"Excellent. Now, you have three minutes of free-learn time." He walked over to a panel, and inserted colored E-cards into various slots.
John pressed Dragoons and a digital, compression-level menu popped up.
Legdeferd's Dragoons was formed in 196 by Sir Hensworth (54). The Dragoon consists of 2500 expert equestrians.
He clicked the button for equestrians and read on.
əˈkwestrēən/
adjective, noun
1. relating to proper horse riding (nobility).
2. A noble who rides war horses (Military Coalition).
Then he clicked back.
Sir Hensworth (54)
He looked down at the E-Reader and pressed the knight's name.
Sir William Wallace Hensworth (54) is the commander of The Dragoons. Duke Legederd holds (9) estates.
(9) estates
1. Ackerman
2. Arrowhead
3. Bells
4. Canter
5. Firestone
6. Helingshire
7. Labor's Park
8. Legederd
9. Polopolis
He focused on on Labor's Park and mashed the icon.
Labor's Park
The node was blank, but John pressed it again. He checked the timer on his E-Reader and retraced his clicks.
9 estates
Hensworth
əˈkwestrēən/
Dragoon
He tried again and received the same result. Glancing over at Dr. Bells, John and his teacher locked eyes. The teacher cocked his head, owl-glancing at John. "Cadet, is everything alright?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then stop fidgeting in your chair." He glanced around the class. "Personal learning time is over. Any questions? No? Turn to Section Five and review. After you are finished, bring your attention forward."
1. Describe the mounted tactics used the Section 3.8.
2. Name the three heroes at the Battle of Labor's Park.
3. Explain how supply can affect the overall battle plan.
4. List the ten articles of the American Navajo commandments.
5. List the guerrilla tactics of the Navajos.
He stared down at number four and five, a droplet of sweat forming on his darkening, adolescent lip. He answered, and inflated them as much as he could with useless data he hoped would earn him a decent grade.
The lights dimmed and the professor flipped on the holo projector. Sir League, a renowned knight, projected into existence. His uniform varied slightly from the modern one: his beret was adorned with an older version of the St. George emblem, and war medals clung to him like ice sickles during the freezing months. His white hair was shaved to a flattop, and his peppered beard perfectly trimmed to precise military regulation.
"Class, Sir League will be providing some further background on this chapter. Remember, any information in these presentations could be on the final."
"Good afternoon class," his voice boomed through like an ice breaker.
"Glory to St. George!"
"Listen closely, not because this will be on your exam, but because our glorious history affects us all. 199 began poorly. The Saxon Empire had advanced into the eastern side of our beloved Kingdom. Nothing could stop their onslaught, and many of us talked about the End Times."
A map appeared on the front projection screen showing tactical positions with arrows indicating attacks. Background music played, a war ensemble of snare drums and dark, heavy synth chords.
"Upon encircling our ten divisions, the Saxons waited until the weather cleared to make their final push. On the 4th, shortly after 02:05, the Saxons launched a night attack with over 75 mechanized divisions. The 12th sector, held by the King's 4th infantry brigade, received the initial thrust by the Saxons, and they were overwhelmed within hours."
John glared over at his friend Jack, a failing student who always copied off of his E-Reader in exchange for doing his toilet chores. His head laid on the desk, his eyes closed, and a steady stream of drool dripped from his mouth. He took his light pen and jabbed him in the side.
"Wake up. Quit falling asleep."
Jack moaned, raising his head, and wiped his mouth dry.
"...comprised of standard infantry with perhaps as little as 18 mechanized divisions. Two pincers spearheaded an attack on the northern side where our defenses faltered. When the two pincers met up, 117 divisions, including the 61st Parawind Division, were cut off and encircled."
A man pixilated, taking the place of the knight. He wore a Parawind uniform and looked unremarkable other than his bulbous nose which looked completely wrong. Snake tattoos wrapped around the side of his face and disappeared into his hair. The snakes moved, twisting around, bearing their fangs.
