Chapter Five

The old legionnaires were made of quite different stuff and were in it for reasons ranging from manslaughter to unrequited love.

—Legionnaire David King,
French Foreign Legion, 1914

Hauser returned the Indomay sentry’s crisp salute and strode through the high-arched double doors into the courtyard. Suartana stayed close behind him, rigid, precise, his attitude never deviating from perfect correctness toward his Uro superior yet somehow managing to convey a faint hint of disapproval at the same time. Their booted feet clattered on the cobblestones as they crossed the open space within the walled garden.

There were already five figures waiting by the fountain in the center of the courtyard. The two Neubeck brothers and the major’s Indomay attendant barely acknowledged Hauser’s arrival with narrow-eyed glances. Another Uro, wearing a Besaran naval officer’s uniform with the insignia of the medical corps, was plainly the doctor required by the formalities. The fifth, also a Uro but clad in exquisitely tailored civilian clothes, was Freidrich Doenitz von Pulau Irian, Laut Besar’s consul-general and chief commercial representative on Robespierre and owner of the estate. He was the neutral party here, the man responsible for overseeing the final arrangements for the duel.

“Ah, Freiherr von Semenanjung Burat,” Doenitz said cordially, stepping forward with his hand extended. “I wish we could have met under more … congenial circumstances. I knew your father quite well before his unfortunate accident.”

Hauser took the proffered hand. “He spoke well of you, Freiherr,” he replied. “My uncle, as well.”

The consul-general gestured toward the Neubecks. “A sad business, this,” he said softly. “At a time like this, with the Homeworld overrun, shouldn’t you save your anger for the Ubrenfars? We need all our young officers if we are to regain our homes.”

Shrugging, Hauser half turned from the diplomat. “This is a matter of honor, Freiherr. Surely you don’t expect me to disgrace my family’s name?”

Doenitz shook his head sadly. “There are many kinds of disgrace, young man,” he said in the same low voice. “I only hope you can choose between them.” He walked back toward the others, leaving Hauser to his own thoughts.

Custom had dictated every move in the intricate dance of the dueling code. Hauser had made the challenge in anger, but the outburst had been in front of other Uros, witnesses of power and substance. With no graceful way out, the only face-saving choice was to follow through with the affair. Suartana had delivered the formal challenge to Neubeck’s Indomay retainer, who in turn had presented the major’s acceptance. Time, place, weapons, all had been arranged with scrupulous regard for tradition.

Now it was out of the question to even consider backing down. Neubeck had been a champion fencer at the Sky Guard Academy, so his choice of sabers had been no real surprise. His reputation made it all the harder for Hauser to stop the duel. That would look too much like the very cowardice Neubeck had accused him of, and Hauser would never be able to mix with his peers again if the label of “coward” clung to him any longer.

Duels were rarely pursued to the death. He would fight Neubeck to prove his courage, and even though he would probably lose, his honor would remain intact.

“Gentlemen,” Doenitz called suddenly. “It is time.”

Hauser stalked toward the fountain slowly, acutely aware of everything around him. Suartana loomed over his left shoulder, tense, a coiled spring as tightly bound by tradition as Hauser himself. The Indomay had tried to talk him out of the fight. Now, caught between his promise to the family to protect Hauser from harm and the strict rules of the duel, Suartana had the look of a rembot caught in a program loop, unable to choose one course of action over another.

“I will ask you both one more time,” the diplomat said in even, measured tones. “Won’t you settle this matter without shedding blood?”

Woodenly, Hauser stepped forward. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else, some actor playing a trideo role. “He has already called me a coward. Why should I give him further reason to make the claim?”

“If you’d stood on Telok we wouldn’t have to be here, Hauser,” the major said harshly. He spat eloquently, a contemptuous gesture that had no place in polite society. “But you won’t stand up to my blade now any more than you did to the Ubrenfars then. You don’t have the guts for it. So let’s get this charade over with now.”

Doenitz looked grim. “Very well, gentlemen.” He made the word sound like an obscenity. “Weapons will be sabers. Select them, if you please.”

