Landing Dueling Grounds
City of Landing
Planet of Manticore
Manticore Binary System
April 5, 1906 PD
“here she comes,” someone said, and Chris Scarborough looked up from his uni-link as the ground limo came to a halt.
The doors opened, and two men in green uniforms of obviously foreign cut climbed out into the early morning sunlight from either side. They turned their backs to the vehicle, sweeping the area visually, then stepped aside to clear the way for the limo’s other passengers.
A brown-haired woman in black-and-gold Navy uniform and the white beret of a starship’s commanding officer, climbed out next. She was tall—Scarborough knew she was actually a good five centimeters taller than he was—and broad shouldered, for a woman, but she looked almost petite beside the massive Marine colonel who followed her with the polished wooden pistol case under his arm.
“Took her long enough,” someone else muttered.
Scarborough couldn’t be certain who’d said it. There were too many possible candidates, given the crowd of journalists who’d gathered this morning. And the audience, he thought sourly, glaring down at the crowd of crass, gawking spectators who lined the landscaped walkway down one side of the dueling grounds to watch the drama which had obviously been provided for their entertainment.
Normally, duels were very private affairs, and most of the Star Kingdom’s news community tried to ignore them as much as possible. A certain particularly loathsome subspecies of newsy went in exactly the opposite direction, pandering to the mob’s voracious appetite for scandal and spectacle. And the opportunity to drag their betters through the mud of defamation and public censure when they met to settle an affair of honor, of course. But today, it was standing room only.
Whoever had pointed out Harrington’s tardiness, though, he’d had a point, he thought sourly. But then he checked his chrono and grimaced.
Actually, she was almost precisely on time, he acknowledged, although Denver Summervale had been on the grounds for almost twenty minutes already. Of course, he usually was early for this sort of thing. Scarborough didn’t approve of duels. No one did, after all. But the practice had always fascinated him, anyway, and he’d researched it with a sort of intrigued horror, which was why he knew that only two duelists in Manticoran history—both of them dead for over two centuries—had ever fought more of them than Denver Summervale. That was probably one reason Harrington’s supporters—and at least some of the rest of the media, he acknowledged—were prepared to give any credence to the ridiculous accusations she’d supposedly made against Earl North Hollow. So far, Scarborough hadn’t spoken to anyone who’d actually been there, so he didn’t know for certain that she’d actually said what the rumors said she had. Yet even he had to concede that the number of duels on Summervale’s record made it childishly simple to paint him as some sort of paid assassin. But if there’d been any truth at all to those long-standing rumors, he’d have been tried and convicted long ago.
Probably.
In his fairer moments, Scarborough also had to concede that privileged birth (or the protection of those who enjoyed that advantage) could provide cover for a host of sins. Even crimes, as long as there was no legal proof they’d been committed. He didn’t like admitting that, and he tried to avoid doing so publicly, because the last thing he needed to do was to lend any support to the mob or to the crass sensationalist “journalists” who pandered to it. Like the fellow standing next to him at the moment, for example.
He glanced surreptitiously sideways at Bryant Hirsch as the auburn-haired man bent to adjust his camera. Hirsch—stringer for Minerva Prince and Patrick DuCain’s syndicated Into the Fire—was old-fashioned in a lot of ways, and given how far back the Landing City Police had pushed the crowd of newsies this morning, he’d opted to use a tripod rather than rely on the camera’s built-in stabilizers. Now he straightened and adjusted the earbud from the shotgun mic mounted atop the camera.
Scarborough had his own directional microphone trained on the dueling grounds, but he saw no need to capture the video himself. He could rely on tech gnomes like Hirsch to take care of the dreary details. Besides, at least four of the newsies around him were on live feeds, which meant the Star Kingdom at large would see and hear every gory detail before he ever got around to recording his own opinion piece on the day’s events. No, he wanted to hear—and record—what was actually said before he crafted his op-ed. The Star Kingdom’s politics had become even more hyper-partisan since the outbreak of hostilities, and especially since the North Hollow court-martial, and as one of Manticore’s senior political commentators, Scarborough fully understood the value of the well-chosen soundbite. And why it was so important to have the original sound in its entirety when someone inevitably accused one of selective editing or even outright fabrication.
