Epilogue: But Don John of Austria Rides Home from the Crusade

“The agreed-upon indemnity has been paid, and will be happy to work with the new government in Havana going forward. In addition, we will be compensating the United States government for the accidental damage to their Guantanamo Bay facility, and replacing Captain Rafaela Hoffmann as our primary Duelist pilot. As painful a blow as this might be to certain national interests, I would sooner suffer these forgettable indignities than the loss of life an attack on Californian Mexico would inflict on the greater Colombian people. I would maintain that the Treaty of Budapest is working as intended, and would encourage all civilized nations who have not already to become signatories. Some have come to me with questions about dissolution of certain detention facilities remaining from the Bolivian war, the restoration of certain properties seized from the Catholic Church or other religious institutions, or a transition to a multi-party system. The matter of the labor camps, I intend to resolve quickly, and the others will be taken under the careful, deliberate consideration they are due.”

–Sancho Castro Lopez, General Secretary of the Communist Party of Gran Colombia, in his acceptance speech for the office. November 7th, 2033.

Chris buckled in for a commercial flight from San Francisco to Havana, one of the first in many years, and braced himself to entrust his life to another pilot. Not that he himself had flown much for awhile; his beard was as long as he had ever grown it. Though very few facial hair styles were off-limits to officers of the samurai caste, with its symbolic association across cultures with warrior-nobility, he had always stayed clean-shaven before Project Lepanto, to maintain a tight seal on his flight helmet's oxygen mask. He grew it out when he first switched to from a Ki-16C to the Don Juan, shaved down to a moustache when he flew the mission to extract Jen, and had let it grow back since.

As he turned from the window, that year of growth might have been why the two men filing in beside him had to stare for a moment, before his name came to the taller white man's lips.

“Herr Chrisopher?”

“Otto. Shinzo. it's been a moment, hasn't it?”

“I see the good general has not managed to get you killed in a training exercise.”

“Not for lack of trying. Since you flew back to Austria, I’ve spent most of my time training backup pilots. I see you survived Australia, Shinzo.”

“Yeah, they’re some good cu- fine fellas.”

“What brings you two back to San Francisco, and then from here to Havana?”

“Well, after they finished building a second Don Juan class Duelist, they started looking into trying a new design, or maybe a scaled-down version of the Duelist concept, a sort of infantry power armor. They wanted our creative input. Then the king of Cuba reached out to us for a consultation. They’re starting a Duelist program of their own, and I guess we’re the experts on these things now. Is that why you’re going? Ol’ Fernando snipe you?”

Chris shook his head. “This is pleasure, not business. Although… my compulsory service is up soon. General Earp might offer me another promotion if I renew, but I need to weigh my options.”

“Problems of being born into a warrior caste, Chris. You know what I think you should do?” Shinzo glanced around the cabin of the taxiing aircraft furtively, before going on in a whisper. “I think you should make a bid for the Shogunate.”

“My clan name isn’t Date, Shinzo.”

“Did having the wrong surname stop Ashikaga? Ishida? Bonaparte? Chris, what’s the title of Otto’s monarch?”

“Kaiser.”

“Which comes from?”

“...Caesar.”

“The Roman Republic was no longer up to the tasks before it, and a patrician house rose which was, without once stopping to think whether some republican tradition or the blood of the old kings gave them that right. We’re entering a new era, Chris, and not everybody is certain the old Shogunate, staid as it is in its ways, is up to the task. You’ve already proven yourself as the champion of the entire Californian people, and what is a ruler but first and foremost a protector? Take California by force of will or force of arms, and the Emperor won’t dare deny you the title.”

“I’m a warrior, but that doesn’t make me a leader.”

“You’re already a mentor, practically a father, to a new generation of Duelist pilots.”

“A handful of soldiers is not the same as millions from all walks of life.”

“Every great man has to start somewhere. Think on it.”

