Schism of Blood and Stone (The Starfield Theory Book 1)

by Brian Frederico

  Unconsciously he flexed the fingers of his prosthetic hand, reminded of the accident that lost him his arm. Somehow I think mother would be disappointed if I were to die in a weapons malfunction, he thought with a hint of black humor. I think she would want a more glorious death for me.

  He released the beams, cutting power to the guns and allowing them cool. He brought up his arm and fired the autocannon that replaced what would have been the Axen's fist. The heavy weapon barked out a stream of shells that ripped into the ground around the Sørensen knight, tearing up earth and dirt, then traced a line of holes and dents up the legs and torso of his enemy.

  The assault produced devastating results, Magnus figured, as the Sørensen unit stumbled back several steps, nearly toppling over. Thaddeus was stunned and blindly fired off a few rounds of his own autocannons and a poorly aimed missile that never had time to lock on and track its target. It soared harmlessly overhead, while the autocannon rounds dug into the ground at the Axen's feet.

  The stricken Sørensen machine ducked back into the treeline, followed closely by his companions. The lighter Sørensen vehicles both got away unscathed but the other destrier had been similarly beaten up by Magnus' section. Bits of armor and leaked fuel littered the hilltop as evidence.

  A few of his warriors had made a few steps forward, trying to get a last second kill shot but Magnus reined them in. We can't have glory seekers splitting off and getting in trouble. Besides, the glory today is supposed to be mine. Their first battle makes them overeager.

  Magnus pushed the section as a group down the hill and into the trees, trading shots with the Sørensen units as they went. One of the vehicles dashed from the treeline to the right, splattering Magnus with autocannon fire that raked a line of destruction up the Axen's right arm. He stopped quickly and twisted the destrier to bring the vehicle into his line of sight.

  It was a Hawk class tank, painted in the white and gray of House Sørensen, gliding quickly away from him on its hover skirts. Magnus swung his cross hairs onto the vehicle as it banked sharply and headed back to the trees. The tone of a hard lock sounded in his ears and he triggered his Thresher missile. It burned on a trail of smoke, tracking the Hawk precisely. In less than two seconds it reached its target and detonated, flipping the Hawk into the air and rolling it several times.

  If that didn't kill the crew, it sure knocked them out. Either way, that Hawk is out of the fight. Those hover vehicles are too fragile to keep in the forest. Do these guys have any idea what they're doing?

  “Got him!” The voice of one of his sergeants burst in his ears. “Count the Viscount out.”

  Magnus wasn't sure if Ezra was trying to be funny or if the heat of battle had rendered his vocabulary moot. Regardless, one of the destriers was out of the fight which left the only heavier Wolverine operable.

  Magnus stepped into the forest, his section close behind him. Two of his vehicles, too large to enter without getting stuck, flanked wide of the trees to trap any of the Sørensen units trying to escape.

  The trees were interfering with his visual readings but his sensors weren't detecting the Wolverine. Trees snapped as he maneuvered the destrier through the woods. Some bore the marks of the battle, stumps were uprooted were missiles and autocannon rounds had missed, while others were burning where a laser wreaked its destruction. Magnus was careful not to get his ride stuck in foliage too dense, though he wouldn't hesitate to use the battle ax to carve a path through if he had to.

  Two explosions nearby thrust Magnus back into the fight. The missiles were smaller in yield and weren't locked on. His destrier's sensors would have detected a missile lock which meant the Sørensen pilot was firing blindly. Desperately.

  He saw a flash of white armor about two hundred and fifty meters away and Magnus pushed the Axen forward, hoping to catch the Sørensen before he could slip back into the trees. He fired his autocannon, trying to clear some of the foliage between himself and the fleeing Wolverine. It appeared as though some of the rounds struck the Wolverine, sending a shower of sparks and ruined armor plating scattering into the forest. If he could get a clean laser shot on its damaged side he might be able to cut through the remaining armor and burn out its internal systems.

  A poor shot might set the forest on fire and burn them all alive.

