Landing Dueling Grounds
City of Landing
Planet of Manticore
Manticore Binary System
June 9, 1906 PD
at least the rain had stopped.
The gusty wind, unfortunately, hadn’t, and Chris Scarborough scowled as he pressed the button that folded his umbrella into a pocket-sized package and stowed it away. The wind had threatened to snatch it out of his hands more than once as he’d stood here, and quite a bit of the hard, driving rain had gotten in under its theoretical protection on the wings of that wind. And from the looks of the overcast, he might need it again all too soon, which was an unpleasant thought. Almost as unpleasant as contemplating the reason he was out here yet again.
He glared down at the field, where Countess Harrington and Colonel Ramirez stood waiting. They’d been there for over five minutes, although there was still no sign of Earl North Hollow. On the other hand, they’d been early. And despite Harrington’s calm expression—all too clear through the telephoto lenses—the reason they’d been early was her eagerness. Her anticipation.
Her hunger.
He made himself look away from her, and his eyes swept the decidedly damp crowd of newsies about him. It was even bigger than the crowd which had gathered to witness her confrontation with Summervale. Of course it was. There’d been plenty of time for the sensationalists and scandal blogs to chum the water for this one. But the feeling vibrating around him was quite different from the last time. Then, Harrington had been the inexperienced tragic heroine, the grief-stricken, almost certain-to-die tyro confronting the deadly, experienced duelist who’d killed her lover. Today, she was no tyro, and not a soul in her watching audience expected her to die on that rain-soaked grass this day. But one thing hadn’t changed, for she remained the avenging angel, out to destroy the man who’d orchestrated Paul Tankersley’s death.
Assuming one actually believed that drivel, at any rate.
Scarborough glanced to his right, where Bryant Hirsch once again had his camera set up, and it was all he could do not to spit in disgust. Hirsch, obviously, did believe every word of it, and because he was only a cameraman and not an actual reporter, he was perfectly free to voice his personal opinion “not for attribution” at the drop of a hat. Which God knew he’d done! And because Scarborough had been forced to listen to him more than once, he understood exactly how the mental processes of the conspiracy theorists worked. And the worst of it, probably, was that Hirsch’s convictions were absolutely honestly held.
He grimaced, but then he made himself draw a deep mental breath and acknowledge—little though he wanted to—that Hirsch’s analysis of events since Harrington’s return to the Star Kingdom wasn’t as insane as Scarborough would have preferred. Oh, if Earl North Hollow had truly been behind Tankersley’s death, and if Harrington truly had evidence of it, then certainly she would have presented it. Or that was what any rational, reasonable person who believed in the rule of law would have done, at any rate! If she had evidence that a peer of the realm had paid for someone’s murder, then she also had an overwhelming responsibility to pass that evidence to the proper authorities for investigation and—if appropriate—prosecution. And if her evidence was valid, then undoubtedly North Hollow would have been convicted and punished. Properly punished, by the legal system, not by some crazed vigilante.
But she’d never attempted to do anything of the sort. Which suggested only three possibilities, really. First, that the evidence didn’t exist. Second, that the evidence was merely suggestive, or illegally obtained and thus inadmissible, or both. Or, third, that she didn’t want him prosecuted. Either because she was afraid the evidence she possessed—assuming it actually existed—was insufficient for a conviction . . . or else because she wanted to personally make sure the man she hated “paid for his crimes” in full, unlike the way he’d “escaped” the death penalty after his court-martial. It was always possible that even if he was convicted in a court of law North Hollow might escape with his life, and the fact that he would spend most of the rest of it—most of a prolong-lengthened life, at least a T-century—in prison obviously wasn’t enough for her.
Chris Scarborough had seen a lot in his years as a newsy. He’d seen a lot of human passion, and a lot of human hatred. And because he had, he knew that even if Harrington truly had persuasive, legally obtained evidence, she would never present it, because she didn’t want him prosecuted. She didn’t want him disgraced and imprisoned. She wanted him dead. And even if he might have been sentenced to death by a court, she wanted him to die at her hands, after experiencing every gram of fear and humiliation she could possibly inflict upon him, and not in some impersonal, dispassionate, dignified judicial execution.
Most of the Star Kingdom had come to the conclusion that that was what she wanted, actually. And the repercussions of the way in which she’d challenged him, the way she’d perverted the House of Lords’ procedures, bent and twisted them to suit her vengeful convenience, were only just beginning. Every Opposition figure had denounced her, and with damned good reason. She’d turned the highest legislative forum of the entire Star Kingdom into a gladiatorial arena where she could force a peer of the realm to accept her challenge for the express purpose of shooting him down like an animal. No wonder the Opposition was up in arms. Hell, even Prime Minister Cromarty had been forced to issue a statement decrying the confrontation! He’d stopped short of condemning her the way her behavior truly deserved, but more than enough of his own allies in the Lords were outraged by what she’d done. If he hadn’t at least acknowledged and piously deplored the flagrant and barbaric fashion in which Harrington had perverted the House’s rules he would have lost enough of the nonaligned peers to bring his government down.