"Sir Xavier Worthington, 1st Assault Company," he introduced himself smartly. "I was the commander of the 61st and was ordered to pull back across the Thames. We managed to delay seven divisions by laying traps and employing tactics of self-sacrificing. But the enemy had launched their grav tanks and mechanized cavalry into the corridor to prevent forces from retreating. After a few days, most of the 61st gave their lives for the nation."
"Wake up mate." He stabbed him again in the ribs and he opened his eyes again. "If they catch you sleeping, you know what's going to happen."
"I'm up. I'm up."
Sir Worthington glared over in his direction, and he sat nice and tall. "I took a chance and commandeered 12 T-GR-16's from the 3rd Sun Tank Division and attempted a breakout. We received new orders from headquarters tasking us with protecting the flank over a 55km distance, well outside of Labor's Park."
Looking down, vast swaths of forests and massive snowy-peaked mountains swooped by. Small lines connected different points on the vid. In the upper right-hand corner, a 3-D rendering of the obsolete T-GR-16 grav tank whirled around. Feeling the urge, John started sketching out the outline on his E-Reader with proud mythical banners flying on the back. He cocked his head up to see if Dr. Bells or Sir Worthington took notice and continued drawing.
"We held those position for two hours while Saxon recon teams probed our defenses. Support priority was given to medical, our mobile assets, and the limited air support we could call on so they could be relocated towards the interior of the pocket, thus preventing them from being captured by the enemy. Any questions?"
Near the back of the classroom, Neil Nirvana woke up and raised his hand. His topaz hair almost broke regulation length. He never smiled, always trying to hide his crooked bottom teeth, and when he laughed, he covered his mouth. He was John's bunkmate and his best and only real friend.
"What is your question?"
"Is it lunch time yet?"
The class laughed, and Dr. Bells slapped the forward mounted projection screen. Then the class was silent like their mother had just been murdered.
Sir League reappeared in Sir Worthington's place in his black dress uniform and asked in a voice certainly reserved only for special occasions, "Come again?"
Dr. Bells reached into his desk and withdrew his Plasstien switch and whistled an A sharp. The lights flickered back on.
"Cadet, you have disrupted class two times this month and are in desperate need of immediate discipline. You will now assume the position."
Neil wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "For asking if we can bloody well eat or not? Posh. Null the loon and let's get back to some real learning."
"I am not here for your amusement, nor to hear your chatterbox mouth or contractions. Now, over here. Assume the position before I make it ten time worse."
His dark brown eyes rebelled in the light. "In front of me mates?"
"Assume the position or extreme discipline."
"For this? For wanting a bloody neo-tuna sandwich and some inedible molded strawberry squash?" John caught his glance.
Dr. Bells pointed to the wall, his Oracle White shirt set to burst open from his over-sized belly. His friend got up and walked to the front of the desk, knocking everyone'
s E-Reader off.
The moment he dropped his pants everyone stared at their desks. All except Koala Joe whose real name was Chester Floormat. But he'd earned his name because of his black-reddish hair covering his entire body. John glared at him staring at his friend's ass, hypnotized, and punched him on the arm. "Hey reject. What the hell are you looking at? Give Neil some privacy."
He looked away. It wasn't the first time he had stared at him.
The hits came, one after the other, and Neil was forced to count them out—20 hits in total, and John could tell he was hoping it would be the last. After the 12th smack, Neil started whimpering. By the 15th, his speech and crying were too mixed to differentiate. By the 18th, the numbers stopped. 19. 20.
"The next time, it will be 30, so you remember that. Now, sit down." Dr. Bells re-extinguished the lights again and smirked. "Sir Worthington, please continue."
He continued his lecture in relative silence, and no one spoke up again. At the end, he disappeared from view and a holographic image of kneeling officers and nobility appeared in a ditch. Blindfolded. Passive.
