“Speak for yourself,” hissed a third, the sound of a plasma touch being lit reached Nikomedes ears.
“Afraid to make the first move,” asked the little Starborn with the cold voice.
“You remind me of someone I used to know,” Nikomedes said, trying and failing to snap the fingers of his off hand. These power suits sure made some things almost impossible to do while wearing them.
The little man cocked an eyebrow and shuffle-stepped a few paces closer. “Do tell.”
“My former weapons trainer,” Nikomedes said pulling a plasma grenade off of his belt, “he was evil, that one.”
The Tracto-an activated the grenade.
“Not as honor-stupid as I’d been led to believe, I see,” said Tuttle appreciatively. Then, when Nikomedes tossed his grenade, the Tracto-an dove behind a series of workstations for cover.
The grenade exploded with resounding force, showering the area immediately around it with burning plasma.
Nothing moved.
Nikomedes took several steps closer and then waited listening.
“What’s he waiting for,” muttered a voice from up above.
Another step and Nikomedes swept the area with narrow eyes.
Popping from cover like some kind of rabid, insane weasel, Tuttle cleared the data terminal he had hid behind in a single bound, his sword coming forward like a serpent’s tooth of doom. Nikomedes was forced to backpedal in surprise.
Despite expecting a surprise of some sort, the force and vigor of the attack caused him to backpedal. It was all he could do to keep his vibro-blade interposed between himself and the little man with the cold voice. This ‘Armsman’ was fast as lightning.
Once, twice, three times Nikomedes was forced to parry, each time giving ground. The Tracto-an bared his teeth with fury and launched a brutal overhand attack.
His blade was effortlessly deflected to the side, with a minimum of counter-force, and before he knew it Tuttle’s blade was hunting for his head.
Forced to backpedal for all he was worth, Nikomedes leapt up and back, landing several feet behind his previous position on the deck with a resounding thump. Now crouched with his sword between himself and his foe, Nikomedes stared at this Tuttle.
For his part, the short Armsman issued a smile that failed to reach his eyes.
“None can stand against a man in magic power-armor,” Nikomedes said in surprise.
“There’s that superstition I’ve heard so much about,” Tuttle agreed, flicking his sword to the side derisively before lunging without warning.
Scrambling for his best footing, Nikomedes sidestepped and counterattacked.
Tuttle grunted and the Tracto-an’s sword was deflected toward the floor. Before Nikomedes knew it, his head was knocked to the side with a terrible screech.
Infuriated by the scarred glass that suddenly criss-crossed his field of vision, the Lancer gave a mighty sweep of his sword and when this failed to connect, the Tracto-an pulled a string of grenades off his belt. A savage downward flick of his hand relieved the majority of them of their pins and whirling the string over his head, he sent a slew of sonic grenades flying in every direction.
Once again Tuttle rolled behind cover, but this time Nikomedes refused to be deterred. Even as booming walls of pure sonic force knocked him side to side, the Tracto-an Lancer cleaved through Tuttle’s cover with a brutal overhand sweep of his blade. Spotting movement, Nikomedes kicked with his mighty power-armored feet, clearing half the workstation out of his way.
Sidestepping the lower half of the ruined workstation, Nikomedes gave a power-assisted hop and cleared the rest of the wreckage.
Tuttle glanced up in time to see several hundred pounds of metal-shod, native warrior aimed to land somewhere on the lower half of his body and Nikomedes grinned. The grin was soon wiped away as Tuttle’s body rolled to one side, and the Armsman stabbed Nikomedes in the leg as he completed the roll.
The leg gave out as he crashed into the deck, but Nikomedes still managed to slash Tuttle’s side. Sparks flew as the black armor the Armsman was wearing made its defensive properties known, easily protecting its wearer from the Lancer’s vibro-weapon.
It was necessary to overextend himself in order to make contact with the little Armsman, and when his vibro-blade skittered wide, Nikomedes landed on his side. Nikomedes caught a sudden motion out of the corner of his field of vision as he came to a stop on the deck.