Then, as if Shinzo had not just made a suggestion that might have gotten him beheaded had it fallen on the wrong ears, Chris and the engineers spent the flight to Havana catching up, then went their own ways when they touched down in Rancho Boyeros International Airport. Chris found two attendants waiting for him in sharp business dress, a porter and a lady-in-waiting in the service of Princess Alicia. He was driven away past cars still largely cobbled together from 1980s gasoline-powered Soviet guts inside of 1950s American bodies, though a few silent hydrogen cars made in California by Japanese companies marked the beginning of a change. The change was more acutely represented when they pulled up to the Royal Palace, formerly the Palace of the Revolution. The original edifice was of gray bricks with a portico of square-sectioned pillars, a cold brutalist mockery of the neoclassicalism other government buildings in the Americas were wont to embrace. Little of that was visible now, as the structure was being plastered over in whites, yellows, and bright blue-greens at once evocative of some of the great palaces of Europe, Versailles and the Romanovs’ Hermitage, and better complimenting Nature’s cheery shades around this tropical seaside city.

Inside, Chris was led to a breakfast nook, where an extravagant brunch and three figures awaited him. He recognized Jen and Alicia, and with them was a sharp-eyed middle-aged man in a blue suit, with a bolo tie bearing the insignia of the Order of the Golden Fleece.

Chris prostrated himself as he would to his Shogun. “Your Majesty.”

“Join us, Don Hernandez.”

He took a seat next to Jen, who slid a hand around his upper arm. He slipped a thin scarf, still faintly smelling of hot metal, into her lap. “It is so good to see you again, Chris.”

“It’s too bad we couldn’t make it happen sooner, but at least, as I understand it, your new employers have been keeping you busy.”

“When we finish it, the Leviathan is going to be a magnificent Duelist. I don’t think we’ll surpass the Don Juan de Austria, but I believe we are on track to equal it on a fraction of the budget.”

“Captain Hernandez,” the King of Cuba cut in, “I must admit, while I am happy to help you resume an abortive courtship, I have an ulterior motive for bringing you into my home. I have two proposals for you. In the short term, if your government will agree to lend you for a time, I should like your help designing the pilot interface for the Leviathan, from your experience piloting the Don Juan. Beyond that, I’ve been led to understand your service is up for renewal within the year. If you will humor my first request, I would have you consider, during your stay in Cuba, the prospect of becoming my vassal, on the fulfillment of your present obligations. Guantanamo Province is in need of a marquess, ideally one who already has the respect of the Americans, and it is fitting that such a lord pilot our Duelist when the realm is threatened.”

Chris’s breathing went hoarse. First Shinzo’s suggestion, then this offer. He looked in Jen’s eyes. If they did have a shared destiny, as every aspect of her body language suggested she believed, then a landed title in Cuba was the safest way to make that happen. But, of course, a Shogun’s order could end her exile. Of course, he was visiting to feel that out farther; he hadn’t resolved to put a ring on her just yet. Maybe he would find that the princess across the table, or someone else not yet known to him, was a more seemly match.

He looked down at the eggs on his plate. Maybe it would be better to put fame and importance behind him. He was from the bottom rung of the Empire of Japan’s warrior-aristocracy, and had done more than his fair share already to serve his lord and country. Maybe the answer was to take Jen and run off to some beachfront property in Jamaica or Florida. He doubted, however, that he could escape the myth that had grown up around him entirely. Winning the Duel against the Colombians made him a first, and such a record could not, by its nature, be usurped by another.

He looked out a window, where past the rooftops of Havana the Straits of Florida yawned warm and blue. Perhaps he should be grateful that he had the luxury of such a choice, and that history would remember him, whatever he did from here. But that thought did not make the choice any easier.

He looked to King Fernando. His eyes had some softness to them yet, but the weariness he had once noted in his Shogun’s eyes was beginning to creep into them. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

He looked at the Golden Fleece represented on the king’s collar. A symbol both of the pagan hero Jason and of Gideon, a judge, prophet and war-chief of the Israelites. Chris had a heroic mantle on him now, like a fleece about his neck, but not so easily removed. No, he was still called to something greater. But to what, he would have to wait and see. It would be made clear to him in time.

He smiled. “I am honored, Your Majesty. I shall consider your latter offer, but let us indeed not get ahead of ourselves. Tell me of the Leviathan, and of your kingdom, and the fruits of your victory and mine. Cuba has many challenges ahead of it, I am sure, but for the moment, its future seems bright.”

THE END