So, yes, the wave of public condemnation, at least from those who could actually think about the implications of something like this, was still growing. In time, it would no doubt become a tsunami. Indeed, more than one voice was already calling for Harrington’s permanent expulsion from the House of Lords—and Scarborough felt grimly confident that in time, those voices would prevail.
None of which could be much comfort to Earl North Hollow this wet, windy morning.
And not, Scarborough was forced to conclude, that her behavior, however barbaric, proved that her allegations against North Hollow truly were as false and insane as his own champions proclaimed.
Scarborough would have been much happier if he’d been certain in his own mind that the earl hadn’t been involved in the shootout at Regiano’s, for example, for several reasons. One was the fashion in which the assassination attempt provided at least partial cover for Harrington. After all, if someone had tried to have her murdered, how could she not be justified in challenging him to open and aboveboard combat? For that matter, who else would have wanted her dead? Or, at least, wanted her dead badly enough to have her killed in a public, upscale restaurant? Scarborough could think of quite a few individuals, mostly Opposition political figures, who would have shed zero tears over her death. Given the way she’d been used to bludgeon the antiwar party ever since that initial, disgraceful affair in the Yeltsin System when she’d physically assaulted Reginald Houseman, it would have been ridiculous to think they’d have felt any other way. But none of them would have resorted to hired hitmen.
And that was the sticking point for Scarborough when it came to North Hollow’s possible guilt, as well. Because the truth was that he wasn’t at all certain the Earl hadn’t sent those killers. Not because he believed for a moment that North Hollow had paid Summervale to kill Tankersley and Harrington, but because Harrington obviously intended to kill him. She’d made that abundantly clear, and after what she’d done to Summervale, only a fool would have faced her on the “field of honor” willingly. So it was entirely too plausible that North Hollow or—more likely, in Scarborough’s opinion—one of his supporters might have contracted her murder purely out of self-defense.
The very thought was nauseating, yet was it truly fair to blame North Hollow for it, even if he’d done it? The woman was a killer. She’d proved that repeatedly. And she’d launched herself at him like some sort of target-seeking missile. Of course he had to have considered any possible fashion in which he could protect himself!
That logic was what made it so easy for Harrington’s supporters to sell her version of events, but—
“Here they come!” someone said, and Scarborough turned toward the entry gateway as Pavel Young and his brother Stefan walked through it.
“Doesn’t look very happy, does he?” somebody said, and Scarborough turned his head to shoot an angry glare at the speaker, then looked back down at the field, watching the Earl approach Harrington and Ramirez. Of course he didn’t look “happy”! And the idiot shooting his mouth off wouldn’t have looked “happy” either, if he’d been the one walking out to meet the woman who’d coldly and deliberately executed Denver Summervale!
“Well, he didn’t have to come, did he?” someone else replied. “He could’ve refused the challenge. For that matter, he should have, under the circumstances! Using the House of Lords as a way to issue a challenge to a duel? The woman’s a lunatic!”
“If he didn’t want to be challenged, he should have hired better shots when he tried to murder her!” a third voice shot back.
“Quiet, please!” Scarborough snapped, without turning his head this time. “I’m trying to listen to my earbud here.”
The exchanges faded into silence, and he glared down at the field. A part of him agreed that North Hollow hadn’t had to accept the challenge. He could have ignored it, especially given where and how it had been delivered, but there’d never been much chance of that. However justified he might have been, both in law and in custom, it would still have been the end of his political career, just as the court-martial had already cost him his naval career. It would also have made him a social pariah none of his political opponents would ever again so much as acknowledge. And for that matter, if Harrington had gone this far to drag him out into the open and kill him, who was to say she wouldn’t respond to the Regiano’s attack in kind and more effectively? Whether or not North Hollow had been behind that, she clearly thought he had. She was unlikely, to say the least, to let that lie, and that had to have been a factor in North Hollow’s acceptance.
At least he’d been the challenged party, which meant they’d meet under the Dreyfus Protocol. She’d have only a single shot at him, at forty meters, where even someone with her shooting skills would be hard-pressed to guarantee a fatal hit. And assuming North Hollow survived the duel, he’d never have to accept another challenge from her. Not only that, but the same automatic assumption that he’d been the one who tried to have her killed would apply in reverse if anything happened to him afterward.
Given his unpalatable menu of options, meeting her here under the Dreyfus Protocol was probably the least bad one available to him. Unless he chose to spend the next T-century or so as a reclusive hermit after effectively admitting her charges were true by refusing to contest them on “the field of honor.”
Scarborough watched the Earl and his brother follow the LCPD sergeant to where Harrington and Ramirez waited beside the Master of the Field. It was Lieutenant Castellaño again, Scarborough noticed. Was that just a matter of chance—of the rotation for the duty rolling around to him again? Or had he specifically requested it? Given his comments when Harrington met Summervale, Scarborough wouldn’t have bet against the latter.
