The Duel

Well, it’s been quite a blustery morning here at Champions Court Place Park—both meteorologically and competitively—as the final leg of the tournament is now well under way. The major story to come out of this morning’s events, of course, has been the Whipple family’s sudden surge forward in their race against the Goldwins for world-record breaking’s most coveted prize.”

“That’s right, Ted. After starting the day in a veritable dead heat with their rivals, the Whipples have managed to pull ahead of the Goldwin clan by nearly a dozen world records. At this point, they’ve earned such a lead that, to have any chance at the Championship Cup, the Goldwins would need to win virtually every one of their remaining events—an unprecedented feat for any family behind by so much at this stage in the competition.”

“There’s no question, Chuck—this is definitely the Whipples’ race to lose.”

“Certainly, Ted. Of course, with Dueling Hour set to kick off in just a few minutes at the traditional high noon, there’s really no telling what the final outcome will be. As Charles Whipple and Rex Goldwin prepare to square off on the main dueling field as per the terms of their rivalry contract, a massive crowd has gathered to watch them settle their dispute—an event that is sure to shape the future of record breaking for years to come.”

“That’s right, Chuck, this single contest can often mean more to a participant’s career than the very championship itself. No loser of a premiere-division duel has ever gone on to win a major cup title. This is largely due to the fact that few defeated duelists—even those surviving the ordeal—have managed to overcome the acute humiliation of being beaten in a matter of honor on such a grand stage. Many have dropped out of the world records game altogether; some have struggled to remain relevant, only to become the objects of ridicule and derision amongst the world-record-breaking elite. And then, of course, there are those unfortunate few who have gone so far as to take their own lives.”

“Never really a thing we like to see, is it, Ted?”

“Indeed, Chuck. Though, more often than not, it does end up being the best career move these poor devils could have made.”

“Too true, Ted. There’s nothing like dying a horrible death to help one recapture lost market share.”

“Absolutely, Chuck. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that for one of our combatants here today; the loss of revenue on sponsorships alone would be truly tragic. But now, let’s head out to the field, where Charles Whipple and Rex Goldwin are gearing up for their preselected event: motorbike jousting!”

• • •

Mr. Whipple strode toward the tent’s exit, but his wife clutched his arm and pulled him back.

“Are you sure we haven’t forgotten something, Charles? Hard as I try, I can’t shake the awful feeling that something is missing. We haven’t left George’s bagpipes at home, have we?”

“No dear. I packed them myself.”

“What about Ivy and Mr. Growls’s matching diving suits? I don’t remember seeing them this morning.”

“I watched Wilhelm load them onto the roof rack just before we left. Please, darling—we’re all a bit nervous here. It’s only natural when one is faced with such a high probability of death and humiliation. But we mustn’t lose our heads now—not when we’re so close to our goal. I assure you, everything is perfectly in order.”

“Oh, Charles—I’m so worried for you! Do be careful not to be killed!”

“You may rest assured, dear—I shall make every effort to that end.”

With that, he kissed his wife and walked from the tent to the welcoming roar of the crowd.

Mr. Whipple cut a straight line across the tiltyard, zipping up his black leather jousting jacket as he approached his motorbike, where his two eldest sons stood waiting. He gave a nod to each of them, then straddled the vehicle and ground his boot into the kick-start lever, goading the engine to life.

When he had set his helmet in place and fitted his scarf, he motioned to Simon, who handed him his shield—a steel hubcap painted with the sable elephant of the Whipple family crest.

“Good luck, Dad,” said Simon.

“Thank you, Son.”

Mr. Whipple turned to Henry. “Electro-lance.”

“Yes, sir,” said the eldest. He hoisted the long, tapered spear into his father’s right arm and connected it to the two electrical leads that ran to the bike’s battery. “Bring us back a Goldwin kebab, Dad.”

Mr. Whipple glanced to the opposite end of the list field where his opponent sat revving the engine of his gold-trimmed cycle.

“I shall indeed, Son,” he said, then lowered his goggles and grasped the throttle.

As the flag boy approached the center of the field, Henry and Simon retreated to the sideline, leaving their father alone with his mechanical steed. A hush fell over the crowd.

The flag, held aloft in the boy’s hand, flapped for a moment in the breeze—and then dropped.

The two motorbikes charged forward.

Mr. Whipple sped alongside the low fence that divided the two sides of the field. He lowered his lance and trained its point on his oncoming target.

