Landing Dueling Grounds
City of Landing
Planet of Manticore
Manticore Binary System
March 21, 1906 PD
the morning sun sat red and heavy on the horizon, peeking out across Jason Bay between the water and a level roof of gray cloud.
The weather had been hot, even for Landing, for the past week or so, but the weather satellites—and those clouds—promised a break in the temperature and rain by late morning. The faintest breeze ruffled the trees as the ground car came to a halt outside the low, vine-grown wall, dew glittered across the smooth grass, and Paul Tankersley inhaled deeply as he opened the ground-car door and climbed out.
Tomas Ramirez followed him, and a Landing City Police lieutenant crossed the grass to meet them.
“Good morning, Captain Tankersley.” The lieutenant wore a black brassard and carried a heavy, military-grade pulser in a holster at his hip. “I’m Lieutenant Carlson.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Tankersley was actually a little surprised by how calm his own voice sounded.
“I’ll be acting as Master of the Field today, Sir.”
“I see.” Tankersley nodded and looked around the quiet emptiness.
“Mister Summervale is already on the field, Sir.”
The tiniest possible edge in Carlson’s tone drew Tankersley’s gaze back to him, and the naval officer’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The lieutenant’s expression was gravely professional, with the neutrality his morning’s duties required of him, but there was something about his eyes. A flicker deep within them, coupled with that tiny edge, that told Paul Tankersley Lieutenant Carlson was fully aware of Denver Summervale’s reputation.
“Then I suppose we shouldn’t keep him waiting,” he said, and glanced at the massive Marine colonel at his shoulder. “Tomas?”
* * *
Tomas Ramirez followed Tankersley across the grass, the pistol box—borrowed from one of Tankersley’s aristocratic relatives, its lid embossed with the arms of a cadet branch of the House of Winton—tucked under his right arm.
Ramirez had insisted Tankersley practice on Nike’s range with one of the heavy, deliberately anachronistic but still lethal ten-millimeter pistols inside that box. He was glad he had, although the experience had only confirmed what he’d already expected to discover. Unlike Marines, naval officers were required to qualify with small arms only every other T-year, and Tankersley had grown up on Manticore, as a city boy right here in Landing. Although he’d frequently fished the waters of Jason Bay, he’d never spent a day on a hunting field in his life, nor had he ever seen any reason to carry a weapon for personal protection or shown the least interest in competitive shooting. All of which meant his familiarity with even modern small arms, far less antiques like these, was minimal, to say the least. He was an adequate shot—for certain values of the term “adequate,” at least—but he would never be able to match the polished proficiency of a professional like Summervale.
“He’s going to be faster than you are, Paul,” Ramirez had said somberly as they stood on the otherwise empty range while the fans cleared away the propellant fumes. “He’s done this before—a lot of times. I wish we had longer to practice, but to be completely honest, I don’t think it would make an enormous difference.”
Tankersley had nodded, his expression sober.
“The one thing you absolutely have to be is focused,” Ramirez had continued. “Unless you’re a total idiot, you’ll also be scared. I know we don’t admit that, but you’ve seen combat. You know it’s true. So you have to step onto that field with your fear already put away in a box somewhere, and you have to fill your mind with only one purpose: to get that pistol up as quickly as you can without jerking it around. You have to be quick, but you also have to be controlled, because it won’t do you one bit of good to get off a shot if you jerk your gun hand and send it God knows where. So bring it up, find the sight picture, and squeeze. Those are the only three things in your brain. Don’t pay any attention to what he’s doing, because you can’t affect or control that. Concentrate on what you can control. And whatever else you do, don’t go into this thinking ‘I only have to take one shot, so it won’t really matter whether or not I hit him, because it’ll all be over either way.’”
Tankersley’s eyes had narrowed, and Ramirez had snorted.
