Queen Killer

by M. H. Johnson

  Both of them were students at the local HEMA academy which favored the saber and, thanks to the influence of the local SCA chapter, experimented with Viking era sword and shield sparring as well. But that final summer before senior year, Mitch had switched everything up. Putting aside sabers and Carolingian blades, he had insisted they train not only with the longsword, but its considerably larger cousin, the zweihander.

  John had frowned at the extra thick tatami mats "I'm better with the saber, you know that, Mitch. And this blade isn't even matching the training blades we were practicing with while going over Figueiredo's rules." He gazed intently at the weapon now in his hand. It was more a kriegsmesser, the replica of a fifteenth century German war sword, which, despite the differences in the tang, were historically wielded very much like the longsword, save it having a bit of a curve, and a single cutting edge. Yet this sword was an odd hybrid, with a leather-wrapped hilt similar to the classic longsword, but several inches longer, possessing a blade closer to that of a greatsword in length than the longswords he had fenced with when first joining HEMA by Mitch's side.

  His friend grinned. "Yeah, it's a hybrid blade. You could use Figueiredo's rules to keep people at bay or strike at several targets, though a full-sized Montante would serve you better. But this blade is just short enough that you can use it just like you would a longsword! And the custom length and balance is perfect for your height. Put on a few pounds of muscle, and you'll be a fucking monster with this sucker."

  John frowned. "Twenty pounds of muscle, maybe. I might have a couple inches on you, but I'm not exactly buff. As it is, I'm slower with this blade than I would be with one of the club's regulation longswords, and I'll have to deliver my Unterhau strikes at a bit of an angle, or the blade will scrape the ground before cleaving into my foe."

  Mitch grinned. "True. But you can give cuts like a motherfucker. The last foot is double-edged, and with this blade, a Schielhau blow will kill even an armored shieldman with a single well-placed shot. And after we train this summer, I think you'll be impressing more than a few girls with your sweet pecs."

  "Ha, ha. Sure, Mitch," John said, more than a little bit chilled by the wicked edge to the blade that looked far too finely made for an amateur like him. The edge itself was of an odd alloy, visibly different from the spine of the weapon, making him think of katanas that had a core of iron and an edge of very hard steel. This sword was no katana, but the dual metallurgy was obvious, even to John. And the last foot of the blade was lined with that alloy on both sides, though the rear bevel was much broader, given its proximity to the spine. The curved edge ended in an exaggerated clip-back that effectively formed a wicked back spike several inches long, quickly widening out and merging with the edged plane, reminding him of nothing so much as a poleaxe spike.

  John frowned at the odd weapon before his eyes widened, suddenly understanding what Mitch was getting at. "If I strike someone's skull with a backhand blow from overhead, the slight curve will arc over a shield, and that point will blast right through most people's helms like a polearm."

  Mitch winked. "And you can still thrust with it, even if the point quickly widens because of the edged back-spike. It'll pierce even quilted or reinforced leather armor for about four inches, which is all you need to kill someone. And it will blast right through an unarmored schmuck's abdomen, tearing them open so bad they'll bleed out in seconds! Hell, a solid strike to the throat will kill anyone, no matter how well protected, just from the fact that you'd crush even an armored man's windpipe."

  John winced. "Graphic, but whatever. It's a bit heavier than I thought it would be, but not too bad. The balance is perfect for its size. But it looks like the edge was forge welded. Why are we using two different types of steel? And the edge..." John lightly brushed his thumbnail against it, surprised when the blade instantly caught, as if micro-fine teeth had bitten through, eyes widening when blood welled from his too-deeply sliced thumbnail.

  "What the bloody fuck, Mitch!"