He waited until he was close enough to see the fury in Rex Goldwin’s eyes, then leaned into his handlebars and braced for impact.

The spring-loaded spearhead struck the golden lizard at the center of Rex’s shield with a crash, sending sparks of electricity arcing across its face and into the arm of its bearer.

At the same moment, Rex snapped his own lance upward, skirting the top of Mr. Whipple’s shield and striking his head.

Sparks flew from Mr. Whipple’s helmet as the spear scraped a deep gouge in its left side. Though the insulated shell protected him from the electric shock, the force of the blow snapped his head back in a cruel, unnatural motion.

The crowd gasped. Mr. Whipple slumped to the rear of his cycle, his fingers clutching tenuously at one handlebar as his vehicle swerved to the right.

A cluster of field-level spectators dove from the path of the runaway motorbike, narrowly escaping death as it crossed the sideline and careened toward the concrete wall beyond. Looking on from the front row, the Whipples leapt to their feet and covered their mouths in panic.

Sparks showered from Mr. Whipple’s handlebar as it struck the cement barrier.

Penelope and Charlotte buried their faces in their hands.

But just before the wheel made impact, Mr. Whipple regained his grip on the handlebars. He jerked the bike away from the wall and plowed through a row of hedges, nearly striking two referees before finally skidding to a halt on an empty patch of turf.

The crowd cheered. The Whipples sighed with relief.

Mr. Whipple caught his breath and peered down the field to see Rex Goldwin saluting the audience from his motorbike, entirely unharmed in the duel’s first clash.

As the two men passed each other on the way back to their respective starting positions, Rex shouted across the fence, “Careful, Charlie! Don’t go dying on me just yet—be a pity to spoil the fun so soon, wouldn’t it?”

“Never you worry, Mr. Goldwin,” replied the other. “The fun is only just beginning.”

• • •

“Well, Ted, that marks the fourth straight round in which Charles Whipple has scored a clean shot to his opponent’s shield—in spite of being struck on the helmet by his opponent’s lance. Quite a strange tactic from Rex Goldwin, don’t you think?”

“Very strange indeed, Chuck. Though head strikes are not illegal in motorbike jousting, only strikes to the shield count for points. It seems Goldwin is willing to sacrifice a showing on the scorecards for a chance at unseating Whipple and engaging him in close combat. If he manages to deal a death blow, of course, he’ll have no need for points—but I’ve never seen a combatant focus so heavily on unseating an opponent so early in a duel. It’s a tactic usually reserved as a last resort—when one can no longer win the duel on points. Rex Goldwin, however, has shown no interest from the very start in a victory by scorecard. I’d say what we’ve got here, Chuck, is a man out for blood.”

“No question, Ted. I guess we’ll see how badly Charles Whipple wants to keep his own from spilling.”

“That we shall, Chuck. This should be a good one!”

• • •

For the next five rounds, Mr. Whipple continued to rack up points on his opponent’s shield—while Rex Goldwin persisted in pummeling Mr. Whipple’s head, like a sweet-toothed child battling the World’s Most Stubborn Piñata.

It was in the tenth round that Rex’s persistence finally paid off.

Having grown accustomed to his opponent’s repeated shots to the head, Mr. Whipple had learned to lessen the impact by dodging to one side or the other. This, routine, however, left him entirely unprepared for a direct blow to the chest.

The tip of the spear compressed against Mr. Whipple’s steel-studded jacket and catapulted his body backward, while his motorbike rode on without him. Mr. Whipple floated in midair for a split second, then thudded to earth on his back.

He lay stunned for several moments. But then he noticed the man on the motorbike charging at his head.

Rex hunkered into his seat and cranked the throttle as the fallen man struggled to move.

Mr. Whipple reached for his lance. He anchored its handle in the earth and popped its point upward.

The maniacal grin on Rex’s face froze as the spear struck his ribs.

Mr. Whipple rolled to his right. Wind blasted his face as Rex’s tires whirled past him.

An instant later, Rex hit the ground. His unmanned motorbike collided with the center fence and plowed into the earth, its front wheel still spinning as the vehicle clattered to a standstill.

In the space between the two immobilized machines, their riders lay motionless in the dirt.

Then, slowly, the figures began to rise.