North Hollow came to a stop, facing Harrington, and Scarborough listened over his own directional microphone as Castellaño recited the formal, useless plea for reconciliation. Then the lieutenant examined and selected the pistols, and Ramirez and Stefan Young loaded the magazines and handed them to the principals.
“Load, Lady Harrington,” Castellaño said, and Harrington slid the five-round magazine into the butt of her pistol.
“Load, Lord North Hollow,” the lieutenant said then. North Hollow fumbled, almost dropping the magazine, as he obeyed the command, and even from his vantage point’s distance, Scarborough saw him flush at his awkwardness.
Then the seconds stepped back.
“Take your places,” Castellaño said, and the two of them stood back-to-back in the gusty morning.
“You’ve agreed to meet under the Dreyfus Protocol,” he said. “At the command of ‘Walk,’ you will each take twenty paces. At the command of ‘Stop,’ you will immediately stop and stand in place, awaiting my next command. Upon the command ‘Turn,’ you will turn, and each of you will fire one round and one round only. If neither is hit in the first exchange, you will each lower your weapon and stand in place once more until I have asked both parties if honor is satisfied. If both answers are in the negative, you will take two paces forward upon the command ‘Walk.’ You will then stand in place once more until the command ‘Fire,’ when you will once more fire one round and one round only. The procedure will repeat until one party declares honor is satisfied, until one of you is wounded, or until your magazines are empty. Do you understand, Lord North Hollow?”
“I—” North Hollow paused, cleared his throat. “I do,” he said.
“Lady Harrington?”
“Understood.” Harrington’s single-word response was low voiced but clear, almost calm.
“You may chamber,” Castellaño said, and North Hollow flushed again as his fingers slipped on the pistol’s slide. It took him two tries, but then he lowered the weapon once again.
“Walk,” Castellaño commanded, and the duelists began walking slowly away from one another.
Scarborough felt his nerves coil even tighter as he counted those slow, steady paces, and he wondered what it must be like for North Hollow. Unlike Harrington, the Earl had never faced someone with a weapon in his hand. Fear—even terror—had to be working on him, the newsy thought. But at least he had to stand only one shot. Just one. And it was vanishingly rare for anyone to be killed under the Dreyfus Protocol. Of course, Paul Tankersley might have thought that, as well, Scarborough acknowledged. Not only that, unlike Tankersley’s duel with Summervale, there was no question in anyone’s mind that Harrington fully intended to kill North Hollow. And as she’d demonstrated against Summervale, she was lethally competent with the anachronistic pistols the two of them carried. So what—
“Down!”
The single, shouted word cut through the windy morning like the blade of an ax. It came out sharp, clear, incisive, and surprised heads flew up among the taut spectators, indignant eyes searching for whoever had shouted at a moment like this. It wasn’t until later that Scarborough realized it had come from one of Harrington’s bodyguards. But the countess obviously recognized it. Even as the newsies’ eyes darted around, seeking its source, and even as Scarborough was only starting to wonder why whoever it was had shouted, she threw herself down, twisting to the right as she dove for the ground . . . and Pavel Young fired.
Scarborough’s eyes flew wide in disbelief. North Hollow had turned suddenly, less than fifteen meters from Harrington, and the pistol in his hand bucked as he shot her in the back. The bullet exploded through her left shoulder in a spray of blood, and North Hollow fired again! But Harrington’s dive carried her out of the path of the second bullet. Even as she hit the ground, North Hollow fired yet again. And again and again, shaking hand tracking her with every shot, clots of muddy sod flying as the bullets hit the ground beside her, emptying the entire magazine before she finished rolling.
Shouts of surprise erupted from the assembled newsies, yet they were only beginning as Harrington came back to her knees in a continuation of her dive that was so smooth, so controlled, it seemed almost planned. Blood soaked her uniform, pouring from the wound, and Scarborough couldn’t imagine how she could move that quickly, that purposefully, with that bullet-shattered shoulder. Nor could he imagine how North Hollow had missed her with all of his follow-up shots at such a short range. Yet he obviously had, and a corner of Scarborough’s eye saw Lieutenant Castellaño’s pulser swinging toward the Earl. It tried to drag the newsy’s attention fully back to North Hollow, but he couldn’t—literally couldn’t—look away from Harrington as her own pistol rose in a skilled, rock-steady hand.
When he looked at the imagery later, what would freeze Chris Scarborough’s blood was the absolute calm of her expression. The dark, focused steadiness of those almond eyes, despite her pain, despite the shock she, too, must feel at North Hollow’s appalling violation of the code duello. There was no sign of that pain, no trace of that shock, in her eyes that windy morning. There was only merciless, unyielding purpose.
But that was later. All he saw now was the pistol in her hand, firing even before Castellaño could. The chest of North Hollow’s tunic was suddenly blotched in crimson, and he staggered. She fired again, and a third time, and each round hammered into him in a group barely five centimeters across.
And then Castellaño’s pulser whined at last, but Pavel Young was already a dead man, and every watching eye knew it.