“Of course you’ve thought about that! And in at least one respect, it’s absolutely true. But this will be a matter of fractions of a second. That’s how long it’ll take. I think he’s faster than you, and I know he’s more practiced, but he’s not automatically going to get off the first shot. And that’s why you need to be totally focused on hitting him. On preempting his shot, if you possibly can. Not on not being hit yourself, not on ‘it doesn’t matter,’ but on ‘I am going to kill this son of a bitch.’”
He’d held Tankersley’s gaze with his own, seeing the collision of understanding and rejection deep in his friend’s eyes.
“I’ve told you this and told you this,” he’d said. “I think this bastard’s been hired to kill you. I think it’s past time somebody killed him. And I would one hell of a lot rather piss on his grave than go to your funeral. Do you read me on this, Paul?”
“I read you, Tomas.” Tankersley had nodded. “I read you.”
Now Ramirez walked at Tankersley’s shoulder and hoped he truly had.
* * *
Denver Summervale stood waiting just outside the white wooden rail around the flat, smooth, immaculately groomed grass of the dueling ground itself. An LCPD sergeant stood behind him, and Milorad Livitnikov stood beside him, holding his own pistol box. Carlson led Tankersley and Ramirez onto the ground, then beckoned for Summervale and Livitnikov to join them.
“Mister Summervale, Captain Tankersley,” the lieutenant said. “It is my first and foremost duty to urge a peaceful resolution of your differences, even at this late date. I ask you both now: can you not compose your quarrel?”
He looked back and forth between them, but neither man spoke, and he sighed.
“In that case, present your weapons.”
Ramirez and Livitnikov opened their pistol cases, and Carlson chose one pistol at random from the pair in each case.
Ramirez and Nike’s armorer had personally stripped both of Tankersley’s pistols, checked every part with painstaking care, cleaned and oiled them. He knew those weapons were in perfect working order, and he was confident the same was true for Summervale’s, but still he watched like a hawk as Carlson examined both of his chosen pistols with skilled fingers. The lieutenant worked each action twice, then handed one to Tankersley and the other to Summervale and looked back at the seconds.
“Load, Gentlemen,” he said, and watched as each of them loaded five gleaming rounds into a magazine. Ramirez snapped the final round into place and handed the magazine to Tankersley as Livitnikov did the same for Summervale.
“Load, Mister Summervale,” Carlson said, and Summervale slid the magazine into place and slapped it once, with arrogant, practiced grace, to be sure it was seated securely.
“Load, Captain Tankersley,” Carlson said and Tankersley inserted his own magazine. He didn’t try to match Summervale’s showmanship, but his fingers were steady as he pressed the magazine baseplate firmly to ensure it was locked in place.
“Take your places, Gentlemen,” Carlson said.
Ramirez squeezed Tankersley’s shoulder briefly, and the captain smiled at him, then turned and walked to the center of the field. He turned in place, facing south, as Summervale crossed to stand behind him, facing north, and Carlson took his own place at the side of the field.
“Mister Summervale, Captain Tankersley,” he said, raising his voice to be clearly heard, “you may chamber.”
Tankersley pulled back the slide, chambering a round.
“You have agreed to meet under the Dreyfus Protocol,” Carlson 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. Should either of you violate the terms and procedures I have just explained, it will be my duty to stop you in any way that I can, up to and including the use of deadly force, and I will fulfill that duty. Do you understand what I have just said, Captain Tankersley?”
“I do,” Tankersley replied.
“Do you understand what I have just said, Mister Summervale?” Carlson asked then, and there was an ever so slightly harder edge to his voice. Summervale heard it, and his lip curled, but he only nodded curtly.
“Very well,” Carlson said, and drew his holstered pulser while Tankersley and Summervale stood back-to-back in the dew-slick grass. He waited a moment longer, letting the stillness settle into their bones like iron in the morning quiet.
“Walk,” he said then, and watched them striding slowly and deliberately away from one another. He counted the paces silently, then raised his free hand.
“Stop,” he said quietly, and the two men stood there, still facing away from one another, weapons ready. The morning held its breath around them like a living thing.
And then—
“Turn!” Lieutenant Carlson said and thunder shattered the stillness.