Chris Scarborough had never fabricated a quote in his entire life. He was rather proud of that, as a matter of fact. But any journalist had to edit just to fit the material into his available screen time, didn’t he? And all editing was ultimately “selective,” wasn’t it? One couldn’t simply put in all of the raw, contextless audio, could one? The important thing was to prove that one had actually listened to the entire conversation before exercising that selective function. Besides, God knew there’d been plenty of out-of-context quotes from Harrington’s supporters and the ravening hordes of Government hacks out for North Hollow’s blood. As far as Chris Scarborough was concerned, it was past time somebody provided a little balance.
“She looks pretty damned determined to me,” someone else said.
“Of course she does.” Scarborough allowed only the faintest trace of a sneer into his reply; one must, after all, maintain one’s obvious neutrality. “She’s the one who pushed the entire thing. Which may not be the smartest thing she’s ever done, really.”
“You really think ‘smart’ had anything to do with her decision?” Hirsch asked skeptically, and Scarborough shrugged.
“Actually, I think this”—he waved at the dueling grounds as Harrington and her party walked toward the waiting Master of the Field—“is the exact opposite of smart on her part. Not given the way she obviously wants it to play out, anyway. After the way she physically attacked Summervale? In front of witnesses?” He shook his head. “There’s no way she’s walking off the field alive.”
“Already have her dead and buried, do you?” Hirsch’s lip curled. “Convenient for North Hollow if it works out that way, you think?”
“Only if you’re foolish enough to give any credence to her ridiculous accusations—her alleged ridiculous accusations, at any rate—in the first place,” Scarborough replied. “Even assuming she actually said what the wilder rumors say she said, I doubt anyone else is stupid enough to believe it. I mean, I’ll grant that she might believe it, although I find even that difficult to credit. But given how long this vendetta of hers against the Earl’s gone on, and how bitter it’s been—and, I might add, the way she and her . . . patrons finally hounded the Earl out of the Service—it’s not that great a stretch to accept that she genuinely thinks he’s behind what happened to Tankersley.”
“And you’re sure he wasn’t, of course.”
“I can’t prove it, but then it’s always hard to prove a negative, isn’t it?” Scarborough regarded Hirsch scornfully. “Assuming, like I say, that she actually said it in the first place. That’s what she and the rest of the Earl’s enemies are counting on, after all. How does he go about proving he didn’t do something?”
“Especially when he probably did,” Hirsch said flatly.
“That’s preposterous!” Scarborough snapped. “And irresponsible as hell, out of a journalist, too!”
“Oh, I’ve seen how ‘impartial’ and ‘evenhanded’ you are, Chris!” Hirsch shot back. “Actually, now that I think about it, there’s a certain similarity between you and Summervale.” His eyes glittered, cold and hard. “I believe the appropriate term is ‘hired gun.’ And it pays pretty well, doesn’t it?”
Scarborough opened his mouth quickly, then shut it again and glared at the other newsy, as angry at himself as at Hirsch for having allowed the cretin to get to him. Then he turned away, presenting a contemptuous back to the other newsy as Harrington reached the dueling grounds.
It doesn’t matter what you think is going on here, asshole, he thought loudly in Hirsch’s direction. In about ten minutes, your precious Countess Harrington’s going to be a statistic. Let’s see how long her accusations against the Earl last after she’s gone!
He checked to be sure his uni-link’s record function was engaged, then concentrated on his own audio feed as he watched the LCPD lieutenant greet her.
“Good morning, Lady Harrington. I’m Lieutenant Castellaño, LCPD. I will be serving as Master of the Field this morning.”
“Lieutenant,” Harrington replied, and Castellaño waved one hand at the crowd of people clustered around the field.
“Milady, I’m sorry about this,” he said. “It’s indecent, but I can’t legally exclude them.”
“The media?” Harrington asked.