  Mitch had only laughed. "Tungsten, good buddy, the star among a handful of other metals. That blade's composite is so hard that it can scratch alloys Terrans use to drill for diamonds, cut through steel, or be used for tank-killing rounds. Best of all, it's flexible like spring steel, while still maintaining the hardness of more common Tungsten Carbide alloys. In other words, it ain't dulling on you, no matter what you put it through. And the metallurgical processes used in creating that alloy involved a hell of a lot more than simple forge welding or any other Terran technique. Hell, the only way to make it stronger would be adding Elementium! Comparing it to a carbidized blade is like comparing 5160 spring steel to soft iron."

  John frowned. "Terran techniques? Elementium? Why all the Endless references? I thought you hated that game."

  His friend waved the words away. "The alloy's designed to allow for micro-fine serrations, so it saws as it slices. It's taking a page from the notebooks of old English cavalry commanders who knew that a bit of teeth to an edge lets a weapon tear through leather, flesh, and hide much, much better than a perfectly smooth grain." Mitch shrugged. "Of course, we're talking microscopic ridges the alloy itself naturally forms when minute amounts flake off under extreme stress. Think of it as self-sharpening. You'll lose some blade mass, eventually, over say a century or two of constant use. And if you ever actually need to manually sharpen it, use a file, just like Captain Hutton's troops did, once upon a time. The serrations will naturally form, though you'll need a Tungsten carbide file."

  John blinked, chilled, somehow sensing that the metallurgical skill required to forge this masterwork was not something any high school kid should have access to.

  "What the hell, Mitch."

  Mitch's eyes flashed. "It's as sharp as a fucking obsidian blade that won’t break or shatter, no matter what you do to it. So, cutting through tatami mats should be nothing!"

  John swallowed. "But this bundle is over a foot thick, and I keep getting stuck on the post!"

  John was surprised by how strong Mitch really was, yanking the blade from John's grip while glaring at his friend, striding up to a fully armored test dummy wearing a chain hauberk over a thick quilted gambeson and a padded barbute helm.

  His friend glared, golden eyes flashing (wait.. Mitch had golden eyes?) before blasting off his back foot, Mitch twisting his torso and blade to strike with the back edge, his oversized kriegsmesser arcing around in a fearsome Shielhau blow.

  The loud clang of ruptured metal was clearly audible to anyone in the landscaped private park Mitch had the gall to call his family's backyard.

  John blinked, the blade now lodged in what had been a high-quality replica barbute helm of tempered steel. For Mitch to puncture it like that... "Jeezus! You struck it like you were wielding a poleaxe!"

  His friend flashed a chilling smile that sent shivers down John’s spine. Then he chuckled. "Don't sweat it, Johnny-boy. Let's just say this badboy was custom forged by people working for my dad. They're testing this alloy in all sorts of odd applications. Basically, we're going to see if the metallurgical processes used to forge this blade actually hold up. And what better way to test it than for us to do everything we can to fuck it up?"

  John swallowed. "Dude, what that blade did to the helm... And look! The point isn't even scratched! What the hell?"

  Mitch smirked. "It's all about hardness and flexibility. At least, that's what my girlfriend says."

  "Ha, ha," John said, eyes widening as a stunningly beautiful woman with fiery red hair and silver eyes that John had never seen before slipped out of the nearby sauna in a sweat-kissed silken robe and sauntered over to the pair, ruby red nails caressing Mitch's cheek.

  John blinked, momentarily dizzy, then remembering what a lucky bastard his best friend was, hooking up with the hottest college freshman in the whole damn state, as far as he was concerned.

  John swallowed and waved, Judy's soft lips forming a pout. "Well, aren't you going to show off your skills, Johnathan? I'm more than
eager to see what your father forged this time."

  John blinked before a scowling Mitch snapped his fingers. "Focus, buddy. My girl's here. You want her to hook you up like we talked about? Then quit embarrassing me and cut those tatami mats like you're serious. You do that? I'll let you practice with this beauty all summer!"