"Here, in the last chapter, you learned about Combat Article 1, and I know all of you want to see what it looks like up close. Use your service pistol and aim at the back of the head. Like this." A man stepped forward with an autopistol, matching up to his speech. "These scum have given up, so you can use a rifle or a pistol, but using a pistol is better. Say a silent prayer to St. George before you start and squeeze the trigger." The image fired, the vid slowed down to bullet time. The shell spun, and the man in the ditch became faceless as the round dragged his face off. Everything returned to normal playback speed. "Notice how the others react. They do not get up and attack you and simply wait their turn. This is due to their inferior nature."
But not everyone enjoyed the splatter. John felt queasy and he shot a look at Koala, who shrugged and looked back up at the screen. There was no honor in this. Maybe it didn't matter if there was.
"Dialog with enemies should be restricted to commands until you are told otherwise. If you are giving them and the enemy fails to obey, shoot them. These savages who resist the glory of St. George will not be recycled."
The children clapped, ecstatic with joy. "Amen," they sang. Dr. Bells stood and saluted the flag. The class rose up from their desks and joined in.
Sir Worthington reappeared, cleared his voice, and returned the salute. A digital, pre-programmed cluster Plank formed on his face. Machine codes checked everyone's personality profile. Internal calculations determined a tear would be needed for maximum dramatic effect and so Sir League shed one, a patriotic nod to those who had died in service to their nation.
He cleared his digi-voice again.
"Excuse me. I become emotional during times like these. Join me in a prayer."
"Our St. George, who art in Heaven,
"Win us this day, victory, justice, and glory,
"For we deserve it if we fight hard enough for You.
"Forgive misdemeanor trespasses once criminals have paid their fines,
"And forgive felonies sometimes but not all the time.
"All power to St. George and the King.
"Amen."
3 At Montavon's Request
Gungnir Odinson hated the world and had earned the titles people afforded him. Warlord. Ruthless. Murderer. Rapist. Úlfheðnar. The last title was the one he held in the highest regard. The thrill of unbridled power had shortened his temper, and on several occasions, his violent energies bled over into Berlin. But they pushed him, and he didn't appreciate their lack of respect. His killing sprees would go on for weeks, slaying anyone he felt needed their life stripped away in a ravenous murder rampage. Unable to stop him by law, the Empire would just order more body bags and subsidize the burials.
The Úlfheðnar program was one of the Empire's most prized accomplishments. Using recombinant forbidden DNA, muscles grafts, the Viligut runic training system provided Gungnir access to the ancient Pre-Times Saxon script found in myth. While that part was necessary for his survival, the Odin Consciousness Training forced him to calm himself and sometimes granted access extra sensory perception from the gods, and a few times that had saved him more than the runes. He was one of many, but the others weren't his friends. He didn't have any, nor did he care.
His clothing was specially made for him and his shirt was no exception. Showing the World Tree, Yggdrasil, and wearing loose fitting, black sweat pants, his muscles strained the threads and kept him warm with nano-heating fibers. Gungnir loaded his 12mm revolver with razor ammo and holstered the weapon.
Coffee sounded nice and he dialed through the channels landing on the Empire News Network. More war. Excellent. The reports digitized. Little changed over the past 20 years. By Wotan, he missed the chaos, the smell of death, cordite, and blood. He was dead without it.
He flipped through the screens trying to find something new and exciting. The new picker vids on Channel 90 were unimpressive—reworks of reruns with Vadik's crew, those incompetent fools. Their old maps led to old sites picked clean of any tech years ago, and their trips to Nifleheim were on fake sets. If they were brave, they would show the drug lords, the slavers, and the feral tech merchants, but then it wouldn't be Channel 90.
His finger thumbed the power button nulling his broadcaster off, and he grabbed his money bag and counted his metal. Running low. Time for another run into the wasteland. Gungnir's fingers flipped through mapping screens on his beat-up built-in E-Mapper system. His eyes wandered over the familiar ground, and he panned over to the Domain of King Edward. His eyes narrowed, and he smiled to himself.
Someday. The coffee was hot and burnt his tongue.
Master, there are three men to see you outside, said his house, Lena. They will be ringing... now. The doorbell rang three times.
