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Jericho heard the explosions long before he saw the commotion. The booms were not loud enough to denote anything too large, and his armor’s sensors barely registered the concussions. Joshua predicted small anti-personnel munitions, and Jericho agreed with his AI’s guess. Somebody was peppering the atrium with small grenades for reasons not immediately clear. He burst into the open space, and the question had its answer.
Tankowicz stood with his weapon outstretched in one hand, spraying two Fratre Militae with a hail of explosive beads. Too low-yield to damage the vestments, Jericho understood the purpose of the dramatic fusillade long before the Sword Brothers figured it out. The two red-armored buffoons were covering their helmets with their weapon arms, and in seconds their well-crafted vibroblades disintegrated into scorched scrap. The idiots did not understand their folly until the barrage ceased and the chuckling cyborg re-holstered his weapon.
Jericho noticed the helmet then. The featureless skull motif against the flat black of the cap startled him at first, though he recovered quickly. Jericho understood the need for drama and evocation in a warrior’s vestments. His own blue armor was crafted to be as impressive to look at as it was to face in battle. Tankowicz, on the other hand, had chosen the face of a demon as his totem. A righteous fervor swelled within his breast. The monster revealed his true face now, and God had seen to it that his adversary bore the mark of his evil master. God was good. And God had ensured that good men would know evil by the face it wore.
Jericho did not leap in to aid the Sword Brothers. There were too many eyes to witness this battle and too many tongues to wag in its aftermath. When the rabble whispered tales of this day, no one would claim that the First Fist of the Teutons needed the help of any one or any thing to slay the monster. It took only a cursory examination of the burgeoning fight for Jericho to predict the outcome. Without their swords, the Knights were forced to brawl hand-to hand with Tankowicz. This appeared to suit the cyborg, as he made no move to draw his gun or flee.
The affair proved rather one-sided, though his report would reflect that the Sword Brothers acquitted themselves with both skill and honor. Unfearing, unyielding, and unencumbered by tactical awareness of any kind, the Knights hurled themselves at Tankowicz. Obsidian fists met their charge, darting forward in a jet-black blur to catch each red helmet with a ringing blow. Joshua tracked speed and power and relayed the data to Jericho’s HUD, and the Teuton scowled. The numbers scanned much higher than the telemetry from Sir Francis. Tankowicz had either found more strength, or he had been taking things easy the first time. More data scrolled along his field of vision as the fight dragged on. Jericho re-checked the reaction times twice to preclude any errors in the information. Tankowicz possessed physical speed and reflexes to rival any foe in Jericho’s long memory. He instructed Joshua to run models comparing his speed against the data and build tactics based on the results.
A red gauntlet thundered into the cyborg’s midsection with enough force to collapse a wall. At last, Tankowicz stumbled. Scanning through Tankowicz’s thick hide proved difficult, and the armor AI could not read any of the damage Jericho assumed must have occurred. When Tankowicz answered the blow with a brutal uppercut that lifted the Sword Brother from the floor and hurled him fifteen yards away, Jericho realized that the scan revealed no damage because there was no damage to reveal.
“Just what in hell are you made of?” Jericho wondered aloud. Joshua answered with extensive analysis comparing the cyborg to known civilian and military armatures. It found nothing to explain what Jericho was seeing. Jericho dismissed the useless clutter from his HUD and continued his observations.
Tankowicz lunged for one of the Knights, covering the gap between them in an eyeblink. Faster than even Jericho could follow, the black cyborg dislocated his victim’s shoulder and stomped his knee into twisted metal. When the other leaped onto his back, Tankowicz threw him cleanly to the floor. Here Tankowicz secured a flailing arm and snapped it backward at the elbow. Then he turned the howling Knight to his side and ripped his shoulder out of the socket with a screech of tortured metal and a rain of blue and orange sparks. The Knights both writhed and tried to stand. Brave unto the last, Jericho noted their courage and sent a recommendation to their steward for both a commendation and additional hand-to-hand training.
“Stay your hands, Brothers!” he boomed through his PA system. “You have done well. But this one belongs to Sir Harland Jericho, First Fist of the Teutons!”
Tankowicz swung his skull face toward the noise and stood to his full height. “You again, huh?”
“I warned you what would happen, monster. You did not heed me then. Now you will reap what your sinful nature has sown. It is time to finish that conversation we started back at the port.”
