Several members of the Armory team jumped, prompting a pair of guards and a medic to come over and perform emergency first aid on my mutilated body.
Holding my right arm out to the side while they worked, I glared at the rest of the warriors present. “I have won every battle—every challenge that Tracto has thrown my way,” I snapped, taking a moment to address the men, “I want you to think about that for the rest of your miserable lives—right up until I finish killing the rest of you!”
“You use dishonorable tactics, Warlord,” one of the men behind me said disapprovingly, “it was not right.”
“I offered battlefield conditions for this challenge; my opponent couldn’t stop telling me how he was ready for my so-called ‘dirty tricks,’ and you have the unmitigated gall to claim I was the one who did something wrong?” I roared, ready to run over and tear his head off for good measure. “Maybe you’ve never been on a battlefield, boy, but I can assure you that the rest of us know the enemy will stop at nothing. He will use any stratagem or tactic to kill you. And when I’m fighting for my wife and my children, you can blasted-well expect I will stop at nothing to destroy any man that makes himself my enemy!”
The man—ostensibly on my side, judging from his position on ‘my side’ of the room—flushed and stepped back. A number of men grumbled, but more of them nodded their heads.
“I won—I’ll always win,” I turned to the rest of the men and screamed, “not because I’m better than my opponent—as, clearly, this man was a finer swordsman and better hand-to-hand warrior than me. I won’t win because I’m more courageous—that’s impossible! No one is braver, or more honorable, than the warriors of Tracto,” I said, throwing in sop for the pride of those few men—even though it was roughly half—that had come in support of me. “I’ll win because I want it more; because I’m smarter; and because no matter what you see me pull out of my hat, I will always have something else ready! And I’ll win because I—WILL—NEVER—STOP!!!”
I paused to sweep the assembled warriors with a withering look, as all the while the medic and his team continued to work on my new stump while others placed my severed hand on ice.
“That’s why Messene exists, the Bugs are destroyed, and your world is not a barren lifeless husk—and it’s why the Empire isn’t strip-mining your star system, which I can assure you is a fate worse than anything you can fathom,” I finished, on what I thought was a resounding note.
As if stung by my blatant disregard for them, a number of angry Tracto-ans—with the sort of stiffness in their power-armored movements that I’d come to recognize in men who were not yet fully trained in its use—stepped forward and glared at me.
“You disdain our ways, step on our honor and traditions, and tell us you’re better than us?” challenged a big beefy brute of a man. He was so big I could even see his physique even through his bulky battle armor, since it had clearly been modified to hold his enormous body. “Then prove it! I, for one, will not stop for honor’s sake when a man who spits on it gives up its protection. Are you ready to make good your words to never stop, and fulfill your promise to challenge the rest of us this day—all of us?”
I leveled the burnt end of my left pointer finger and, no matter how it hurt to move it, I kept it aimed straight at him.
He crossed his arms as if in contempt. And it’s not like the little discharge of the blaster could have cut through his armor even at a full charge, much less now—when it had only a tiny fraction of its original energy remaining.
I felt a prick, followed by a sudden sense of clarity, as the Medic injected me with a cocktail of drugs. My pupils dilated and strength seemed to rush through me, invigorating my muscles.
“So long as you’re the first,” I said with grim certainty, “that works for me.”
“You’re a fool, and I’ll gladly finish what he started,” the big beefy warrior said a laugh. “Unlike the weakling you just faced, I could have finished you quick and easy—even before you lost your hand! Now? Even a child of my home polis could defeat you. Your days are numbered, Warlord. It really is a good thing you’ll be dead soon. Such a Protector…” he shook his head in disgust.
“The words of a soon-to-be dead man have as little effect on me as the buzzing of an irritating fly,” I said, waving him and his words away.
The warrior set aside his sword and started to pop the seals on his armor.
“Are you deaf and stupid?” I asked witheringly. “I agreed to a ‘no armor’ challenge with Nikomedes because I’d already fought him once while wearing it; I thought he deserved the chance to die the way he desired. For the rest of you, I made it clear that all following challenges would be in power-armor.”
Big and beefy flushed, and then angrily relocked his armor. “It matters not. Even if you have the skills of a master in these battle-suits, you’ll still die just as easily on my blade! I, Nastor of Thebes, declare it,” said this ‘Nastor’ fellow, as he snatched back up his sword and angrily stomped to his side of the challenge circle.
“I’ll deal with you as soon as the medic is done with me,” I said dismissively.
“I was a Warlord before your family came to invade my world, and so I came after Thebes was rebuilt to see if you were the leader that the Argosians claim—or the incompetent fool who brought death and destruction to our world, as most of we in Thebes believed,” Nastor said, stomping back and forth and playing the crowd as he glared at me.
“There’s no need to slavishly worship at my feet for saving your world, and everything on it, from being eaten down to bedrock by the Bugs—your ‘Sky Demons’,” I said as if I didn’t care—and, knowing how his culture felt about the washing of feet, I decided to play on it.
