Rites of the Righteous, page 16
As it stood, he could not fault their planning up to this point. These Dockside fixers thought they had him cornered in this dreary place. The fools would soon learn to regret that conceit, of course. Grimes felt entirely within his element. This “Underworld” felt so much like the domes of Venus, Grimes would catch himself closing his eyes to let the sounds and bustle whisk him back to his home for a minute or two. The people dressed different, obviously. They talked different too. Yet their patterns and hierarchies bore stark similarities to those he grew up with. The only thing ruining the comparison was the air itself. Instead of the oppressive clammy heat of Venus’s boiling atmosphere soaking into the skin, a pervasive chill drove deep into his bones and refused to leave. Discomfort was discomfort, and the precise nature of it did not usually matter. To be too hot or too cold were equally annoying, and either could be ignored if one trained to surpass pain. For all the things that made the Underworld unique, Grimes still felt very much at home here. People were the same wherever you found them. The denizens of this hovel were marginalized by the rest of their society, oppressed by the military, and despised by their own government. Grimes understood them.
He checked his secure OmniCorp comm. Fleming proved to be as good as his word. With the Order Administratum already bribed beyond reach by Gateways and the Teutons far too pious to play along, OmniCorp chose to make several large donations to the Fratres Millitae. Of all the orders, Grimes would have selected the Sword Brothers in any event, as their overtly militant posturing and lack of subtlety made them excellent proxies in this dance. Grimes did not need allies; he needed a pawn. These armored idiots were perfect.
Despite being more than a hundred yards away, Grimes could read the motto etched into the crest emblazoned across the Knight’s cuirass. “Brothers Faithful unto Death” glowed in luminescent gold against the deep crimson of the armor. Grimes shook his head at the turgid cliche of it all. When the wealthy and powerful talked about brotherhood, what they usually meant was loyalty to the group without questioning their actions. “Brotherhood” as his former masters had touted the concept, amounted to little more than a smokescreen. Thin emotional camouflage meant to obscure their manipulations. A man would commit all sorts of atrocities for the sake of his brothers, after all. Atrocities he might question otherwise.
If Grimes saw any of his own youthful naïveté in the Knight, he chose not to indulge those memories. The wisdom of age and bitter experience turned Grimes cynical. He saw the armored man for the useful idiot he was. Grimes spared no feelings for him one way or the other.
When the Knight confronted the fixers, Grimes tuned his ears to their conversation. It held no great surprises.
“Halt!” said the man in red armor, his right hand extended.
“We’re not actually moving,” Tankowicz replied. “We’ve already halted.”
It was true, and this seemed to confuse the Knight.
“Then state your business!”
The Ribiero woman answered, “We are consultants working for a client. Everything else is unfortunately confidential. If you like, you can check our bona fides with Deacon Morris—”
“Silence, woman!” barked the armored man with a chopping motion. “Men are speaking. You will answer questions when asked!”
Grimes winced, a flash of sympathy for the doomed man washing over him. Maybe these Sword Brothers were too stupid to work with after all.
The Ribiero woman simply looked at the Knight, and even at this great distance Grimes felt the chill in her glare. “Mindy?”
The Knight seemed ready to interrupt again, but the Ribeiro woman raised one finger to stall him. For reasons not clear to Grimes, it worked. Some people simply possessed a commanding presence, he noted to himself.
“Yes, boss?” replied the assassin.
“What’s the most likely scenario here?”
“Roland kicks the shit out of Sir Sexist and grateful locals end up buying us drinks for the rest of our visit.”
“I thought so. Roland?”
“Yes?”
“All yours.”
“Thanks, dear.”
Grimes felt a smile stretch the corners of his mouth when the big cyborg stepped up to look the Knight directly in the slit of his helmet visor. The narrow black eyes squinted into the mirrored facet with a bland apathy bordering upon insult. What many people thought of as courage was often simply conceit, though Grimes had danced with the cyborg enough to know which to bet on in this case. The Knight, for his part, did not flinch.
“You don’t really care what our business is.” Tankowicz was not asking a question; he made that clear.