“Touché,” Rex croaked as he staggered to his feet and removed his jacket. “I’ve got to admit, Charlie—you’re harder to exterminate than I’d thought.”

Mr. Whipple tossed his own jacket to the ground. “Why, Mr. Goldwin,” he panted, “that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” The two men circled one another and removed their helmets, gripping the hidden handles inside to convert their headgear into small, rounded shields.

“Ah, Charlie,” Rex chuckled. “What a shame you couldn’t have died a bit easier.” From a sheath on his belt, he drew a two-foot-long wood-and-metal shaft, not unlike a large cattle prod. “Death by zap dagger is quite excruciating I’m told.” He pressed the trigger button and a blue surge of energy arced between the two electrodes at the tip of the rod.

Mr. Whipple drew his own, identical weapon. “You may be overstating your chances, Mr. Goldwin. I think you’ll find I’m quite handy with zap dagger and blast buckler—though it’s no great matter to me. I should gladly die a thousand deaths today to have my family honor restored.”

Rex grinned. “Well, Charlie, I certainly wouldn’t want to stand between you and your honor.” And with that, he threw a handful of dirt in his opponent’s face.

Mr. Whipple stumbled backward, shutting his eyes in pain and confusion. Zap! Rex’s weapon struck his shoulder.

“Ahh!” cried Mr. Whipple. He flailed his buckler wildly and managed by chance to parry his foe’s second thrust.

Rex countered with two quick strikes—Zap-zap!—one to the side and one to the stomach. Mr. Whipple doubled over in anguish. The crowd roared.

Rex drew back his weapon and brought it down with enough force to split the man’s skull.

Crack! The sound of the blow echoed into the stands.

But instead of slumping to the earth, Mr. Whipple stood taller. Having caught the weapon an inch from his brow with his own zap dagger, he slowly pressed back Rex’s hand. Mr. Whipple’s eyes burned red with blood and fury as he lifted his head to face his enemy.

The two combatants struggled, weapons locked, until Rex deflected Mr. Whipple’s blade and lunged for his ribcage. Mr. Whipple, however—having largely recovered his eyesight—simply repelled the blow with his buckler and took a stab of his own.

Zap! The weapon struck Rex under his arm.

“Arh!” he yelped. Stung for the first time, Rex’s face flooded with rage. He leapt forward and lashed out with his weapon.

Crack-crack-crack! Mr. Whipple parried the blows as he stumbled backward.

Then, with a quick sideways swipe, Rex hooked the back of Mr. Whipple’s buckler and wrenched it from his grasp.

The helmet/shield hit the ground, leaving Mr. Whipple painfully vulnerable.

Zap! Zap-zap! Electricity pierced his left arm as he struggled to defend himself. He blocked the next strike with his zap dagger, only to have Rex land a series of jabs like none other so far. Zap! Zap-zap! Zap-zap-zap-zap-zap!

Mr. Whipple’s attempts at warding off electrocution grew more and more feeble with each jolt, a detail that did not go unnoticed by his opponent.

Rex put all his weight behind the weapon and lunged for the weakened man’s heart.

Charles Whipple, however, was in no mood for dying. The instant the electrodes met his shirt, he grabbed the end of the zap dagger and spun to his left, guiding the weapon away from his body and wresting it from Rex’s grasp. Using Rex’s weight against him, Mr. Whipple flung his attacker to the ground.

Rex landed facedown in the dirt. As he wriggled onto his back, Mr. Whipple clamped a boot onto Rex’s forearm just below the shield and swiveled his twin daggers into a downward grip.

“No, Charlie!” Rex squealed, covering his face with his free arm and blinking rapidly. “Please don’t! I’ll—I’ll do anything!”

Mr. Whipple depressed the trigger buttons and two streams of blue energy reflected in his furious eyes. He raised his weapons into the air.

At that moment, a voice called out behind him.

“Mr. Whipple! Mr. Whipple!” it cried. “I can’t find him anywhere! It’s all my fault. . . .”

Mr. Whipple halted halfway through his strike and turned toward the source of the commotion. There, he saw a roundish, gray-haired housemaid holding up her skirts and charging toward him across the field.

The next thing he knew, there was a scuffling at his feet. He looked down to see Rex Goldwin clambering out from underneath his boot. He leapt after him—but Rex slipped from his grasp and scurried off down the lists.

Boos sprang up from the crowd.

Mr. Whipple stood panting for a moment, watching his opponent escape—then turned to face his housekeeper.