“I’ll tear you to pieces, leave your infants exposed at the crossroads for our god’s will, and take all that is yours—right after I urinate down what’s left of your throat,” bellowed Nastor.
“Really, there is no need; my feet are in perfectly fine condition,” I said easily. “Of course, if you insist that the lives of everyone you’ve ever known aren’t worth less than such minimal behavior…I won’t stop you.”
An inarticulate bellow emanated from Nastor, and it was all the men behind him could do to stop him from charging over and slaughtering me before I had even got my armor on. Of course, I had counted on Gants and the rest of his men to deal with it to prevent such an occurrence.
I cocked a smug smile that didn’t reach my eyes and listened to him continue to spin out and lose his head. Really, these Tracto-ans were too easy. I didn’t even have to lie, just tell it the way it was, and they lost their cool.
The more of them I could slaughter before they wised up, the better things would go for me—and those who depended on me—in the long run.
Two men in power armor approached me as men tried, and failed, to calm down Nastor.
“Admiral, the mutineer was right,” Gants said urgently, “the blighter should be in the brig instead of fighting you—and if you have to fight them you can’t do it while missing a hand, even if you’re in armor. The suits just aren’t designed to deal with this kind of damage, Sir; you won’t be able to use it fully with a hand missing and reattaching…it can’t be done in the field like this, not for proper nerve reconnection.”
“Fear not, Mr. Gants; Nikomedes may have taken my hand away, temporarily, but he failed to take my ability to deal with these disloyal minions of mine,” I said with complete and utter certainty in my voice.
“I hate to disagree with you, Admiral,” said a deep, Tracto-an voice, and I looked over to see Hierophant was the other man beside Gants looming over me. “Even a warrior with a death-wish would think twice before abandoning the protections of the challenge circle, and press forward with the challenges like this. They may laugh at you for it, but there is no dishonor in falling back on the traditions of the circle and fighting again another day.”
“No dishonor? When I’ve sworn I’ll finish them today?” I shook my head, “I
don’t believe you. And besides, the point is moot; I’m going to put this incipient little rebellion to bed right now. And I swear before all the gods of cold space that if I hear one more peep, or receive one more challenge after this, all the would-be mutineers in this fleet will be rounded up and shoved into, and out of, an airlock—even if I have to kill half my Lancer force to do it.”
Hierophant looked concerned and backed away a step, “If you win against all of them today, I think few will dare to challenge you. A new epic will be formed,” he said, his mouth still cast in disapproving lines but his eyes showing a level of respect for my actions. “Although, I would make sure to sleep with a dagger under my pillow after you win.”
“I have blasters, but I take your point,” I nodded.
“This is crazy. It’s crazy talk, Sir,” Gants protested fiercely, “this Fleet needs you. You can’t just throw away your life like this. You’re the Little Admiral, for Saint Murphy’s blessed sake! This Fleet won’t make it without you—it can’t. Give the word, and my department will round up these men, throw them in the brig, or even space them for mutineers. But just look at it,” he said, pointing to the old set of power armor I’d propped up against the wall beside the Storm Drake armor. “You can’t win against twenty or more Lancers in battle-suits if you only have one hand—not even if they’re all as green as sin, which not all of them are to my eye.”
Hierophant nodded. “A few of them have been in service for a while,” he agreed.
“I’m not worried about the skills of a few ingrates,” I said coldly, and then turned away. “I understand your concerns, but you really should have more confidence in me. This lack of belief in my abilities is insulting.”
Gants looked at me in despair. “Just give the word, Sir,” he pleaded.
“No, though your loyalty is commendable, Mr. Gants,” I said flatly. “Besides…” I slanted a sly look in their direction, and then my gaze turned into a smirk at their equally dumbfounded expressions.
When they exchanged looks that said they were worried I’d been affected by the blood loss and mutilation, my smirk turned into a scowl.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” I snapped. “Hierophant, go get that sheet and bring it to me,” I ordered, pointing at the blanket covering the larger-than-my-battle-armor, bulky, angular hunk of metal beside it.
After pulling off the sheet, the reason for my confidence in defeating any number of green men—those men wearing our original, aging, Caprian battle-suits—was revealed, and Gants breath was suddenly sucked in.
“That’s…” he said, clearly flabbergasted.
“The new and upgraded Spalding version battle-suit, tailored specifically for me using the new Duralloy II mixture,” I said with great satisfaction. “More than twice the protection, and with a built-in ion cannon on its left arm. I’d like to see these blighters just try and take me in this new, improved, Devastator model—it was designed specifically to defeat the Predator class Imperial battle-suits.”
“Wow…” Gants said staring at the new larger, vastly more powerful suit of power armor with shock and awe.
“That’s a…big suit, Sir,” Hierophant said with surprise.
“Hierophant, I thought you were still down in the gunnery department; what are you doing here?” I asked, while the real question was: what was he doing here ‘right now.’
“I just came to lend my support. I have served you for some time now; I am your man,” Hierophant said seriously before baring his teeth. “Besides, following you I enter the kinds of battles one could only dream about before you came to my world.”