At Hauser’s gesture Suartana moved forward, and Neubeck’s Indomay joined him. That, too, was custom. If the Uro principals showed too much interest in the weapons selection it would be an implied criticism of the neutral arbiter’s impartiality. While Doenitz was clearly no dedicated duelist himself, that would be an affront to honor even he wouldn’t have been able to overlook.

Suartana returned with the saber. It was heavier than Hauser had expected, with a wide, slightly curved blade honed to a razor-sharp edge. Long before the age of spaceflight, weapons like this one had played major roles in Terran battles, but now they were anachronisms. Officers carried swords as part of their dress uniforms, but by and large they were strictly for show.

But on some worlds, including Laut Besar, dueling was an accepted social custom, a challenge of courage, manhood. There were few tests of personal bravery better than facing an opponent armed with cold steel.

Hauser tested the balance of the blade, made a few quick practice cuts, and gave a satisfied nod. It was Besaran manufacture, a genuine Kohl saber from the famous swordmakers of Djakarta Baru. A fine weapon, elegant and deadly.

“If you please, gentlemen,” Doenitz said. “This engagement shall be to first blood—”

“What?” Major Neubeck’s voice was an angry whip-crack in the still morning air. “I specified a fight to angenehm aufgeben. Is this more of your damned dodging, Hauser?”

He opened his mouth to make an angry denial, but Doenitz answered first. “Will your honor not be satisfied by drawing blood, Major? I really do feel that …”

“Angenehm aufgeben,” Neubeck said, cutting him off.

Doenitz looked at Hauser.

“Angenehm aufgeben,” he echoed flatly. Much as he appreciated the old diplomat’s gesture on his behalf, Hauser couldn’t help but feel angry at the interference. Now it looked as if he had been trying to save himself by altering the agreed-upon conditions of the fight.

The terms of the fight to angenehm aufgeben—“acceptable surrender”—required the duel to go on until both parties agreed to end it. A ruthless duelist could press the battle to the death, though that was a fairly rare result. But it did give Neubeck the chance to thoroughly humiliate his opponent, perhaps wound him seriously, before accepting a surrender, rather than simply going through the form of a quick engagement to first blood that would satisfy most questions of honor.

Hauser knew he wasn’t a match for Neubeck in a prolonged duel. But he was willing to accept the humiliation of an unbalanced fight if it would prove once and for all that he wasn’t a coward who would run from personal danger.

“The fight is to angenehm aufgeben,” Doenitz conceded. “It will continue until one party yields and the other accepts the surrender. Gentlemen, take your places … anfangen!”

As the diplomat stepped back, Hauser dropped into the proper fencing stance. He had fought saber back at the Academy, well enough to be on the first-string fencing team in his last year. But he was nowhere near Neubeck’s skill level.

And there was a vast difference between Academy matches, with blunt-edged weapons and heavy protective padding and electronic scoring, when compared with the reality of facing an armed man in actual, lethal combat.

Neubeck’s blade flicked back and forth in tiny, neat strokes, beating against Hauser’s saber, probing, testing reactions. The major’s fencing style was a reflection of the man himself. Controlled and precise, he refused to commit himself to an attack until he had taken the measure of his opponent.

Such a careful style was kilometers away from the crowd-pleasing swashbuckling antics so dear to the hearts of the spectators in Academy tournaments, but in the long run it was exactly the kind of fighting that won the match.

Or the kill.

Hauser beat his opponent’s blade aside and lunged suddenly, trying to take control of the tempo of the duel. If he allowed Major Neubeck to stick to the slow, deliberate pace he was building, the major’s greater experience and talent would be sure to carry the day. But if he was thrown off his preferred speed, particularly now while both of them were still fresh, then anything might happen. Hauser needed every advantage he could get. Neubeck was seven years older, but the younger man couldn’t count on any advantage in stamina. The major was trim and fit.…

And agile. Neubeck danced back from the attack, dodging Hauser’s hasty stroke easily. An unpleasant smile showed just what he thought of his younger opponent’s tactics.

Suddenly the major exploded into action himself, and Hauser recoiled under a flurry of quick cuts and thrusts which took all of his ability to hold off. There was no room here for parry and riposte, nothing but hasty blocks and retreats that left the initiative squarely with Neubeck.