Instinctively punching out, Nikomedes felt a slight stinging sensation in his side before the infernal Tuttle went flying into the side of fusion generator two from the power-assisted force of his punch.
“You’ve got heart kid, but you’re no match for a Tuttle,” came the cold, gravel-filled voice of the Armsman.
“World of Men,” Nikomedes cursed, matching the other’s tone with an equally cold voice of his own in return. “What are you waiting for,” he growled, making a come-hither motion with his free hand. The Lancer tried to straighten himself, but Tuttle’s strike had landed with precision, and the mechanical joint of his right leg had been completely ruined.
The little brown man raised his sword over his head and, holding it parallel to the ground, stopped with the point of his sword aimed unerringly at Nikomedes.
The Tracto-an Lancer drew himself up, two hands holding the hilt of his sword for extra power. He was only going to have one chance at this, as the other man was too small and too fast. Somehow, without power armor of his own, the little brown Armsman was able to leap about as though he was on a spring. It was too bad that neither trick with the grenades had worked.
“In the end, there can be only—” the little man started conversationally, sidling closer a half step at a time before rushing in mid-sentence.
Ducking under Nikomedes blade with a forward roll, Tuttle turned regaining his feet in a swift, assured motion.
His sword high and wide out of position, Nikomedes felt a cold burning sensation in the middle of his torso. The two men froze in place. Tuttle stood mere inches in front of the Tracto-an, his back to Nikomedes with both hands on the hilt of his sword with the blade pointed behind him and through the larger man’s chest.
Feeling his hands weakening, the native warrior heard his vibro-blade clatter to the ground as if from a distance, his senses suddenly overcome by the wound he had sustained.
“—one Montagne Prince, and I am his sworn Armsman,” the little man said with flat, ringing finality.
Nikomedes knees were like rubber, and he could feel himself listing to one side, his natural strength no longer enough to compensate for the damaged joint. He knew he had seconds to do what he must.
The Tracto-an warrior activated a mechanism in his vambrace by flicking his wrist, causing a bladeless hilt to spring from a compartment located the suit’s arm and into his palm. The hilt nearly sprung past his numb hand, but he closed his fingers around it through sheer force of will, and not an instant too soon.
I cannot allow the Legacy of Men to fall into the hands of the Starborn, he seethed internally. The Voice of Men said that I could not wield it until I was ready; if that time is not now, then it is never!
Almost too quickly to see, a stream of liquid crystal poured from the top of the hilt, hardening into a broad, shimmering blade as it extended to a length of just under three feet. Nikomedes had no time to gape in wonder at his first sight of the weapon’s true form; instead, he brought the blade around in an attempt to decapitate his foe, hoping to strike Tuttle down before his own badly damaged suit took his feet out from under him.
Recognition flashed in Connor Tuttle’s eyes, and in a lightning-quick reaction, he pulled his own sword free from Nikomedes’ chest. Impossibly, he managed to bring his vibro-blade into the path of Nikomedes’ Light Sword of Power.
But Nikomedes knew in that moment that he truly was a hero of Tract Two; only such a man could wield a Light Sword of Power without suffering instant death. He used every shred of his strength to bring it down to sunder the nimble
Armsman’s Imperial weapon.
And sunder, it did.
As Tuttle’s blade shattered into a shower of razor-sharp pieces, Nikomedes drove the Light Sword of Power toward the other man’s neck, but the Armsman was too nimble. He let Nikomedes’ powerful attack’s energy drive him toward the deck, taking his head out of the Light Sword’s path. Nikomedes roared as he felt himself begin to topple, and he knew he had no time for a second attack with his mighty weapon.
Instead, he swung his free off-hand in a wide, chopping motion as he fell to the deck. He was rewarded with a satisfying series of pops and crunches as he struck the Armsman’s shoulder with enough force to drive the smaller man’s body to the floor.
