Isabella adjusted the loose-fitted cuffs of her shirt, gave her rapier a final once-over, then stepped forward. In front of her stood Raphael Lorenzo de Antigua, patrician of thirty-four years and a loudmouthed, ignorant, backwards-thinking bastard. "Aren't you glad I chose blades, rather than bullets? Just think, I could have shot you dead already, but instead you get a chance to reconsider!" She swished the blade lazily through the air a few times, trying to convince herself to be cockier than she really was. Raphael was not going to go easy on her, so she would not be able to go easy on him.  

This whole duel was not even remotely what she desired. A way for her to pointlessly die before her twenty-fifth birthday? Yes, that was precisely what she loved to do, yet the blaggard had ended up so incensed by her that he had thrown down the glove, and she would have looked terrible to refuse such a challenge. For the umpteenth time she sized him up, their eyes meeting for a brief moment, all three suns staring down upon them.

"On this day, the eighteenth rotation of the third quarter, Anno 300, Patrician Isabella Maria Rodriguez de Lobasla, defending herself against Patrician Raphael Lorenzo de Antigua. The fight will end when one fighter is incapable of defending themselves. May the saints grace you, and may the fight begin." The mediator bowed and took a step back, leaving the two with only air between them.

A bead of sweat slipped down Isabella's face as the pair rotated around each other, cautiously. She had the longer reach with her rapier, but Raphael's sabre was not to be underestimated. She kept him at arm’s length, the pair stepping back and forth slowly, neither one willing to commit... Until Raphael darted forward, sabre held high. Isabella raised her blade up and lunged forward, steel clashing against steel as the point of her blade was deflected away. Before she could strike again, the sabre came across, the woman throwing herself back to avoid its razor edge. 

Then forward again. She took the initiative this time, darting forward and thrusting out low, towards his stomach. Raphael side-stepped, then returned with an overhead. She brought the blade up, the sabre skidding off the flat of her rapier, then riposted. Raphael moved to the side and twisted his hand, the guard of their sabre failing to purchase on the thinner rapier blade. So as to not lose tempo, he followed through despite the failed grab, his sabre sweeping against her sleeve and [i]snicking[/i] the fabric in two. Unperturbed, Isabella pushed forward, her blade finding a significantly juicier target in his forearm, where it slid cleanly in and out.

To his credit, Raphael didn’t make a sound despite the blood staining his shirt. The two fighters moved backwards, Isabella flicking her rapier to get rid of any large droplets of crimson, then tightened her footwork up again and prepared herself, just in time for Raphael’s next assault. This time, the man attempted to get in close, past her guard, bringing the sabre down and towards her shoulder blade. A flick of her wrist deflected, but then before she could counter-attack, he had stepped in, her rapier finding itself uselessly shoved to his side. 

She lashed out with her foot; Raphael moved out of the way. He attempted to grab her hand, she smacked it back. He put more pressure on his sabre, she reached up and grabbed a hold of it, wrestling with the man for control of his blade. Just as it seemed she might win control, he rapidly retreated, taking his sabre with him. By now, the superficial puncture had thoroughly soaked his shirt, a few drops penetrating the fabric and falling down to water the grass below the pair.

Again, they matched against each other. Again, metal clashed, ripostes and counter-ripostes failing to make any dent in the other’s attack. Were they both equally good, or were they just both horrendous fighters? Who could tell anymore, the heat and intensity having brought beads of sweat to the skins of both duellists. 

For the fourth time the duo circled each other. A quick thrust by Isabella was sidestepped, a wild swing from Raphael left unpunished. Then, quite unexpectedly, Isabella darted forward, driving her rapier towards him hard. He just barely avoided it- earning himself a tear in his shirt to match hers, but her aim was not to hit him with the thrust, but instead to get in close enough to grab his forearm.  Distracted by her blade, he failed to react in time, and she managed to twist his arm about and pull his sword out of position, bringing her rapier across for a finishing cut.

Astonishingly, he caught it with the blade of his sabre, the rapier a hair’s breadth from slicing his neck open. Frowning, she hammered her head forward hard, the brow of her head impacting hard with his nose. Reeling backwards, the sweep her rapier made was practically lazy compared to the tight swordsmanship displayed before, but it didn’t need to be sophisticated. Her rapier sliced through his skin and thin layer of fat, lodging itself between his ribs and somewhere deep within his lungs. As quickly as she had lunged in she retreated, drawing her sword out and slicing through quite a bit more of the man. A laboured breath of his caught and turned into a gurgle, the man’s hand coming down quite automatically to clutch at his side. As medics rushed forth to aid him, Isabella planted the tip of her rapier in the ground and delivered a final line. “Let this… be a lesson… to the remaining De Antiguas that would think your behaviour appropriate.” 

One of the assistants by the duel handed her a bottle of coffee-flavoured re-hydrating solution and she sucked it down eagerly, finally handing her blade off and walking towards the changing room she had emerged from not ten minutes ago. She had been asked to model for charcoal artists at the Academia el Arte Lupata, and she didn’t intend on being late just because of a little thing like a duel.

[hr]

[i]You got your warform needlessly damaged.[/i] The technician looked at the machine, frustrated.