“Yes, Milady. They’re out in force, and those . . . people up there”—he jabbed a finger at the hilltop upon which Scarborough and the others stood—“have telephotos and shotgun mics to catch every word. They’re treating this like some sort of circus, Milady.”
“I see.” Harrington gazed up at the hill for a moment, then touched the lieutenant’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault. As you say, we can’t exclude them. I suppose the best we can hope for is a stray shot in their direction.”
Scarborough’s eyes narrowed in disgust at the utterly inappropriate joke. Disgust that turned into anger as Castellaño smiled.
“I suppose it is, Milady,” he said. “Well, then. If you’d come with me, please?”
Scarborough fumed internally and made a mental note to include the incident in his article. It was one thing for someone like Harrington to joke about the possibility of a bystander’s being wounded—even killed. It was a sad state of affairs even for her, of course. She was a Queen’s officer, after all! But it was quite another, far worse dereliction when an official representative of the capital city’s police did the same thing!
Harrington and her companions fell in behind Castellaño, following him toward the dueling grounds, but the lieutenant paused just outside the simple white rail around the dueling grounds proper.
“Excuse me, Milady,” he said. “I was informed about your guardsmen, of course, but the law prohibits the presence of any armed supporters of either party at a meeting. If they wish to remain, they’ll have to surrender their weapons.”
“I understand, Lieutenant,” Harrington replied, and turned to the green-uniformed men at her back.
“Andrew. Jamie,” she said.
For a moment, Scarborough thought her bodyguards—and what sort of idiot brings bodyguards to a damned duel, anyway?—would refuse to surrender their pulsers, but then one of them drew his weapon from the holster and passed it to Castellaño. The other bodyguard followed suit a moment later and the lieutenant started to turn away, but—
“And now the other one, Andrew,” Harrington said.
Scarborough’s eyes widened, and he wished for a moment that he was looking through Hirsch’s viewfinder. He would have loved to see the bodyguard’s expression. Judging by his body language, he wasn’t a happy fellow.
The man stood there for a moment, then his left hand flicked. A much smaller pulser popped out of a spring-loaded wrist holster and into his fingers, and he handed it to Castellaño, as well.
“I didn’t know you knew about that, My Lady,” he said.
“I know you didn’t.” She punched his shoulder lightly.
“Well, if you figured it out, someone else can. Now I’m going to have to find someplace else to hide it.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she said as Castellaño took the weapons and a policewoman appeared magically at his side.
“Thank you, Milady,” the lieutenant said, handing the weaponry to the policewoman, then waved toward the fenced off grass. “Are you ready, Milady?”
“I am,” Harrington replied, and glanced at the enormous Marine with the pistol case. “All right, Tomas. Let’s be about it,” she said.
She, the Marine, and Castellaño stepped through the opening in one end of the rail that surrounded the grounds and headed for Summervale, his second, and the uniformed officer who’d accompanied them. Unlike Harrington’s uniform, with its gleaming gold braid and rank insignia, Summervale wore the dark, subdued clothing of an experienced duelist, and his body language shouted his mingled anger and contempt as he watched her approach. The newcomers paused two meters from him, and Castellaño stepped to one side so that he could face them both.
“Mister Summervale, Lady Harrington. 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?”
Harrington only looked at him, but Summervale’s lip curled.
“Get on with it,” he said. “I’m meeting someone for breakfast.”
Castellaño’s shoulders seemed to stiffen, but all he said was, “In that case, present your weapons.”
The seconds opened their pistol cases, and the lieutenant chose two of the weapons, examined them carefully, checked their functionality, then handed one to each of the duelists.
“Load, gentlemen,” he told the seconds, and watched each of them load ten rounds into a magazine, then hand it to his principal.
“Load, Mister Summervale,” Castellaño said. He watched Summervale insert the magazine, then looked at Harrington.
“Load, Lady Harrington,” he said, and waited while she did.
“Take your places,” he said then, and Harrington and Summervale turned their backs to one another and walked to the white circles twenty meters apart on the dew-soaked grass. They stepped into the circles’ centers and turned to face one another once more.
“Mister Summervale, Milady, you may chamber.”