The man’s final slash was a fraction too fast for him to deflect, and Hauser stifled a cry as steel bit deep into his right arm just above the elbow.

Neubeck stepped back, still on guard, still sneering. “Too much for you, Hauser?” he asked, voice dripping sarcasm. “If you throw away your sword and run, I probably wouldn’t bother to chase you. Running away should come easily enough to you.” He wasn’t even breathing hard.

But Hauser didn’t have the wind to talk and fight. He just shook his head and tried to ignore the warm, wet, sticky trickle of blood running down his sword arm.

The major renewed his attack abruptly, leading with the beat-beat-beat of a double disengage that turned into a whistling cut aimed at Hauser’s neck. Again he managed to block the attack, but this time Neubeck didn’t break off once the block was made. He bore down against Hauser’s blade with his full weight until they stood corps a corps, glaring at each other over crossed steel.

They held the pose for what seemed like an eternity before Hauser twisted suddenly to the left. Neubeck recovered his stance with the speed of a cat, but not before Hauser managed to score a hit of his own, a shallow cut across his opponent’s thigh. It wasn’t much, especially when set against Hauser’s bleeding arm, but it was a hit.

Knowing that the man wasn’t invulnerable after all was as important to Hauser at that point as the wound itself.

Neubeck backed away, keeping his guard up and regarding Hauser with a new look that might have been grudging respect. They touched blades again tentatively, the initial flurry of aggression now replaced by caution.

Now Hauser led off with a foot-stomping attack, but the distraction didn’t break Neubeck’s concentration for so much as an instant. He parried Hauser’s thrust easily, almost casually, and riposted in a smooth, flowing motion. Giving ground, Hauser blocked three quick slashes, then parried a fourth and counterattacked. But it was useless, and in seconds he was falling back again, thoroughly outmatched. He skipped back out of reach as Neubeck stepped into a classic lunging attack, a move more common to foil or epee fencing than saber, but still effective. The major grimaced as he took his weight on the injured right leg, and he was slower than usual recovering to the guard position.

Not that it was much of an advantage, especially now that Hauser’s arm was starting to give him just as much trouble. Each block and parry made it throb, and he was having trouble controlling the blade as the hilt grew slippery with his blood.

On Neubeck’s next attack the saber went flying from his grasp when he tried to parry. The cut landed on his right forearm this time, not deep but painful. Hauser threw himself sideways, hitting the ground in a roll that brought him up on one knee beside his sword. He scooped it up in his left hand, and shifted immediately into a block against a fierce slash aimed at his head. As Neubeck dropped back, he rose awkwardly and dropped into the guard position, still using the left hand.

The major was smiling again, no doubt thinking that his opponent would be handicapped fighting with his off hand. Few people knew that Hauser was ambidextrous. He had rarely fought left-handed at the Academy, but he had practiced often enough in the Ortwaffen on the Hauser estate under the harsh eye of Otto Roehiyat, the half-breed anteilzucht fencing instructor, who, like Suartana, had served three generations of the Hauser family.

Now he finally had an advantage of sorts. Fighting a left-handed fencer was almost always unsettling for fighters used to right-handed opponents. Neubeck’s experience might actually work against him for a change.

No … he actually had three advantages. The major’s overconfidence, and his injured leg, would both be valuable allies if Hauser could only make them work for him. For the first time he began to believe that he might have a real chance to win this duel.

But his right arm was still throbbing painfully. Advantages or not, he couldn’t keep this up indefinitely.

Neubeck renewed the fighting without warning, catching Hauser by surprise. He fell back before the major’s assault, almost tripping as he stepped off the cobblestone pavement into a flower bed. As he parried a whole string of fast strikes, Hauser cursed inwardly. Apparently the only one who was suffering from overconfidence right now was Wolfgang Hauser.