  He charged the lasers and thundered forward, seeing the Wolverine in full now. He brought the lasers to bear but stopped in mid motion. The Wolverine was stationary and its arms were pointed at the ground, clearly shut down and nonthreatening. The cockpit hatch was open and the pilot was standing on the its shoulder with a comm unit in his hand.

  What in Amrah's name are you doing?

  Magnus slowed his destrier as it emerged into the clearing. He kept the laser charged, wary of some sort of trick. He was tempted to simply vaporize the foolish Sørensen pilot out of existence, but that was not an honorable kill. So far I've been lacking in fair kills, he thought.

  “Attention Teton commander, I am Thaddeus Sørensen, commander of the Magdeborg defense. You come to Magdeborg uninvited, killing and destroying my people and property. I do not know why you have come, but I am determined to stop you. You have destroyed my section and disabled my mount. Therefore, I throw down the gauntlet to you,” the Sørensen pilot said.

  Thaddeus Sørensen waved something at him. Magnus punched up his magnification and could see the object was a glove used in battle by pilots so sweat-slick hands would not slip on the controls. Thaddeus tossed it from the shoulder of his destrier and Magnus watched it tumble to the forest floor.

  Magnus snorted. I've never seen the tradition taken so literally before.

  He waited a moment before responding. To accept the challenge would be to violate his own orders. But this was the House Master's brother. To refuse his challenge would lower his stature in the eyes of his troopers. To actually kill the Sørensen commander in a duel would earn his prestige beyond any he had ever known.

  If Thaddeus doesn't kill me, certainly my mother will, he thought sourly. I don't need her permission for glory.

  “Lord Sørensen, I accept your challenge,” he said using the destrier's external speakers. He ordered his section to spread out and stay alert, just in case it turned out to be a trap. Somehow, Magnus doubted a Sørensen lord would stoop to that level. If Cassandra was right, they probably didn't even have the ability to mount any sort of complex attack at all. Regardless, Magnus still preferred to err on the side of caution. The history books do not remember reckless commanders for great deeds.

  Magnus began the shut down sequence and unstrapped the helmet and removed the sensor pads that tracked his movements and translated them into the mechanical actions of the destrier. Magnus stored the equipment. He kept his sword in its scabbard in a storage port next to him, available just in case he was ever shot off his mount. He strapped the sword to his waist. The blade was forged at Armistead Munitions, made from the same ferro-steel that protected his mount. His father's sword was the ancestral Teton blade that was held by the House Master and passed through successive generations. One day, it would be his. The weapons were antiquated now, replaced by other hand to hand combat weapons, but the nobility still enjoyed their comforting presence and status. Despite their uselessness in destrier combat, they served as a reminder of noble rank and privilege and occasionally were used in duels. Like this one.

  He popped the cockpit hatch and stepped out into the cold forest air. He breathed deeply, for first time inhaling Magdeborg air. It reeked of burned trees, oils and heat thrumming from his destrier. It smelled like death.

  He made sure his sword was secure and slapped the controls to lower the chain link ladder. The forest floor was firm and dry, there'd be so slipping in this fight. He marched smartly to where the Sørensen knight had stopped about halfway between the two machines. He noticed Thaddeus' mount had been severely damaged, more so than Magnus had anticipated. Coolant and fuel dripped like blood from its wounds which were scorched black from laser hit
s. It had likely lost its on-board electronics systems, targeting and communications. It's engine had shut down to protect him from a catastrophic explosion.

  This really is a last desperate gamble on his part, he realized.

  Thaddeus Sørensen stood feet apart, hand on the hilt of his weapon. He wore no armor, just a simple white and gray field tunic. Despite the covering, he still appeared well conditioned, not quite the withered old man Magnus had heard about and anticipated. His hair had gone ashen white and his face was etched with lines. His eyes were a deep cold gray and they burned with fury. He was easily eighty years old, not ancient and crippled like Dietrich, but certainly beyond the age of retirement and much beyond his prime. His face was impassive, though a few cuts revealed that some of the shots taken at him had penetrated the cockpit. They bled freely, staining his uniform.

  “Sir Magnus Teton-Sten,” he said dryly upon recognizing him. “I thought I recognized the insignia on your mount.”

