resolved beforehand. If you do not have any objections, I see no reason why I should not grant him this.”

Michael glanced at Uther. “By matters of honor, I assume duels to settle his assault on your research facility, as well as to determine positioning at the table?”

“That it would be. Do you have objections?”

“Nothing that comes readily to the mind,” the Sentinel sighed resignedly. “When are we doing this?”

“At this very moment! Now, let us proceed to the contest ring outside.” The Emperor rose, and led them all to a ring in his personal garden. The circle had a three and a half meter radius, and was outlined by milky quartz; smooth, bluish granite bricks made up its interior.

The old man took a seat on a plush throne that had recently been moved to the circle. Careful to make sure that no one saw, Michael discreetly passed a credit chip to Telamon, all the while cursing under his breath about how inconsiderate young people were these days. Telamon just grinned.

“Now, given the nature of one of these matches, the Guardian champion will face the European champion first. The winner’s side will be seated on my right at our meals for the duration of this conference,” the Emperor continued. “Winners will be called by the simple virtue that one champion is still in the ring, standing, or has not been beaten so obviously that he would be dead in a death match. Are there any objections?”

The other sovereigns merely shook their heads. Telamon stood up straighter and stretched, tendons cracking and armor creaking all the while.

“Now, Champions please proceed to the ring; that we may get this over with.” The Emperor gestured dramatically while setting himself slowly into his chair. The selected champions started forward, only to be stopped by their respective leaders. Telamon couldn’t hear what Pendragon was saying to the Ram helmeted knight, but figured it was something akin to what he was receiving from Michael.

“Brother, teach them a lesson. HUMILIATE that knight. But subtly.”

Telamon sighed. “I was going try to do that anyway. Blasted Europeans always seem to think us Greeks betrayed them by throwing in our lot with the Guardians instead of their little Union. Stubborn dumb-asses. Now can I go humble this sheep shagger, or do you want to hold hands?”

Michael just chuckled, and pushed Telamon towards the ring. “Just… go have your fun, old man,” the High Sentinel called at the Spartan’s back.

The Spartan paused in putting on his helm, face full of horror. “I’m at least ten years younger than you!”

“Yes, but you’ve aged with so much less grace. Get your head in the game.”

Telamon made a face. “I’m a Spartan, my head is always in the game; goatface.” He finished replacing his helm and took up his spear. Checked to make sure his sword was in place inside the bowl of his shield, and finally entered the ring.

He looked across the battlefield to his opponent, and grinned even bigger than before.

“Hey, look! A sacrificial goat!” Telamon taunted, laughing at his own joke. Out of his sight, the other Spartans just groaned, knowing that this performance could get a whole lot worse, but hoping that it didn’t. The Emperor’s attendant rang the gong, beginning the match.

The knight came in fast, sweeping in with an underhand cut from his hand and a half sword. Telamon nudged the attack aside with the length of his spear, rolling with the momentum to slam his shield into his opponent’s side. The blow staggered the knight back a few steps, but did little damage due to the magnificently wrought plate mail.

Now with more space to operate, Telamon began a series of lightning fast jabs with his spear. Each attack was defeated by the defensive knight, until at the end of his chain of attacks; Telamon slipped the blade past his adversary’s guard, denting the breastplate.

As the assault slowed, the Knight found his balance again and took up a two-handed grip, putting the sword in between him and his enemy. “Is that all you have, traitor?”

Telamon just laughed. “You idiots still don’t get it! I can’t be a traitor because I was never part of your cause, nor were any Greeks!” He put his shield in front of him, and took his spear into an overhand grip. “Now come on, you swaggering idiot. Time to break you.”

The knight hesitated for a second before committing to an attack. He came in with an overhand blow that he swept out to a straight thrust. Both hits were deflected by that great shield held by the Spartan. Telamon hooted and started striking with his own weapon.

He thundered a hit on the knight’s shoulder, whipped the shaft around and slammed another blow to the midsection with the butt spike. His shield kept deflecting his enemy’s sword through all this. Any blow to the shield merely slipped off into open air as Telamon kept moving, always in balance; always keeping his opponent off balance. He almost felt sorry for the overmatched knight; that is, until he thought of the more than overwhelming arrogance seemingly trained into Knights of the Table nowadays. Confidence backed by ability was what the Spartan liked in his opponents. In all honesty, Telamon had expected more of a challenge.

As he rammed his spear forward in what he expected to be the final thrust of the match, the Knight grabbed the haft and slammed his sword across it. Telamon simultaneously swung his shield forward to prevent any further attacks and tossed the broken lance away. He pulled his short sword from its shield-sheathe. The Knight took this time to get better footing, farther away from the edges of the ring.

Telamon brought his shield behind him, sword arm leading. Once again the two approached each other. Telamon leapt forward his blade aimed at the place where plates met at the shoulder joint. The large blade swept Telamon’s smaller sword aside and struck sparks and a deep furrow in his breastplate.

Realizing his shield was slowing his attacks; Telamon spun and threw it at his opponent. The Knight dodged and came in fast; the tip of his sword drawing sparks from the granite flooring. Telamon stepped in close, locking both swords together near the hilts. He cannoned an armored fist into his foes helmet. However, the blow was robbed of some if its force, his gauntlet caught on the razor sharp ram’s horns for a second.

The knight backhanded Telamon and pushed the interlocked blades forward. As he was stumbling, Telamon deflected the sudden flurry of blows coming at him. He stayed as close as he could, keeping the advantage of his shorter sword. The knight broke the rhythm, aiming an overhand blow. Seeing his chance, the Spartan grabbed the hilt and his enemy’s hands, holding them still. The knight flexed his muscles, trying to push his blade forward. Telamon’s muscles were iron, and his enemy’s sword moved not an inch. Following through, he slammed his sword into one of the shoulder joints, disabling the knight’s right arm.