“Not really, no.”
“Good. Your scanners tell you what I am?”
“You are an abomination.”
If the proclamation bothered Tankowicz, Grimes saw no sign of it. The big cyborg appeared indifferent at best. “I’ve heard that one before. You self-righteous pricks are not real original. Here’s the deal, dipshit—”
“You do not speak to your betters of deals, monster,” snarled the Knight. “You shall not—”
Grimes saw the seam in Tankowicz’s jacket bunch at the shoulder a tenth of a second before the massive right fist collided with the red helmet of the Knight. A shower of sparks geysered from the faceplate, and a sound like to cars colliding hit his ears an instant after. The red Knight spun in place and staggered.
“Fuck, you guys are insufferable,” he heard Tankowicz mutter while grabbing the stumbling Knight by the shoulders. Grimes squinted. He wanted to see the big cyborg fight, to assess exactly how much of his reputation was tech versus skill. He hoped the Sword Brother would not go down too quickly.
Tankowicz kicked the red Knight’s legs out from beneath him, sending the armored man to the floor with a crash. He tried to roll to his feet, but Tankowicz had not released him. The Knight rose into the air only to get smashed back into the unyielding metal of the floor once more. This time Tankowicz did let go, if only to give himself room to plunge a brutal kick into the Knight’s midsection. The armored man tumbled away from Tankowicz, skidding across the deck in a rolling tangle of crimson limbs. Grimes scowled. Tankowicz was fast and strong; there was no doubt about either. But his tactics and techniques appeared oversimple and brutish for someone with his reputation.
A crowd of onlookers began to coalesce around the spectacle. Perched atop a freight gantry, Grimes could see dozens of people spilling into the main area to watch the Sword Brother fight this mysterious newcomer. The scene continued to play for their amusement, and Grimes suspected this to be intentional.
The red Knight rose to his feet and slapped the inside of his left wrist with the palm of his right. The mounded armor plates at the back of his gorget slid to one side, revealing the hilt of an enormous vibroblade. Grimes snorted, a truncated guffaw that nearly escaped as open laughter. The assassin could appreciate the commitment to an aesthetic as much as any other man, but this went well beyond absurd. Oblivious to the amused eyes upon him, the Knight pulled the giant weapon from the concealed scabbard on his back and spun it over his wrist in a deft twirl. Now it was Tankowicz who laughed. A rich, throaty rumble washed across the battleground, icing the Knight’s theatrics with a thick layer of purest disrespect.
The Knight did not appear to share in the general good humor of his foe. “Laugh if you like, sinner. Soon enough your soul will be purified by mighty Soulrender, and you can share your jokes with almighty God!”
“Soulrender?” Tankowicz appeared incapable of holding a straight face. “Really? Goddamn ‘Soulrender?’” The big cyborg shrugged out of his jacket. The garment fell to the floor, revealing the shoulder holster beneath and the large pistol secured under his left armpit. To the Ribiero woman he remarked, “This shit is what happens when you let kids watch too many holovids.”
The red Knight spun his weapon again, and the buzzing of its cutting edge wavered like a giant metal hornet. “Do you intend to fight, or do you just talk your enemies into surrendering?” Grimes could hear the smug confidence in that taunt, and he wondered if the Sword Brother had a clear understanding of the tactical landscape. Grimes knew all about that big pistol, and a wiser man would take note of it. Either the man in red placed supreme confidence in the quality of his armor, or he was a complete idiot.