“Just you by your lonesome?” Tankowicz gestured to the three mangled Knights at his feet. “You sure about this?”
Jericho knew the monster could not see his smile, and that was probably a good thing. “You are not without skill, monster. Do you think I cannot see what you are doing? I am the First Fist. I have fought more men than those three combined. I am not so easily impressed.”
“Neither were they,” the giant said. “Pride goeth...”
“Do not mistake confidence for pride, monster.” Jericho felt the electric prickle of his armor responding to his mental state. An icy thrill ran down the back of his arms and legs and up his spine. “I noticed that you’ve stopped battering at us and moved on to maiming the man inside the armor instead. A wise choice. Our vestments are too well made to be easily damaged. As with faith, it is the flesh that is the weakest link. Like the minion of the devil I know you to be, you exploit that weakness. As does the devil, you wage your battles with deceit. You fight as if you have no training, but I can see you have spent much time studying the combat arts. You are wise to trick your enemies thus. The Sword Brothers have fallen for your deception. I will not.”
“I guess you’re the reigning champ around here?”
“I am.”
“And you think you’ve got me pegged that well.”
“Only God knows the future. But with faith and courage, I intend to find out.”
Tankowicz nodded. “There are two hundred innocent people watching us, Sir Knight.” A black finger pointed at the Iron Fist. “I assume that thing hides a gravity hammer like the other guy used. Does God have an opinion on collateral damage?”
“I doubt there are any innocents in this room, or anywhere else in this Godforsaken hole,” Jericho replied with an audible scoff. “And I suspect you care little for them either way and just want me to disable my weapon. I will not.” He held up the Iron Fist for all to see and addressed the crowd. “Hear this! I will not disarm myself for the sake of sinners and reprobates! If you value your lives, you will leave this place! Go run and hide somewhere, cower in fear, and pray for the salvation of your souls! I give you twenty seconds! Go!”
The crowd stepped back as one but did not flee. Jericho frowned beneath his faceplate at their stupidity. It was Tankowicz who broke the silence.
“GO!” the monster roared.
Jericho swore he could hear something akin to desperation or fear in that bellowed syllable. He supposed the giant must only now be understanding the folly of his actions. The crowd shattered like crystal and ran for the exits. In five seconds, only Tankowicz and Jericho stood in the atrium. Joshua’s scanners told Jericho that a thousand eyes still watched from safe places along the walls, but for now the floor was clear.
“Is your conscience appeased now?” Jericho asked.
“Do you even have one?” replied the giant.
“Says the criminal and thug,” Jericho fired back. He immediately regretted his lack of poise. His skin crackled with pins and needles, making clear thinking difficult.
Tankowicz merely laughed. He reached up and unfastened the holster for his pistol and placed the weapon on the ground. Jericho remembered something from Sir Francis’s telemetry. “Ah,” he breathed. “Mighty Durendal being cast aside? Do you even know the story of that weapon and your name? Because you do not deserve either. Your namesake’s last action on Earth was to try and shatter that sword before his enemies took it from his corpse. It would not break, for God had blessed it as his instrument. The man still died, though.” Jericho tilted his head. “The flesh is always weakest, Tankowicz.”
“You’d be amazed how little flesh I have left, pal,” said Tankowicz. “Do you know the story of your name?”
“Of course I do,” Jericho replied. “A powerful foe stood defiant before the will of God. His chosen people brought it low with little more than faith and conviction. It is a good tale to remember, if one believes they are mighty enough to defy God’s will.”
“Old Sir Roland fought for God too,” said Tankowicz. “He killed thousands in the name of his king and his God. Until he was betrayed by a rival and left to face ten thousand enemies all by himself, that is. He died a glorious, magnificent hero’s death because his faith made him blind and stupid and arrogant. That’s the fun of allegory, you know. You mentioned Durendal not breaking? The sword didn’t break because the sword was not the problem in this story.” Tankowicz tilted his head, mocking Jericho’s version of the gesture. “It is a good tale to remember if one believes that faith is a substitute for intelligence in a warrior.” He straightened once more to his full height. “It ain’t your faith holding you back, Jericho. It’s your ignorance.”
Jericho was glad Tankowicz could not see his face in that moment. “I believe I am done waging this war with words, monster.”