  “Expecting someone else?”

  “Your parents send you to fight their battles for them. Where is Richard? Salena? They send their children into a war while they reap the rewards?” Thaddeus taunted with a mocking smirk.

  Magnus violated every protocol of propriety and spat on the ground in front of the Sørensen nobleman. “Only to expel the traitors like you and your ilk.”

  “Traitor is an odd word coming from you,” Thaddeus said drawing his weapon in one swift stroke. He fell easily into a fighting stance with his blade held high and waited for Magnus to ready himself. Despite his age, Thaddeus was a veteran fighter and practiced in both blade and destrier. One did not survive so long and be incompetent in either.

  Magnus felt a pang of conscience run through his mind as he realized the Sørensen was serious about fighting and felt a bit of bravado escape him like a puff of air. I can't bring myself to kill an old man. It's not honorable.

  He tried one last ditch attempt at diplomacy. “This isn't necessary, my lord. If you surrender, my mother will show you leniency, perhaps even restore you to your title.”

  “I'm not interested in wealth and power, boy. I serve at the mercy of House Sten, not the pitiful hybrid you are. Your mother has nothing to offer me,” Thaddeus growled. “Draw your weapon so I can send you to drown in Ithix!”

  “Thaddeus, please. I'm a third your age. Accept her offer,” Magnus persisted.

  “I'll do no such thing, boy!” To emphasize his point, Thaddeus lunged forward swinging, narrowly missing Magnus' dodging torso.

  In one swift movement, Magnus drew his sword in time to parry another swing. His blade rang and sparked as it met his opponent's and the blow pushed Magnus back several steps.

  He's still so strong! How in Amrah's name did he manage to keep fit in his years?

  Magnus recovered and regained the stance that had been drilled into him at the academy, sword up, feet apart. Thaddeus mimicked his stance, obviously well trained and had the edge in experience and showing so sign of fatigue. He glared at him, a look of utter hatred that bored into Magnus' soul.

  Magnus struck next, swinging low to either force him to move to lower his blade to parry. Thaddeus did the former, and pivoted on his left heel, swinging his sword aggressively toward Magnus' head. Magnus ducked, wheeling backward, bringing his blade up to parry another blow more out of luck than skill. Thaddeus did not let up and pushed him hard, swinging wildly and driving Magnus back.

  Magnus felt his heart nearly burst when he didn't feel his sword catch one of Sørensen's blows. Instead he felt a burning sensation along his forehead as Sørensen's blade nicked him. Warm blood began to flow. Magnus tried his best to wipe it from his eyes. He couldn't afford going blind here. His real hand already ached with each blow, his breathing intensified and his heart hammered like an autocannon in his chest. The old man just did not seem to tire.

  Magnus leaped back, allowing Thaddeus' sword to pass overhead and strike a tree, sending bark flying and lodging the weapon about an inch into its surface. Thaddeus yanked hard and removed the blade. Magnus shook his head, trying to calm his motions and focus his attention.

  But he felt something more than fear, a cold sort of feeling that swept over him like a rising tide. He felt an uncontrollable shaking in his arms only partly due to exhaustion. As Thaddeus marched inexorably toward him, he thought accepting the challenge now appeared to be a mistake.

  It was panic. Thaddeus hopelessly outclassed him, he realized, and now was coming to finish the job. Magnus had foolishly sent his support away, the only people who might be able to intervene to save him. Even if they could, the breach of protocol would be devastating. Mother would find out. She always did.

  Thaddeus attacked with a wild abandon, but Magnus didn't try to parry his blows. He sidestepped them where possible and ducked under the ones meant to take off his head. Thaddeus' attacks were becoming more desperate, less coordinated.

  He can't keep that up forever. He'll grow weary. He's strong, but he's not a machine!

  Finally, Thaddeus over swung and Magnus lunged, drawing strength from his enhanced prosthesis and raked the sword down Thaddeus' torso and hip. The Sørensen cried out and took several steps back. Blood oozed down the wound, covering his uniform. It wasn't lethal, but it would severely inhibit his ability to fight.

  “My lord,” Magnus said. “This can end here. There need not be any more bloodshed.”