The answer to that riddle, Grimes soon understood, was “both.” Tankowicz drew his pistol so fast even Grimes struggled to follow the motion. The whipcrack report of a gunshot crossed the floor and a searing streak of white light traced the path of a single bead from the muzzle to the forehead of the Knight’s helmet. A plume of orange sparks marked the impact, driving his head back. He staggered backward four steps before catching his balance. Then with a feral roar and his blade held high, the idiot charged. Grimes curled a lip at the stupidity of it all. The Knight managed no more than five strides in his quest to skewer his foe. Tankowicz shot him four times in transit. Massive beads struck the head, chest, and abdomen first. All to no effect, Grimes noted. His assessment of Tankowicz improved with each hit, though. The Knight’s lunatic charge gave the cyborg an opportunity to test that armor, and Tankowicz was taking it. The fourth bead shattered the hilt of the vibroblade, engulfing the hurtling Knight in a cloud of thick smoke and peppering the gleaming red of his armor with shrapnel. Smoking furrows lanced across the gauntlets, pauldrons, and cuirass to leave ugly black scars in their wakes. Grimes nodded in approval. To gouge that armor, the blade had to have been of excellent quality. At least until it exploded, anyway.
One final bead took the Knight in his right knee at the last instant before impact. Still reeling from the explosion of his weapon, the great oaf stumbled and crashed face-down to land at the feet of the big cyborg. Tankowicz sent a boot across the helmet hard enough for the people at the back of the crowd to wince. With a grunt of pain and frustration, the Knight planted his hands on the ground and shoved himself upright. He shifted as if to attack but stopped when Tankowicz placed the muzzle of his pistol against the scorched surface of the red helmet. The Knight froze, and Grimes could almost smell his fear. The big cyborg held the weapon in place, leaned forward to place his nose an inch from the Knight’s faceplate, and growled, “This is Durendal. The Blade that Endures. The Right Hand of Roland. The Stone-Cutter and the Scythe of Charlemagne. Now that is how you name a weapon, you illiterate thug.” The pistol disappeared back into its holster, and Tankowicz shoved the armored man back with his left hand. “And furthermore, did nobody ever teach you idiots not to bring knives to a gunfight?”
A murmur grew within the surrounding crowd, a small burble of laughter that grew stronger as the sheer absurdity of what had just transpired began to set in.
Grimes bit down on his own amused smile. Tankowicz could be a bit of a showman, it seemed. The assassin turned his attention back to the quivering man in the red armor. What would he do? Tension radiated from beneath the crimson plates, and even without seeing the face beneath that helmet, Grimes could feel the indecision locking the Knight in place. A wise man would cut his losses. Make a wry joke and storm off, perhaps. Something, anything to de-escalate the untenable and unwinnable conflict. Grimes already pegged this Knight for a a vainglorious fool. He suspected Tankowicz knew it too. His suspicions about the forced theatricality of this fight solidified into certainty. The only question that remained was how long Tankowicz would drag this performance out.
The Sword Brother telegraphed his blow so much it insulted Grimes as a fighter. The fool slid his right boot back, digging his toes into the floor for leverage before cocking an armored fist well behind his shoulder. The punch itself was fast, Grimes conceded. A blistering vermilion blur driven with all the mechanical might of his armored body snapped toward the smirking face of his enemy. The blow did not lack for commitment, yet it made no difference.
Tankowicz had plenty of time to anticipate the clumsy strike. The big cyborg shifted his head at the first sign of movement, and the punch missed with room to spare. Tankowicz replied with a stiff jab fired from a low guard. His black fist shot out like a striking snake, and Grimes flinched in time with the punch. The Sword Brother took the blow with a grunt and swung back with another looping haymaker. Again, the punch itself looked fast and powerful. But with no setup and clunky footwork, Tankowicz dodged it with contemptuous ease. Another left hand rang against the steel of the Knight’s faceplate. The crowd roared their approval.
At last, the Knight raised his hands in a proper guard. He began to stalk Tankowicz, employing what he probably thought was measured footwork. It was not. Heavy steps on flat feet slammed the ground. His body erect and stiff, the Knight looked like an awkward teenager at his first lesson compared to Tankowicz with his obvious mastery of close combat. From his vantage point, Grimes had no trouble comparing the two. Tankowicz moved lightly, his weight always centered and his hips and shoulders loose. Grimes saw no tension in Tankowicz at all, and he scowled to himself. Few people could be this comfortable in such a situation, and there were only so many ways to achieve it. He immediately marked Tankowicz as a former professional fighter, and the details began to support that conclusion. The cyborg’s crisp jabs made the air crack in their wake. His posture left no openings for attack, his footwork granted him total control of the range. Tankowicz could end this any time he wanted to. Grimes wondered why he did not end it.