  Eventually he did get the hang of cutting with that monster of a blade, even when he found that the tatami core wasn't a 1-inch pole but a 4-inch thick log, Mitch only smirking and telling John to try harder, and he did. Wrists, shoulders, and torso were throbbing before the end of the day, but he had finally gotten the hang of generating maximum power from his hips and thighs, sheering as he sliced, until even Mitch was cheering him on with a cold drink in hand while John cut the crap out of his final target that day.

  Mitch had given him a proud clap on the shoulder. "Crash at my place, tonight. Judy's bringing a friend I think will be just your type. And don't worry, I know our dads are both working crazy hours in the lab, and you already know mi casa es su casa."

  And John had been all too happy to do that, training his ass off with his best friend, cutting practice targets with the oversized messer or sparring in full practice gear with padded versions of the weapon he spent all day learning how to cut with, then spending each night savoring sweet kisses and so much more with the fiery, passionate girls Judy never failed to introduce him to if he bested Mitch at least once that day, leaving him beyond exhausted before sleep finally took hold.

  Somehow, he didn't find the constant stream of admiring girls at all odd when one day bled into another, every afternoon spent sheering through tougher and tougher targets. It was an oddly long summer that had seemed to last forever. And he certainly wasn't going to wreck a good thing, stressing Mitch with the nightmares he occasionally had.

  Nightmares of waking up strapped onto a gurney, Mitch and his father doing things to him that John shuddered even to think about before one of Judy's friends would come by and soothe all his horror away, John only then realizing it was all a dream. And he'd wake up the next morning with a silly smile on his face and Mitch banging on the door to the room he always crashed at that summer, eager to kick his buddy's ass once more. By the time that wondrous summer had finally come to a close, John could use that terrible blade to sheer through a cow carcass or cave in steel helms as well as Mitch could.

  Not once did he question why he never bothered going home until vacation was over, or why there had been so many chilly days he quickly forgot about once he and Mitch got their blood racing, training in earnest. His father had acted like nothing strange at all had happened when John came home in time for his first day of school. "How was your summer, son?" was all he had said.

  John had just shrugged. "Fine dad, nothing special," dodging the question as he always did with his dad.

  By the time the first week of school was over, and he finally got over being called an idiot for repeatedly putting the wrong date on his tests, it was like he was dodging his own memories; sore shoulders and odd strength attributed to lots of pickup basketball games that all sort of blended together.

  He was glad his school was unorthodox in allowing anyone with a decent GPA to take classes out of sync with their years, but it had still seemed like his classes had gotten flooded with last year's sophomores. And whenever he found himself wondering what had happened to half his former classmates, he never thought to ask anyone save Mitch, who would call him an idiot for worrying over stupid crap that didn't matter at all.

  So many odd bits of forgotten memory, only coming together now as he raced down corridors in utter blackness, turning left and slamming face first into a metal door, throbbing knee and nose just a couple more injuries to add to his list as desperate hands clawed for a handle that was not there. Knowing that it should be there. That everything depended upon it being there.

  That's when he saw the body covered in black obsidian scales that had nonetheless been torn through, covered in desiccated entrails from a torso disemboweled long ago. Yet what sent John's heart hammering in his throat was the face gazing back at him. The face he could somehow sense, for all that he was in pitch blackness.

  No matter the patina of scales preserving the flesh so well, or the obsidian orbs that John just knew would be there...

  The face was his own.

  And the sword fused to its desiccated hands was the one he had practiced so intently with a lifetime ago.

  A few short seasons ago.

  Right here, waiting for him.

  Again.

  John screamed as the nightmare of his life was laid bare before him in all its horrid detail as the gentle veils of the past were abruptly torn away.

  He crashed to the ground, as if trembling limbs could no longer support his weight, even as the specter of death loomed ever closer.

  That crazy summer Mitch honed him into a useful tool, his memories of being a delightful plaything for what could only have been Highlords, feeling both shame and regret, having thought himself still a virgin who might one day soon experience love in an exotic, beautiful woman's arms, just hours ago.

