The Cyborg of Bergerac

Chapter Three

The arena stands were filled to bursting with spectators eager to watch the tournament. A half day holiday had been declared in the surrounding city and businesses had closed to allow their employees to see the event. Foremen and managers jammed shoulder to shoulder with lowly workers to see the action live and many more watched the holo feed in the arena's many lounges. Floating above them and circling like gulls at sea floated box seats, orbiting a monstrously large set of holographic screens that would show every moment of the fight to even the cheapest of seats.

High above the crowds the Prince's barge floated, Imperial banners fluttering in the winds, gold suns on blue backdrops side-by-side with the sword, star and wolf head of the Star Wolves. The Prince sat on a golden throne, a hologram overlapping his real body and projecting dozens of times his real size. He was the picture of elegance in flowing red robes and tall blue pauldrons. His features exuded benevolence and each movement was made with grace. Encircling the barge in tight formation were five musketeers in ornament Guardians; massive katana blades slung across their backs and their fuselages reminiscent of olden day samurai armor. The elite bodyguards were more for spectacle than for purpose; the Prince was protected by hundreds of unseen forces. Below on the arena floor a troupe of small guardians played over-sized instruments as the Prince stood, waving his blessing; the tournament had begun!

In the Guardian garages Sim Brit wound his way through the service crews and maintenance scaffolding that supported each massive Guardian. The smallest models still stood over four meters in height, their mechanical hands ready to take up arms at their pilot's behest. These were being outfitted with faux dueling weapons; swords without edges and beam rifles with the power dialed low to replace the ordinance reserved for real war. Sim was used to the chaos and noise and he whistled a tuneless song as he found where Cyrano was sprawled on a tool bench with a pilot's helmet jammed on his head sideways to shade his eyes and keep out some of the clamor. Without hesitation Sim knocked on the helmet and jerked open the visor. Cyrano flailed, groaned, and nearly fell off the bench.

"You'll never learn," Sim said and prodded Cyrano with his toe until the duelist sat up, head between his knees. Sim took a seat beside him. "I hope it was worth it. Or rather, I hope she was worth it."

"I thought they were," Cyrano pulled at the helmet until it came off his head and he winced as the garage's noise was given free passage to his ears. "At the time, they're always worth it."

"You're not a young man anymore to be carrying on like that. You have responsibilities, a reputation," Sim shook his head. "But I suppose you also have friends that bring you hangover miso soup." He thrust the package at Cyrano. "They made it how you like, two raw eggs on top."

"You're a saint," Cyrano said, unwrapping the bundle and grasping the steaming soup with both hands. He grimaced and then drank right from the bowl, upending it near the end to get the last of the liquid and tofu. He let the bowl drop and sighed. "Or you should be sainted, if the Dynasty did things like that. Go to Company space, they have those kinds of religions there."

"I'll need to be content in watching you suffer and know I am the wiser man," Sim said. "What of last night? What happened with my young cadet friend, if you can remember the details."

"The cadet? Ah... the Hunter!"

"The what?"

Cyrano smiled, waving his hand. "The women I was with, they were more sympathetic than I was. He was too shy to tell them his name, so they named him Hunter. He was hunting for love, you see. He left with some idea of proving himself at the tournament today."

"Sometimes the best tactics are still the classics," Sim said. "Though if he hasn't spoken to her, it may be hard to prove that any of his victories are for her sake."