“Mrs. Waite, this is highly irregular!” he roared. “What in blazes are you yammering on about?”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but it’s Arthur—he’s gone missing! I’m afraid something dreadful has happened to him!”

Mr. Whipple glanced distractedly across the tiltyard in time to catch a glimpse of his rival’s back as it disappeared through the door of the Goldwin tent.

“What do you mean he’s gone missing?” he snapped. “Hasn’t he been with us all morning?”

“I don’t think so, sir. And I’m afraid I may be to blame for it.”

Mr. Whipple’s eyes narrowed. “Really? And how do you figure that?”

“Well, you see, sir, earlier this morning, before anyone else had risen, I, well—I may have shown one of the Goldwins onto the grounds.”

“You may have done what?”

“It was only Arthur’s friend, Ruby, sir. She said she needed to see him—and I know I should have sent her away, but I couldn’t really see any harm in a quick visit—so I led her out to the edge of the garden and then brought Arthur to meet her. I left them alone to talk—with every intention of returning to check on them a bit later—but then I’m afraid I got caught up preparing for the day’s events and forgot all about them. It only just struck me before the start of the duel I’d not seen Arthur since. I’ve spent the past half hour searching for him with no luck. No one can remember seeing him at all today.” Mrs. Waite’s face grew solemn. “You don’t think that Goldwin girl’s done something to him, do you, sir? I mean, I thought they were friends, but she is one of them after all, isn’t she?”

“She is indeed, Mrs. Waite. This is truly a troubling report.”

“Oh, sir—I feel awful! What are we to do?”

“I’m not sure there is anything to do, Mrs. Waite. In case you haven’t noticed, I am presently engaged in a mortal duel—an activity, alas, which rather requires my undivided attention.”

“But, sir—surely your son is far more important than some silly game of pride?”

“If you please, Mrs. Waite, I shall be the judge of what is and what is not important to this family. Now, I appreciate your account of the matter; it has been most informative—but I must insist you exit the field at once so I may be left alone to resume this silly game without further distraction.”

“Yes, sir,” the housekeeper sighed—then did as she was told.

• • •

“Well, that’s certainly not something you see everyday, is it Chuck?”

“Indeed it isn’t, Ted. Last time I saw a maid storm onto a dueling field, she was carted off in separate wheelbarrows. You’ve got to admit, Ted—this is one brave housekeeper!”

“Brave, Chuck—or just foolish? After denying the crowd their well-deserved death blow, she’d better be ready to defend herself.”

“True enough, Ted. But though she may have inadvertently saved Goldwin from a swift and present demise, Charles Whipple has already secured a victory on the scorecards—and needs only to remain alive until the end of the duel to doom his opponent instead to a long, slow death by dishonor. So, unless Goldwin can deliver a death blow of his own or force a surrender, it’s all over for him anyhow. We’ll just have to hope it’s enough to appease the fifteen thousand dueling fans in attendance here today.”

“I don’t know, Chuck. This is the whole reason the IDA repealed the Mercy Mandate in the first place. It’s common sense, really: duels to the death just make for better spectator sport.”

“Can’t argue with you there, Ted. Lucky for us, there’s still time for that sort of end as well.”

“We can only hope, Chuck.”

“Absolutely, Ted. But death blow or no, this really has been a spectacular duel so far.”

“Right you are, Chuck. Whipple has now scored the Widest Point Differential in the History of the Sport. He needs only to match Goldwin’s scores for the remaining five tilts to officially clinch the record—an easy task, no doubt, seeing as he’s outscored Goldwin in every round.”

“No doubt, Ted. . . . Oh, hold on a minute—we’re just getting a report here regarding the reason for the Whipple housekeeper’s startling interruption. According to our sources on the field, Charles Whipple’s twelve-year-old son, Arthur, has gone missing and may be in considerable danger—perhaps even the target of foul play.”

“Who?”

“You know, Ted—Arthur Whipple—the only member of the Whipple family to have never broken a world record?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, Chuck.”

“You may remember him from the Junior Rocket-Stick Race at this year’s Unsafe Sports Showdown. Foolishly sacrificed a shot at the title to assist an injured Jump Johnston?”

“Oh, that poor devil? Great Lakes! As if he didn’t have enough problems—now he goes and gets himself kidnapped? Some people just can’t catch a break, can they, Chuck?”