He is testing the armor, Grimes reminded himself. This made perfect sense. Even the wily assassin found the pious enforcers of Gethsemane to be daunting foes, and their armor represented the peak of the craft. It moved better than any powered armor he had ever come across, though his experience was somewhat limited to the industrial models common on Venus.
Grimes squinted, narrowing the focus of his eyes to observe the Knight in greater detail. The Knight possessed mediocre skill at best. However, the limiting factor was very clearly the man inside, not the equipment. The suit had already taken the kind of pounding that even good armor would have struggled to survive. Other than some surface scratches, it showed no signs of deterioration. The Knight’s movements remained quick and smooth. Worse, Grimes realized, he was just too fast.
No regular man should have been able to keep up with Tankowicz. Knights were not augmented, yet somehow the armored idiot could punch as fast as a monster like Tankowicz. Something was wrong here. Something about that armor gave the idiot an edge, and now curiosity set in. Grimes hoped Tankowicz would keep the fight going a while yet. If he found himself in contention with these Knights, it would be good to know their limitations.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Hurry up, Roland,” said Lucia. “We don’t have all day.”
The Knight swung again, his punch a long curving red smear of movement against the bad lighting. Roland ducked it and fired the exact same jab as the last six times, ringing the helmet like a bell.
“Trying not to kill him, boss.”
“I appreciate that,” she replied. “But take it up a notch. We’re drawing a crowd.”
“Ignore me at your peril, monster!” shouted the Knight as he swung again.
Roland slipped the punch, snapped another jab into his face, then dropped a hip to drive an overhand right directly into the cuirass. A strangled grunt exploded from the armored man, and his feet left the deck. His flight path distressingly horizontal, the brief airborne traverse ended with a flopping tumble across the floor more than twenty feet away. His contortions scattered a knot of onlookers who hooted with laughter and threw trash at the fallen Knight. Food wrappers, packaging, and more than one half-empty drink splattered across his body in a grubby fusillade. The armored man rolled to his knees and braced to leap back into the fray.
“Stay down,” Roland ordered.
The Knight did not stay down. It charged once more, an oblivious bellowing red bull tilting headlong into its own destruction. Roland side-stepped and kicked the feet out from underneath the hurtling behemoth. When the Knight went down on his face, Roland pounced onto his back. Black hands seized the red gauntlets in a grip of steel and bent the arms backward to secure both in a double hammerlock. “Will you cut it out?” Roland snarled at his struggling prey.
“Never!” With a roar like a lion, the Knight lurched to his feet. Still locked in Roland’s hold, the joints beneath his pauldrons shrieked in protest. A horrible keening whine split the air, followed by the pained groaning of overworked actuators. Roland’s face contorted into a deep frown and his own arms began to shake. Inch by inch, the red gauntlets crept down the Knight’s back, loosening Roland’s hold.
“Shit,” Roland grunted. “Fuckers are strong, boss.”
“The Lord is my strength, monster!” said the Knight. He forced his hands lower, nearly freeing them.
“I bet he is,” replied Roland through clenched teeth. “But it’s your intellect that needs help.”
Roland put the sole of his boot into the back of his foe’s knee, buckling the leg entirely and sending the red-armored brute back to the ground with another crash. No longer interested in testing the armor, Roland released both wrists and transferred his grip to an ankle. With a savage, pitiless, insulting ease, Roland spun in place. He whipped the Knight off the floor, spinning two full rotations to generate momentum before releasing his victim.
The Knight hurled outward in a flat arc that took his body into a nearby support column at more than ninety miles per hour. Three feet wide, solid metal, and nearly indestructible, the obstacle arrested the Knight’s flight with a dull thunk that Roland felt in his bones. The crowd gasped, and several people stumbled backward at the horrible sound. The Knight did not even bounce away. He struck flat, hard enough to dent the column before dropping straight to the deck.