"Who are they?"
Initiating tag scan... Sergeant Edmund Klang, Security, Sergeant Utar Garm, Security, and Colonel Friedrich Montavon, State Investigations.
Montavon... The name he loathed. He had enlisted Gungnir into several small guerrilla ops and he'd performed as any Úlfheðnar does: he fell in love with extreme forms of combat and didn't want to leave until the battlefield was cleansed of enemies.
"Let them in."
The door opened and the three men stepped inside.
"Colonel. Come in. Coat rack is by the door. I have a few ales in the cooler if you're thirsty." His offer was waved off.
"Not this time. Why don't we all sit down and talk for a moment?" Montavon took off his leather gloves and fedora, revealing a receding hairline. He put the gloves down in his hat and directed everyone into the library. Books like: Cultures of the World, Learn to Speak St. Georgian, How to Massacre Some to Make the Rest O.B.E.Y., Ancient Weapons of Pre-Times, The Havamal, The Left Hand Path, Runic Practice, Military Rune Manual 1001-5501, Arkhe, and others sat on the bookshelf.
"You've got quite the selection, Gungnir. I wasn't aware." Montavon's eyes studied the spines.
"Been picking for years."
"That's the reason I'm here. You're the best picker in Berlin. You mind if I..." He moved his hand slowly to the Arkhe book. Its white cover and purple velvet spine begged to be picked up.
When Montavon almost clasped his hand around it, Gungnir's hair perked and he rushed to the bookshelf.
"That's uh..." He shoved it further back on the shelf. "That's nothing. Okay? So now what?"
"That's nothing... uh huh. Yeah. You two," he said pointing to his two security agents. "Wait outside. I'll call you in a second," ordered his former commander.
Sergeant Utar Garm put his hand on his baton. "Sir, are you sure? This is in violation of..."
"Yes. Out. He's not going to do anything."
Gungnir stepped to within centimeters of him. "If you don't exit my house in two seconds, I am going to rape you in front of your fucking mother."
They both hesitated, sped out, and slammed the door.
"Alright, Odinson. What's with you
r book. Where'd you find this?" Montavon asked.
"Niflheim. Why?"
"I was just curious, old friend."
"I'd rather not talk about it." He struggled to understand what was inside and the implications surrounding it, but now he was sure Montavon was data-less.
"Why don't you tell me."
"Because." He stepped between the shelf and his former boss.
"You should give me the book, Odinson."
"I'm a picker and an Úlfheðnar. Try giving me another order and watch what happens. I don't work for you anymore, and you shouldn't have dismissed your guards," he said smiling, drawing his sacred, narrow seax blade, the ancient dragon Fafnir etched on the side.
"Sorry, Gungnir. I meant no offense."
The dagger made a metallic slow, leathery noise as he fully extended the blade from its scabbard. Grabbing Montavon's arm, he dragged him back into his kitchen.
"I know what you're capable of and your status. Would you consider lending us the book then?" Montavon asked. He raised his chin and stole his attention.
"No. And you seem awfully curious about this which makes me think I should make sure you never get your fucking hands on it."
"Calm down. I can write something out..." he said glancing around.
"Never mind. Why in Hel are you here?"
"We've received word from the gothi priests at the Wotan temple at Uppsala. Oh, wait." He reached into his wallet and gave Gungnir a Plasstien card with his contact information digitized into it. The print showed his face spinning around, along with his Empire number and he scratched a small note with a Plank etcher on the back with a date and his bio-signature and gave it to him. "There you go. I'm going to make sure you get your book back if I can. If not, I would stay away from this subject."
"Well, you aren't taking anything from my house. Keep your card. As far as what the gothis might be saying, I have a direct connection with Wotan. What our priests are spewing means nothing to me. They should be asking me for what to do next!"
"Alright, Úlfheðnar. Forget about the book. I'll record what you said in the log."
"Do what you need to do," he crossed his arms. "Was there something else?"
The Arkhe Principle (Book Book 1) Page 3