“Apparently not, Ted. And now it seems the lad’s left his father with a bit of a dilemma: does he go for the world record and a chance to vanquish a dangerous opponent—or does he leave the duel immediately to search for his missing son?”

“Well, Chuck, given all we’ve come to know about Charles Whipple, I think we can rest assured he’ll do the right thing.”

“Absolutely, Ted. This is far too important a duel to simply walk away from. In a competition of this magnitude, every record counts—not to mention the honor at stake here—and Whipple is just too shrewd a competitor to be unnerved by something like this.”

“I fully concur, Chuck. . . . Oh, and here he comes now, back onto the field—with a positively thunderous reception from the crowd. And yep, there he is, mounting his motorbike and revving the engine, ready to win glory once again. This is a true champion we’ve got here, Chuck.”

“No question, Ted. Now he needs only to put the final nail in his opponent’s coffin to reclaim his throne at the forefront of world-record breaking.”

“That’s right, Chuck—and we get the pleasure of watching him do it. I hope you’ve brought your rubber ducks with you, folks; it’s going to be a bloodbath.”

• • •

Charles Whipple readied his electro-lance and fixed his gaze on the falling flag. The motorbike beneath him growled at his command, then charged forward.

As Rex Goldwin neared, Mr. Whipple could detect a shift in his enemy’s posture. Rex’s body slumped wearily over his handlebars. His lance wobbled loosely in his grip.

It was clear to everyone present that Mr. Whipple had won. If he simply finished the next five rounds, the duel was his. He would finally regain his honor from the man who had stolen it, ridding himself of Rex Goldwin once and for all. Surely, restoring the Whipple name was well worth any small sacrifices he had to make.

He sped faster.

By the time he reached his opponent, however, something had changed.

Mr. Whipple raised his spear and swerved sharply to his right. His enemy’s lance grazed his helmet as he spun his motorbike 180 degrees—and sped back toward his own tent.

“Wait—where are you going?” called Rex Goldwin from the opposite side of the fence. “Oh, that’s it—go on, coward—run away when you know you’re beaten!”

Ignoring Rex’s jeers and the growing furor of the crowd, Mr. Whipple made a straight line for the edge of the tiltyard, where his wife and children were already waiting.

Mrs. Whipple rushed forward to meet him. He jumped from his motorbike, cast off his helmet, then looked to his wife and said, “We’ve got to find Arthur.”

“I know,” replied Mrs. Whipple, her face creased with worry. “Charles, how could we have just forgotten him like that?”

“I’m not sure, dear—but I aim never to do so again.”

With that, he walked toward his children, who stood looking on from the sideline with Mrs. Waite. The housekeeper stepped forward as he approached.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said softly. “This is all my doing.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Mrs. Waite. It’s not your fault. If I hadn’t been so focused on this blasted duel, I might have realized I’d left my own son behind. Now—please help me muster the children.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, then set about gathering the young Whipples around him.

“Children,” Mr. Whipple announced, “as you may know, your brother Arthur has gone missing. I fear, however, that his disappearance is no mere accident. We all know our Arthur would never miss an event so important to this family unless something was dreadfully wrong.”

“Poor Arthur,” Beatrice whimpered. “How can we help?”

“We must set out to find him at once,” her father replied. “We’ll divide ourselves into search parties in order to cover as much ground as possible.”

“But what about our events?” asked Cordelia.

“It seems we shall have to miss some of them. How can any of us continue on until we know your brother is safe?”

“But Dad,” Cordelia argued, “it’s not as if Arthur was going to help us win the cup anyway. I mean, I don’t want him to get hurt or anything—but, honestly, this is the championships!”

Mr. Whipple shook his head. “My dear Cordelia, I wish I could say I had nothing to do with this callous single-mindedness of yours, but I’m afraid it’s just as much my fault as it is your own. I fully intend to set a better example in future—but for now, you’ll just have to do as I say. Though Arthur may not possess the abilities or accomplishments— or common sense—of the rest of us, he is a Whipple nonetheless, and as such, it is our duty to keep him from harm,whatever the cost. Would you not want us to do the same for you, were you in your brother’s place?”

Cordelia sighed and looked away, then nodded reluctantly.

“I thought as much. So, either we win the cup together, or not at all. Now, enough talk—we’ve no time to lose. Let us get moving—and pray we are not too late.”