The helmet made it impossible to see Tankowicz’s face, but Jericho could hear the wry condescension in his every syllable. “Have at thee, then.”
Jericho was not so foolish as to charge. The time spent bandying words with Tankowicz had been well-spent by Joshua in devising strategies. After twenty-seven years, Jericho trusted his AI completely, and he allowed his armor to drive his actions as much as he drove it. He closed quickly without rushing so as not to meet the heavy fists of his foe with his face. The first jab missed by mere inches, and Jericho sent the Iron Fist toward that hideous faceplate a fraction of a second later. The Fist was fully charged, and there was no question that a clean blow to the head would be instantly fatal. Tankowicz seemed to know this, too. He stepped back and out of the path with time to spare but left too much distance for a counterattack. This was as planned. Jericho could not allow his foe the opportunity to mangle his joints as he had the others. The Fist kept Tankowicz back and away where he could not employ his grappling tricks. This did not guarantee victory, as Tankowicz possessed enough raw strength to bash his armor to pieces if given enough time. Time, however, was Jericho’s ally. Superhuman reflexes or not, eventually the Fist would find a home on that disgrace of a body, and the battle would be his.
Jericho stepped into the gap separating the men and sent the Iron Fist at the silver skull once more. As expected, Tankowicz leaned back and dodged. “You fear the Iron Fist, monster!” Jericho hissed, his voice oozing unvarnished glee.
“Only fools and dead men have no fear, Jericho,” he replied. “Which one will you be?”
Tankowicz darted back into striking range and fired off a jab too fast for Jericho to dodge. Thanks to his AI, the armor began its parry even before Jericho commanded it to. A surge of bioelectric feedback seared its way from his spine to his fingertips, but his forearm deflected the blow in time to prevent clean contact. Jericho heard a frustrated grunt from Tankowicz. He sent the Fist at the monster’s guts as a response. Landing the blow was too much to hope for, but his foe’s hasty retreat put a smile back on Jericho’s face. He closed the distance once more, advancing behind the Iron Fist and delighting in his opponent’s consternation. He snapped out his left hand, taunting Tankowicz with a jab from the Velvet Glove. Twice more he flicked the smaller hand into the air before chasing the lefts with a savage straight right. The giant lost more ground, unable to parry the gravity hammer hidden within the huge fist without risking triggering the charge.
Jericho’s skin burned, the heat coming in waves of hot needles that seemed to penetrate into his very muscles. As always, no matter how much he asked of it, the armor never gave so much as to be harmful. He could not even say that it hurt as much as others claimed. It felt strange and uncomfortable, but in moments like this, Jericho never seemed to experience the agony or insanity that so often plagued his brothers. If anything, he felt pure and strong. The armor sang to his body and his body answered in kind. It was as close to feeling God’s touch as Jericho ever got, and he would rather die of a seizure inside the armor than ever give it up.
He could feel himself becoming faster, sharper, more in tune with the fight as it progressed. His own reflexes, supplemented by tactical insights provided at the speed of hurtling electrons, matched the monster’s well enough to keep him free from damage. He accepted his foes superior strength as a mere tactical consideration and balanced the equation with the knowledge that his armor’s durability would be proof against that strength. There was no fear, no pain, no doubt. Just the purity of purpose and an unshakable faith that God was on his side. Jericho loved these moments. He felt invincible.
He circled to the right, moving his attack to the enemy’s weaker side. He kept the pressure on with strikes designed only to harass. Committing to a killing blow invited a disastrous counter, and the Knight had done this dance too many times to be so impatient. After a minute of chasing, Jericho began to give ground. He slowed his blows and let some of his crisp technical perfection lapse to just shy of sloppy. He crafted his performance with care, selling the ruse with a slow and steady decline. Tankowicz fell for it, too. The cyborg came on with renewed vigor, taking greater chances at what appeared to be a flagging enemy. When the timing felt perfect, Jericho feinted a right hook, deliberately letting the blow go wide to present an opportunity for Tankowicz. The cyborg took the bait and lunged for his arm. Jericho struck out with his boot, catching Tankowicz inside the foot and sweeping his lead leg from beneath him. The giant fell, and Jericho pinned him down with falling knee to the guts.
Roaring in triumph, Jericho whirled the Fist over his head and brought it down to smash his prone foe.