[i]I ‘got’ satisfaction from it. It wasn’t needless.[/i] Eta-Theta joined them, looking down at their new form. After the gunfire it had taken it was in bad shape, metal twisted and servomotors misaligned in unusual and strange ways. [i]And it’s given me ideas.[/i] Their left arm reached down and picked up their damaged right, before rotating their forearm around 360 degrees like a bizarre fan blade. [i]We’re already pioneering new warforms. Let me design one myself.[/i]

A brief vote was held in the Collective. A custom-made warform was not an unusual request, and truth be told there were some in the Consciousness that had recognised Eta-Theta’s slightly concerning behaviour and actively encouraged it. They were in a war for survival- an unhinged terror weapon was now a benefit, not a disadvantage. So it was that Eta-Theta got their desire, and a new form was manufactured for them, in the foundries of Elysium-Alpha.

It was… Morbidly beautiful. The warform had been designed for stealth, manoeuvrability and speed over strength or durability and tapped into the uncanny valley wonderfully well. Their limbs were just slightly out of proportion to the human average, silhouette just a tad too thin and gangly. Their face split the difference between emaciated and a skull, a sunken, hollow, matte-black thing that stared out with haunting red eyes. It was entirely naked, choosing to internalise weaponry and carrying systems, and when Eta-Theta took control of its motors, it felt like slipping into a well-worn set of shoes.

[i]We’re positive it’s the same ones that terminated my original body.[/i]

[i]Absolutely. Perfect match.[/i]

[i]Well then. I’ll give them a warm Zetan welcome.[/i]

[hr]

Isabella’s jetbike thrummed as its magnetic fields were pushed to their limit. She flicked her boots back, the heels coming down on the thruster controls and toes curling to tap the boosters into activation. Her speedometer crept up despite the inclination, until at last she was level with the island, easing the boosters off and gliding down. As her bike’s magnetic fields were pulled in by the lodestone’s attraction, she choked the electromagnets, finally touching down onto its surface cleanly. In front of her, on the hazy horizon of the Lupatan sea settled the second sun, the first having already completed its descent over this part of the planet. 

She reached into a pocket, settling side-saddle on her bike, and retrieved a fat, heavy, pungent-smelling stick. [i]El Verde Verdugo,[/i] pricy, skunk-like, [b]strong.[/b] She fixed one end in her mouth, wrapping her lips around it as she brought her lighter up. There was a quiet [i]whompf,[/i] then a soft crackle as she breathed in.

The smoke filled up her lungs with a rich warmth, slowly spilling out into the rest of her upper body. Isabella let her eyes unfocus, affixed on some distant point on the horizon far beyond even the remaining two suns. It was easy to do- the heat coming off the water sent up a screen of hazy mist that practically invited one to rest one’s eyeballs on it.

So much to consider. So much had happened. Even without the duel and her new orders, there was the matter of their fourth sun: the gateway that had opened. Soon, Matuvista would establish formal relations with the other colonies, assuming they had survived, and then nothing would be the same again. It was quite the exciting prospect to consider… Or, she could let herself be washed away on waves of curling smoke.

That second one seemed like a much better prospect right now.

[hr]

Alfonso listened to the messages slowly, then repeated then again, just for good measure. ‘The Meeting Place,’ a diplomatic space station. That made sense with the readings they were getting- so many different ships, and what little they’d seen of the station itself made it seem like a hodgepodge of different systems all stapled together. It was a miracle life support functioned at all. The ‘Earth Cultural Union’ was a peculiar name for a nation, yet… He was here to explore, learn as much as he could, and report back. He had to admit though, ‘United Columbian Republic?’ Now, that sounded quite like quite the right-thinking group of individuals.

“Fetch me my full-dress uniform. My sword and my cap as well.” He turned to follow the plebians as they scurried to do his bidding, situating himself in his quarters as the various elements that made up his uniform were delivered to him. Some might have thought him slightly ridiculous like this, but in the eyes of the Grand Republic, only now was he really properly dressed.

Gold epaulettes, a rich blue jacket, blindingly bright white trousers, white gloves, black boots, a golden belt, his sword, his bicorne, and, of course, a complement of medals and honours adorned his chest. To the trained eye, it spoke of a wound taken in combat against the Yyasum, an award for valour, the ownership of his second vote in the Lower Senate and the participation in an interplanetary campaign. To the untrained eye, it was somewhat over the top.

La Introducción sailed into the Meeting Place calmly, airlock affixing itself and adjusting to scale. Straight back. Eyes forward. An honour guard of plebians stood on either side of Alfonso, boots and caps polished until they gleamed and rifles held at parade-perfect angles. “Excellente.” The patrician nodded. “Remember what Condel Julianus said- we are representatives of the Grand Republic! Act accordingly.” A curt nod to his men, and then the airlock door hissed open, and a Matuvistan boot touched the Meeting Place for the first time.

“Hail!” Alfonso said dramatically, a small microphone in his collar serving double-duty to broadcast the sound back to the frequencies that had signalled to La Introducción as it had entered the system, and also boost the volume of his words now, in the confines of the ship. “I am Alfonso Leoncio Alvarez De Caravajal, patrician, officer and formal representative of the Grand Republic of Matuvista, reporting by the benediction of the saints and on the order of Chancellor Julianus de Aquilius and the senate. Never before has your sight been graced by our presence, and never onwards shall a brighter beacon shine!” Was it boastful? Yes. Was it dramatic? Yes. Was it perfect? [i][b]Yes.[/b][/i]