Scarborough heard the harsh, metallic sound clearly over his directional microphone as both duelists worked their anachronistic pistols’ actions. He heard the voices around him as some of the newsies—especially the ones broadcasting a live feed—huddled over their hush mics, as well, but those voices only seemed to make the quiet morning even quieter, somehow.
“You have agreed to meet under the Ellington Protocol,” Castellaño said, drawing his own pistol and removing a white handkerchief from his pocket. “When I drop my handkerchief, you will each raise your weapon and fire. Fire will continue until one of you falls or drops your weapon in token of surrender. Should either of those things happen, the other will cease fire immediately. If he or she fails to do so, it will be my duty to stop him or her in any way I can, up to and including the use of deadly force. Do you understand, Mister Summervale?”
He looked at Summervale, who nodded curtly. Then at Harrington.
“Lady Harrington?”
“Understood,” she replied quietly.
“Take your positions,” he said then.
Summervale turned his right side to Harrington, his arm straight down beside him, and Scarborough recognized the posture of the experienced duelist he was. Harrington’s inexperience, on the other hand, showed as she stood facing him squarely, offering him the full width of her body as a target.
Tension crackled in the morning, and even the newsies around Scarborough fell silent, staring at the motionless tableau.
Then Castellaño’s fingers opened, the brisk morning breeze frisked the handkerchief into the air, and Denver Summervale’s hand rose. It came up smoothly, confidently, rising into the firing position with flashing speed—
And Harrington fired.
Scarborough’s eyes flew wide in astonishment. She hadn’t even moved! She’d just stood there! And then she’d fired—fired from the hip, at twenty meters!—and her bullet hit Summervale just below his rib cage.
Scarborough couldn’t believe it. In fact, he didn’t believe it . . . until Harrington fired again, still from the hip, and her second round hammered home just above the first.
Summervale staggered. Even from the hilltop, Scarborough could almost taste the duelist’s disbelief, his shock. His hand dipped, and a third shot cracked out. Crimson splashed his black tunic in huge, angry blots, and he looked down at the fresh wound, then back up at Harrington.
Her pistol was up, now, held in a two-handed grip, her brown eyes merciless, and he screamed, the sound born as much of fury as of agony, as a fourth shot smashed into him, less than a centimeter from the third.
Blood bubbled from his nostrils, his knees began to buckle, yet he still clung to his pistol. It was back at his side now, as he stared at her, but he was still on his feet. He refused to fall, and somehow—with an agonized effort Scarborough could feel even from where he stood—that pistol lifted slowly, grimly, as he fought to raise it.
Harrington only stood there. She watched him, her face expressionless, as he wavered for balance while that pistol rose. She let him raise it, let him bare his teeth at her in bitter determination. Waited until it was almost in firing position.
And then—then—she fired yet again, and the back of Denver Summervale’s skull exploded.
* * *
Chris Scarborough stood there, frozen, staring down at Denver Summervale’s body, and felt his own shock ripple through the other newsies. Of all possible outcomes, this was the one he’d least expected! What did—
“Guess today didn’t work out real well for Earl North Hollow after all, did it, Chris?” Hirsch said from beside him. Scarborough whipped his head around to glare at him, and the other newsy smiled nastily. “I mean, looks like Summervale wasn’t quite up to the challenge—you should pardon the expression—this time around. How’ll you spin this one for North Hollow and High Ridge? Inquiring minds want to know.”
“Listen, you—” Scarborough began hotly, then made himself pause. He inhaled deeply, fighting for control.
“Obviously,” he said after a moment, jabbing an index finger at the dueling ground, “that wasn’t what I expected to see this morning. Somehow, I don’t think you expected it, either, Bryant!”
“No,” Hirsch acknowledged. “To be honest, I didn’t. Not given Summervale’s record. I can’t say I’m sorry to see it, though. I’ve admired Lady Harrington for years, and Summervale was a prick who also happened to be a hired killer. Whether North Hollow hired him—this time—or not, he damned well had it coming, and you know it!”