Nikomedes crashed into the metal deck beside his foe, and he briefly lost his vision as he felt a warm, prickly sensation spread across his lower half. He shook his head like an enraged Stone Rhino to clear his vision. After a few seconds of gathering his senses, he saw Tuttle dragging himself away. Nikomedes lashed out the smaller man, striking him in the side. Tuttle curled up in pain as he rolled a few meters away, clearly unable to catch his breath.
Much as he wanted nothing more than to finish the quick little man, Nikomedes had a duty. Taking off his helmet, he threw it in the direction of his opponent and then spat, but both projectiles went wide of the mark. The Tracto-an grimaced with pain as he drug himself from the scene of the battle, using nothing but his hands, as his legs no longer responded to his commands.
His vision tunneled, and were it not for the sound of his shoulder actuators firing as he pulled with his arms, he would have believed he was already dead. With this auditory reassurance that he was still making forward progress, he grimly kept to his task.
He had a duty to perform, one final chore before he could let go and surrender to Men’s welcoming embrace.
The sound of pounding feet rattling and clattering on metal steps filled his ears.
“Internal sensors show half a company of Jacks are on their way here right now,” said an annoyingly familiar voice, “we’ve got to get you back in the fight.”
“I am finished,” Nikomedes said wearily, collapsing on his face.
Nikomedes heard a slight release of air and felt something sharp injected into his neck.
“Stay the course, Lancer. We’ve got to hold fast,” said an excitable sounding voice.
“I have run my course,” Nikomedes coughed, blood on his lips and fire in his veins, “a half-company is too many, even for me.”
“What can we do, all the rest of these fat sobs in here can’t wait to fall all over themselves following Captain Heppner’s orders,” spat the first voice.
“Take me to fusion generator three,” Nikomedes croaked, even as his body started twitching uncontrollably, fire and ice running up and down his arteries.
The sound of a grav-cart being activated and then a cable attached to the hard point on his back came to him vaguely, as he slowly drifted away.
Being slammed into the side of the fusion generator brought him back to wakefulness.
“Sorry,” mumbled one of the three stooges from up on the catwalk, “still getting the hang of this thing.”
“Never again,” said Nikomedes.
“Look, I said I was sorry,” the driver protested.
Feeling the barest hint of strength in his upper extremities, Nikomedes just shook his head and with his power assisted arms grabbed a hold of the fusion generator, pulled himself to his knees.
“Help me inside,” he said with a grunt.
“There’s no need to throw me into the reactor just because I knocked you around a bit on accident,” protested the driver.
“Jacks are on the way and you think I am worried about your careless driving,” Nikomedes growled, grabbing the other man by the collar of his uniform.
The driver stared at him wide eyed, “No,” he squeaked.
Nikomedes shoved him toward the manual controls.
“Now open it,” he ordered, pulling on his manual release lever.
For a wonder, the other man pulled his lever simultaneously, and the door to Spalding’s Number Three reactor slowly slid open.
“Never again,” Nikomedes mumbled as he clawed his way through the door to Murphy’s Gate.
“What are you doing,” demanded the first, more authoritative voice.
“My duty,” Nikomedes replied, heading for the next door leading further in.
Several figures piled into the small access room behind him.
Nikomedes paused, and with effort turned his head.
“What do you think you are doing,” he asked irritably.
“They’ll kill us or put us in the brig if we stay,” said the leader of the three hooligans, “we’re better off in here with you.”
“Fools,” Nikomedes said with a sigh, “it will be your funeral.”
Opening the second door he headed inside, the others squeezing in behind him into the much smaller, more cramped room.
“What are you doing,” asked the tremulous third voice, the driver of the grav-cart.
Shaking his head, Nikomedes reached over and activated the manual release.
There was a roaring sound and suddenly the lights inside the room flickered, cut off and as a great weight of gravity smashed him into the floor knocking him out, the lights flickered back on red.
The grav-cart driver looked shocked. “He just ejected the entire fusion generator out of the ship!”
“There’s not enough oxygen for us to survive in here for long,” said the slightly calmer leader of this impromptu group.