I grunted, too savvy to say anything negative. But right then, even my most trusted Tracto-ans were having their previously spotless image tarnished by the mutinous, AI-worshiping segment of their society.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, marching over to my new suit.
“What is that?” came the belligerent demand of a man standing behind Nastor of Thebes as soon as I reached the new suit.
I whirled around—or, rather, I tried to whirl. Between the damage I’d taken, and the drugs pumping through my system, all I managed was a fairly fast turn.
“That’s my battle-suit,” I said with a shark-like smile at the expressions of surprise and dismay on the faces of the men before me. “What…you thought I was just going to lay down and die because you want me to? I only enter fights I know I can win,” I sneered, “so if you want to kill me, you’re going to have to work for it.”
That said, I stomped up and climbed into my new Devastator armor. Because of my missing hand, I needed help being pushed up into the big monster of a suit, but Gants and Hierophant were there to provide such help. Which, fortunately for my slightly compromised dignity, they were even willing to offer without a word said.
Compared to the old Caprian style battle-suits that these Lancers were used to, this new suit stood just a hair under a foot and a half taller. But whereas they were thin, and tended to comparatively hug the bodies of their users, the new Devastator power armor bulked out to twice the width of the other suits.
According to Spalding, it was twice as strong but because of all the extra weight, it was only half as fast as the older models. He swore he could cut down on a lot of the extra weight, as well as some of the bulk, and increase the speed as soon as he finished designing the Devastator 2.0 model he was currently planning to build. But there had been some kind of a production hold-up in that particular process. Most of the hold-up, I was given to understand, was because the Duralloy II was living up to its namesake as an incredibly strong substance.
Regular duralloy could be rolled out into large sheets, relatively easy to use in building warship. If the builder so desired, it was relatively easy to take a sheet and bend into whatever form was desired. Even setting up a small factory to build nothing but power armor was a relatively simple task.
The new armor, however, presented engineering issues. While it could be rolled out into large sheets, it took more than ten times the effort to bend into the sort of smaller angles needed to fit over the frame of the power armor. Naturally, this meant it took ten times as long to produce twice the suit—or possibly even more—which sounded like a good trade-off for me.
It would be some time before the models could be mass-produced, but this prototype was ready to rock according to Spalding—which was good enough for me.
Oh, and did I fail to mention that since this suit was designed as a counter to the Imperial Predator Battle-suits we’d encountered at the 1st Battle for Easy Haven, it had been designed with a built-in ion cannon on the left arm—replacing the hand coupling entirely? The right arm and hand had been retained, but increased in size, so as to easily handle a plasma cannon one-handed.
Unfortunately for me, being without a right hand at the moment, I couldn’t hold said plasma cannon. But fortunately there was a way around this problem. After factoring in, and compensating for, the blasters built into the arms of the Predator suits, Spalding had also decided we needed a solution to those boarding axes of theirs. So in addition to keeping the right gauntlet—meaning you could switch out the plasma cannon for a vibroblade—he had decided that taking the time to draw a sword would be problematic in the life-and-death split seconds of combat.
So he had added a retractable, four foot-long vibro blade to the right arm.
Extendable from a certain movement of the hand, it could also be unsheathed—albeit slower—via voice command given in the helmet.
“As long as I can extend it, I’m set…” I muttered while running through the suit checks on the heads up display on the visor of my helmet. Which was another improvement in the old design; much like the Imperial suits, the head section of this armor was built into the shoulders of the battle-suit, making it much harder to launch a decapitating strike.
“Did you say something, Admiral?” asked Gants.
“It’s fine,” I replied after the moment it took me to realize what he was talking about.
Closing up the suit, I stood up to my impressive new height. Switching a toggle with my tongue, which manipulated a cheek-mounted interface module, I activated the external speakers.
“Let’s do this,” I declared, stomping over to the challenge circle.
Each move caused the servos of the suit to make an almost angry whine, and every time my foot was brought down to the deck there was an impressive—intimidating, if I do say so myself—series of sounds:
Whine-clang/crash.
Whine-clang/crash.
Whine clang/crash!
I stomped my way over until I was standing in front of my enemy. Here stood yet another man who thought his culture allowed him to take what was mine whenever he blasted well felt like it.
“Are you ready?” I asked harshly.
“I agreed to a fight in our battle-suits. That’s your battle-suit,” Nastor of Thebes shouted, pointing to my old suit.
“That was my suit, until Spalding gifted me this one,” I replied bluntly, “but now that one’s being held in trust for my youngest son. You know—the ones I am expecting to be born any time now?”
His anger temporarily seemed to be overcome, and he stared at me. “Why the youngest son?” he asked, apparently perplexed. “Normally a sire’s personal weapons go to his eldest.”
I rolled my eyes, but fortunately he couldn’t see me do it through the visor. “I figure the older ones will get all the good stuff anyway, so setting aside a regular old battle-suit from before they become old enough to squabble about it will at least make sure he has something…you know, in case I don’t make it?” I replied then my voice turned snide. “Of course, with men like you—who’ve sworn an oath to protect me—I shouldn’t have much to worry about, should I?”
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