“Oh? He deserved to be shot over and over again by a cold-blooded killer, even after it was obvious she’d beaten him? She shot him the first time before he even had his gun up—and then she shot him again and again and again when he was already almost certainly mortally wounded! That’s the person you ‘admire’?”
“Oh, give me a break!” Disgust flickered in Hirsch’s eyes, liberally dusted with scorn. “You know as well as I do that Summervale killed at least eight people. Of course, those are the ones we know about—the ones he shot ‘legally’ right down there where he just died! But if your sources haven’t told you about his connections with the Outfit, you’re an even sorrier excuse for a newsy than I thought you were. Which, admittedly, would be hard. The man made his living killing people! And while you’re waxing all sanctimonious over what a cold-blooded killer Lady Harrington is, what about him? Tankersley had already fired when Summervale stood right on that very field, took his time, and shot him squarely in the head. You think that bullet just happened to hit Tankersley in the head at forty frigging meters?! Give me a break! And unlike Tankersley, Summervale was completely free to shoot back at her when she did it. And he could have stopped her anytime he chose to. Go back and reread the Ellington Protocol, Chris. All he had to do was drop his weapon. But he didn’t, did he? And that means every single shot she fired was legally justified.”
“There’s a huge difference between legally justified and morally justified!” Scarborough spat.
“That’s an even bigger crock of shit,” Hirsch said contemptuously. “There was no possible ‘moral justification’ in what Summervale did to Captain Tankersley. There’s no question he deliberately provoked Tankersley, and the only reason I can think of for a hired duelist to provoke someone he’d never even met was to get him out on the dueling grounds where he could legally shoot him. But I didn’t hear you whining about that, did I? And just between you and me, ‘not for attribution,’ I’m delighted—delighted, do you hear me?—by what happened here today. Tankersley’s murder was legal, I’ll give you that. But what Lady Harrington did today wasn’t just ‘legal.’ She was here to execute—and I use that verb deliberately—justice!”
Scarborough glared at him, then turned and strode furiously down the hillside to the crowd gathering around Harrington. The horde of newsies were already shouting questions as she stepped off the dueling ground and handed her pistol back to the Marine, and the stampede of newsies crowded toward her, despite the police cordon’s best efforts. They closed in, waving their microphones, and a couple got too close. Until, that was, one burly newsman ended up flat on the seat of his trousers, gasping for breath, after colliding with one of her bodyguard’s elbows.
They backed off then—marginally—and she raised one hand. The gesture was almost regal, and it actually stopped the shouts, however briefly.
“I’m not taking any questions, ladies and gentlemen,” she said then, in a voice cold as liquid helium, just as Scarborough arrived. “But I do have a short statement.”
One of the newsies tried to shout another question anyway, but one of his fellows punched him none too gently in the shoulder and he chopped himself off.
“Denver Summervale killed someone I loved,” she said coldly and clearly into the listening hush. “What’s happened here today won’t bring Paul Tankersley back to me. I know that. Nothing can bring him back, but I can seek justice from the man who had him murdered.”
Scarborough’s eyes widened. Surely she wasn’t about to—?
The silence lingered for another long, still moment, floating on the morning breeze until one of the other newsies cleared her throat.
“But, Lady Harrington,” she said in the careful tone of someone else who’d heard the rumors about what she’d said to Summervale in Dempsey’s, “Captain Tankersley was killed in a duel, and you’ve just—”
“I know how he died.” Harrington cut the speaker off, and her eyes were even colder than her voice. “But Summervale was hired—paid—to kill him.”
Jesus Christ, Scarborough thought. The woman’s a frigging lunatic! She is going to say it again—and this time on Star Kingdom–wide HD!
“I accuse,” she said then, with icy deliberation, “the Earl of North Hollow of hiring Denver Summervale to kill not merely Paul Tankersley, but myself, as well.” She paused, her thin smile a razor. “As soon as possible, I will so accuse the Earl in person,” she said then. “Good day, ladies and gentlemen.”
And then she turned, nodded to the Marine at her side, and walked away into the morning’s quiet down the lane her bodyguards and the Landing City Police opened through the stunned, magically parting ranks of the Star Kingdom’s press corps.