“We’re all dead then,” wailed the second member of the trio.
Suddenly and in unison, the Starborn began screaming and punching on the control interface built into the second room while Nikomedes slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter 42: Armor Prince - Engineering
Colonel Wainwright was stuck in his battlesuit, unable to do anything except stare helplessly as 2nd Battalion 1st Regiment Marines were caught in a brutal crossfire and then either killed or captured. Although being marines, it was mostly killed with very few captured.
A tall figure in old style power armor came to stand over him, a black blade right out of Caprian history clutched in power-armored gauntlets with the rest of the suit crisscrossed in superficial scars and divots.
Working his way free of the metal death trap previously known as his battlesuit with the help of Sergeant Kopenhagen, the Marine Colonel glared up at the figure towering over him.
“Bandersnatch,” he growled, looking at one of secondary objectives assigned to his marine brigade for recapture.
“My Bandersnatch,” the Lancer in front of him said with icy coldness in her voice. “Who’s in Command here,” she demanded imperiously.
“That would be me,” Wainwright growled, even as Kopenhagen and the other marines from the scratch squad that had helped seize control of Main Engineering pointed in his direction.
“Who do I have the honor of addressing,” she asked in a voice so icy in its precision that it was obvious she felt no honor at all speaking to him.
“Colonel Wainwright, Brigade Commander, 1st Expeditionary Brigade, Royal Caprian Marines at your service,” he replied, his voice making it just as clear as could be that he didn’t consider himself at her service whatsoever, “and you are?”
“Akantha of Messene, Hold Mistress and Land Bride in my own right as well as Sword-Bearer,” she said waggling the sword in her hand from side to side, “to one Jason Montagne.”
“The Prince’s wife,” Wainwright scowled.
“The Admiral’s Sword-Bearer,” she corrected with stiff precision, popping the visor of her helmet to glare at him.
“The difference being,” he said with a wry shake of his head and a roll of the eye that abruptly cut off as six feet of naked metal pressed against his throat.
“I bear a sword,” she said fire igniting in her eyes as she pressed the razor sharp edge of Bandersnatch against the und
erside of his chin.
After starting at her for a moment with his eyes as hard as agates, Wainwright couldn’t suppress a twitch of the lips, “I think I’m starting to acquire an appreciation of the subtle differences,” he admitted with an involuntary chuckle.
“Good,” she said flatly, as she pulled the sword from his throat.
“You are not the first to gaze upon a Sword of Power, eager to possess that which belongs to another, nor will you be the last,” she said with a stern look, “so all the warning I will give is this: touch the sword and die.”
“That sword is the property of the Caprian Blood Royal,” Wainwright said evenly.
“The sword is mine, as I will be more than willing to display upon the body of anyone foolish enough to dispute my claim,” Akantha retorted, “from the lowliest serf to the mightiest ruler.”
“I see,” Wainwright said with a pause, “perhaps, in the interest of expediency, we should agree to move on to another subject.”
“The Lancer Colonel moves on the Bridge of the Armor Prince even as we speak,” Akantha began with a sniff, “this is Main Engineering, and before I came here I had assisted in the capture of the gun deck. The ship is all but in our grasp.”
“Yeah, well,” Wainwright said, gesturing for Kopenhagen’s assistance with Major Gaspard’s armor, “I’ve been out of contact with the brigade for quite some time. This isn’t the only ship we need to take, I dare say it’s not even the only battleship, which completely ignores Omicron Station itself. How about let’s delay the celebration until after things are a little more secure than…this,” he said gesturing to the fallen lancers and marines all around them.
Akantha raised her nose in the air. “My partisans move within the Bandit Stronghold, even as we speak,” she said haughtily, “however,” she allowed, “you are correct that there is much yet to do before victory can be declared.”
“Riiight,” the Colonel drawled, clearly this Akantha was more than a little touched in the head. Hopefully it was from the recent exposure to combat and not a permanent condition, because whatever she seemed to believe, this one believed it strongly.
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