  And now he knew the truth. The bitter, terrible truth. His innocence was intact. For how could it ever be otherwise? All those memories of training with a brother he had thought his closest friend, all those nights of hedonistic passion lost in trance-like fog...

  None of it was real.

  All of it, programmed into him like mem-tapes implanted in a synth-body freshly inhabited by a Terran jumping between worlds.

  His whole life implanted within him, perhaps from the moment he had awoken on that gurney, terrified for his friends who, for all he knew, had died in that disaster years ago.

  Had that final game of basketball even been real?

  He didn't think he would never know.

  Desperate, sweaty palms clamped upon the hilt of that terrible blade like a lifeline. A horrific lifeline he would do anything to forget, even as the clawed hands that had been gripping it crumpled to dust, haunted obsidian eyes somehow catching John's in the darkness; that clone's memories, and all its lost potential, suddenly becoming his own.

  And John claimed another fragment of himself, recalling flashes of a desperate battle so like the one he had fought, only this clone had arrived here friendless. Alone. Cutting through near a dozen Revenants claimed from other villages struck by those Plague Queens, yet having failed to kill any of Lilith's brood. He had avoided all contact with the natives, just like his controller had demanded, a controller that happenstance alone had kept John from ever meeting.

  This clone had dutifully obeyed every order he had ever been given, transforming himself into an ugly parody of a man, to die friendless and alone. Never valued, never loved, just another caricature of himself, his entire life the remembered echo of someone who had lived and perhaps died before either of them had popped out of whatever horrific lab had spawned them both.

  Hidden Quest: Know Thyself I: Complete! In their heart of hearts, every child fears he's replaceable. In your case, it's actually the truth! You're not just one of a hundred implanted offspring sired by your father, you're a perfect clone, even your memories are implanted! No doubt Mitch has already gone on to better versions of yourself, assuming you had ever really interacted with him at all. The few memories you can count your own are the precious moments spent forging alliances and friendships with folk here on Jordia. Too bad the only people who ever actually cared about you just died horribly, fighting by your side.

  Experience earned!

  Congratulations! You have reached level 4. A cloned fragment of a soul, eager to blossom with the limitless potential of every foe bested, every challenge mastered, bringing you that much closer to a future independent of your hideously fragmented past. Forging a reality where your life, little more than the dreams of a dead experiment implanted in a mound of quivering cloned flesh only 3 days old, actually mattered! Because whether you're an experienced veteran of life's ups and downs, or a pile of se
ntient goop at perpetual risk of turning into a monster, nothing aids explosive growth like feeding upon those who have come before!

  Good luck getting the rest you need to blossom into your new level before your enemies tear your throat out, just like they have every other clone your father sent their way!

  John shuddered, exhausted, desperate, likely minutes away from a gruesome death, now terrified of seeing what lay beyond that door, even if he could break through.

  Even as he shook with horror at what he had endured, at what he was, he had to believe there was hope. If Mason could forge himself into a warrior from whatever his grim origins had been, if Sophia could reclaim her beautiful younger self from the burned-out addict that had aged so quickly from poisons injected, then John had to believe that he, too, could become something other than a horrid mass of tumor-like cells plopped into a protein-filled vat and force-generated into whatever horror he now was. Perfectly aping a boy who had no doubt lived and died months, years, maybe decades before he had first opened his eyes, tied to a gurney and coming to only seconds before being shot dead, just three days ago.

  And his terribly acute hearing couldn't help picking up the skittering of horrors rapidly approaching.

  “Five minutes, John. You have about Five minutes.”

  He winced, sickened by the thought that Mitch's voice was echoing through his skull still. He was desperate to a way out, a path to survival, finding none.

  John’s eyes widened with sudden desperate hope. He remembered more than one time when, min-maxer that he was, he forewent careful, deliberate preparation in picking the absolute best combination of class strengths, stats and perks to just jump in and game with his friends. It had rarely ended perfectly. Often he lost, but the important thing was at least he had gotten to play.