  Thaddeus spat blood and made Magnus wonder if he nicked the man's lung. “I'll do nothing of the sort. You'll have to kill me.”

  “I don't kill defenseless, wounded men,” Magnus said lowering his weapon.

  “Defenseless?” Thaddeus spat. “You'll learn, boy.” Thaddeus struck so quickly that Magnus barely had an opportunity to deflect the poorly aimed swing. Rather than step back to take a swing himself, he charged, using his weight to push Thaddeus back, but he wouldn't yield. He pushed off Magnus and tried to swing, but the motion was hampered by his wound and ended up being only a weak halfhearted attempt to slice off Magnus' kneecaps.

  Magnus thrust viciously and caught the Sørensen in the kidney. Magnus called on every inch of strength to shove the ferro-steel as deep as possible, feeling muscle and organ collapse beneath the blow. It felt strange to plunge a sword into human meat. The practice dummies at the academy did not sigh in pain and look into your eyes as the life left them.

  Thaddeus Sørensen dropped to his knees, coughing and wheezing. Blood poured from the wound, splashing onto the ground. Magnus yanked the sword free, covered in blood and gore, and held it at the ready, but the dying lord posed no further threat.

  Thaddeus blinked once and looked up at the young noble in shock and disbelief. He offered no last words, not one last breath of wisdom. He collapsed onto his face and died as his lifeblood pooled around his body. In the movies, the dying always had one last thing to say, some legacy they wanted to pass along. Every dead hero had some great final phrase often engraved on tombs and immortalized in the histories. But Thaddeus Sørensen had only died. Something felt strangely amiss to Magnus. Unfinished.

  He breathed heavily, exhausted from the brief, but bloody fight, then wiped his sword on Sørensen's uniform. Once clean, he sheathed it and sat heavily on the ground. Slowly the sounds of the forest returned as the crashes and booms of the fighting died. Some wildlife dashed about while birds chirped at him, wondering at the violence that lay before them. Magnus couldn't explain it to himself, probably would never be able to do so. But it was an honorable kill. Thaddeus had given him no other option.

  “Walk with Amrah, my lord,” Magnus whispered and closed the dead Sørensen's eyes.

  Once he'd regained his breath he climbed back into the Axen and led his section back to the road to Magdeborg City, finding little resistance along the way.

  Kristoffer

  Captain of the MacCleod

  20 February, 23,423

  Garda Station, Goteborg, Magdeborg Commonwealth

  ______________

  Drayton's cor
poration managed a dozen ships, though only a handful occupied the private hangar at any given time. The hangar itself was small, just a thousand cubic meters. Along each wall were the ship berths, massive superstructures that kept the ships in place as Garda slowly orbited Goteborg. The MacCleod had been there for over a month, undergoing repairs and generally collecting dust. Chris could almost hear the ship sighing at its disuse. She wanted to be in space as did her crew.

  Chris stood on the gangway that led to the ship's main loading bay reading over the diagnostics. He flipped through the pages, duly noting the changes done to her over the past few hours. Kerali was somewhere inside the engine housing, making the final adjustments to the jump drive and mask. There had been some trouble configuring the Cassian built devices for use on the Commonwealth ship, but Kerali was very good at her job. She and her two assistants worked around the clock to install them properly. There could be no failures in unforgiving space.

  Chris rubbed the hull of the ship as if stroking a beloved pet. He hoped the modifications would improve their odds at surviving their contract, but couldn't help harboring some concerns. Drives could fail, masks could fail, people could fail. It could be the last voyage of the MacCleod.

  The MacCleod had been a gift upon his graduation from Goteborg University from Sir Ian Evers, the scion to Goteborg's ruling family. Most of the nobility were tutored privately since attending a university with commoners was beneath them, though House Evers tended to be one of the more progressive houses. They met in a class where Ian was struggling considerably. The young knight was so involved in his military training and combat simulators he claimed he couldn't keep up with the material. Chris suspected he was busier chasing college girls and didn't care much for Modern Human Core Economics, but he endeavored to help him figuring a knight who owed him a favor would come in handy some day.