He rallied and counterattacked, less graceful than the major but fierce enough to make the man recoil. Back on firm footing, he decided not to press the offensive. At this juncture he needed to bide his time and stay in control. Conservative fencing was the need here, not a rash gesture that could throw away his hard-won advantages. Roehiyat had told him repeatedly that his two most dangerous shortcomings as a fencer were his impatience and his short temper, and he could still remember how he had lost the championship bout during his last year at the Academy by letting blind rage take over where reason and caution should have held sway. It was almost as if he were reliving those times again instead of facing Neubeck. Hauser told himself that this time around he wouldn’t make the same mistake.…

Their contact again broken off, the two duelists faced each other for a long moment. The older man was sweating and short of breath now, but he still seemed to be holding up better to the exertion than Hauser. Neubeck was regarding him with a narrow-eyed look of concentration, calculation, assessment. Perhaps he was actually feeling some concern for the first time in the fighting. At the very least he had learned to treat Hauser with some caution.

Hauser lunged forward once more, driving, slashing, forcing the tempo, trying to make Neubeck use his wounded leg as much as possible. The major did give ground at first, but suddenly changed tactics to meet a savage cut with a solid stop-thrust. Again their sabers locked, standing close enough together for Hauser to feel his opponent’s hot breath on his cheek.

Neubeck shifted his weight suddenly, twisting his blade to bear down hard on Hauser’s sword. He tried to counter the unexpected maneuver … and his saber flew free from his grasp like a live thing. It spun in the air as if in slow motion, catching the morning sunlight. The sword clattered on the cobblestones five meters away, too far this time for Hauser to dive for it.

Hauser looked down at the point of the major’s saber, bare centimeters from his throat.

“Do you yield?” Neubeck asked coldly.

“Yield,” he agreed, almost choking on the single word.

The blade remained poised for long seconds, as if Neubeck were debating whether or not to renew the attack on his disarmed opponent. Then the major lowered the sword with a careless shrug and turned away. “Surrender accepted,” he said gruffly. He stalked back toward his brother, handing the sword to his Indomay attendant without another word. It was as if he had dismissed the duel from his mind already.

Hauser picked up his saber, grinding his teeth in frustration and anger. For all the advantages, all of his self-deluding hopes, he had still lost the fight to Neubeck. And now the man wasn’t even following through with the accepted forms that would be accorded to any gentleman after the conclusion of an affair of honor.

Freidrich Doenitz was glaring at the Neubecks, obviously just as concerned that proper customs should prevail. He stepped forward, darting a glance at Hauser before returning his attention to the major and his brother, then clearing his throat noisily. “Ah … Freiherr von Lembah Terang … you will surely acknowledge now that Freiherr von Semenanjung Burat is no coward…?”

There was a long moment of utter stillness in the courtyard. Then Neubeck looked up at Hauser and Doenitz and laughed, a cruel, callous sound. “I suppose the puppy’s not a coward,” he responded, laughing again. “Too stupid to be a coward. He’s soft in the head … just like his mother.”

Coming on top of the pent-up anger and frustration from the duel, the words and the cold laughter were more than Hauser could take. Something inside him snapped. “Damn you, Neubeck!” he shouted, pushing past Doenitz to get at the man. “You’ll pay for that!”

Hot fury consumed him, made him lash out at his enemy in an outburst of hatred. Half blinded by a red haze of raw emotion, he was hardly aware of the weapon in his hand, hardly aware of anything except the overpowering need to strike out.

The jarring impact of his saber sinking deep into flesh sobered him instantly.

Too late.

Neubeck staggered back, almost jerking the sword out of Hauser’s hands before the blade came free. The major sagged to the ground with blood pouring freely from the ugly gash in his neck. The saber had sliced deep through the neck and throat, almost to the bone, and Neubeck’s head, half severed, hung at an impossible angle.

There was a moment of stunned silence, broken by the navy doctor. The man dropped to one knee beside Neubeck’s stricken form, raising his left arm to speak urgently into his wristpiece computer terminal. “Ambulance to the Doenitz estate. Now!”

Hauser could do nothing but stare at the tableau. His sword slipped from nerveless fingers and clattered on the stonework again unheeded. Then Doenitz and Suartana were there, urging him toward the Residence. Unresisting, he let them lead him.

At the door he paused as Neubeck’s brother spoke for the first time. “This isn’t over, Hauser,” the oberleutnant said harshly. “You’ll pay! You hear me, you dirty murderer? You’ll pay!”