Durandal

“Would you tell me why I was sent out here, truthfully?” Caius stood in front of Julius in the clinic. Not a soul other than them and the resting Angelica, “I was sent out here to die, wasn’t I?”

“Believe me, boy. If you were, you wouldn’t be here talking to me right now.” There they stood, glaring at one another, with Julius towering over the boy, as if to look down on him. Caius backed down, and breathed out, “There were some miscalculations on my part. For instance, I never counted on the fact that you would be beaten oh so easily like that by Rex.”

“Rex was something else, uncle. There was something about him that’s hard to explain. An aura of reverence. An aura that you give out.” He was throwing jabs at nothing, justifications course through his head, the rex had to be better than them. There were no faults in their procedures, in their tactics. They were merely one-upped.

“I see. Well, you’re alive boy, and that’s what matters. You can still fly, how about Megalos over there?” Julius gestured over to the resting Angelica.

“Her wounds have healed but she still needs plenty of rest. The rations have been steadily running out so, unless your carrier bought any, we have to force her home.”

“Worry not about rations, boy.” Julius tapped on Caius’ shoulder, “We have aplenty, she’d be fine in no time. As for you. Come with me.” Julius lit up his cigar and dragged Caius out of the clinic.

“Where’s Agrippa, by the way?” Caius hadn’t seen his friend since the battle, and from the radio earlier he didn’t really know whether or not his fate ended well.

“He’s over there.” Julius pointed over a tent they walked across, from the inside he could hear the guttural screams of Agrippa being treated. Perhaps prosthetic therapy was really that stressful on the human body. But Caius knew Agrippa could survive that. He has to.

As they walked across Haytham, Caius noticed that it was being gradually rebuilt by the Antediluvian soldiers that Julius took from across the galaxy. He questioned their loyalty, but knowing his uncle. They probably served him from their entire life, that he’d only use him to justify and expand his goals, that they didn’t care about it.

They approached the port where several carriers are docked, apart from the X4-10s, there were other jets parked on top of it. Beside the port was a clearing made in the span of a few hours, though it’s easily done due to the fire that engulfed the entire south side earlier. In this clearing they made a makeshift dirt runway, Caius realized then. Haytham was just another Reichsstadt in the making. This was base number 2.

“The plan is simple from here on, the Sakilo-Jawani forces, at least from the limited information we’re running with, seems to be running on empty in regards to manpower. It would be easy to grab hold of the Amazonias then.” As they walked through the hangar, several jets took off from the makeshift runway, apart from reconnaissance, they also did exercises as Caius watched.

“What’d be my role then? I’ve no jets to fly, they shot down my San-40.” Caius lamented his plane, it was the first one that was truly his, after all.

They stopped in front of a hangar, it was the only one in the entire airfield whose shutters were closed tightly, there were doors beside it that the two entered. Inside were a dozen or so engineers working on a plane. It had a somewhat old-modern design, reminiscent of the ancient aircrafts that Caius saw in his photo books, “Bit of a classic to work with, but it works wonderfully. Variable swept wings, twin engines, thrust vectoring, it has all the speed and maneuverability you need. And I know you love those, boy.”

Caius gawked at the magnificent plane in front of him, as he touched it he could feel the weight of the aircraft as he flew it through the skies above. It was light, very light, so light that it felt like he was floating in the air. Yet it remained so fast that he could outrun, or chase any enemy that may encounter him. It was perfect for him, so perfect that he could already feel his heart pumping just by touching its metallic exterior.

“Tis’ all yours, boy. But we haven’t really decided on a name for it. Now, don’t get me wrong, it is the first of its kind but that doesn’t mean we haven’t tested it out. It’s the result of hundreds of years worth of R&D and flight data from three different empires…” Julius went on and on about the plane.

“I’ll name it, Durandal.”

“Durandal? The sword, Durandal?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a fitting name.”

*

Michael von Kaiser walked through the empty streets of Marthusia, looking for a place to find meaning, all of which were killed with Theresa, all of which were missing with Caius. The cigar smoke and the vapor of warm air amidst the cold snowy night covered his vision. Yet through the mixed fog, the neon street light of a nearby bar glowed violently. One wonders how such a religious empire would allow such bars to exist, but such wonderings were beyond Michael’s mind.

Coming out of this bar, drunk out of his mind, was Derek. He stumbled along the sidewalk before he noticed Michael, “Yo.” Derek raised his hand towards his friend, “They set me up for failure with the colonel position, damned bureaucracy.”

Michael rushed over to his friend’s help as he was about to collapse from the alcohol, “Let’s get you back in.” They entered back into the bar where he dropped Derek onto a couch. From there, his friend reminisced upon his life all the while vomiting down buckets.

Within hours, Derek was teary all over, dying from the alcohol and the disappointment wrought upon him, “I wasn’t even put in the frontlines!” The entire frontline was decimated but Michael didn’t mention that, “What’s the point now?”

What’s the point? That was exactly the same question Michael asked to himself, if there was any meaning to his fighting, if there were any, he wanted to know, he wanted to hold onto that belief. Concrete or abstract, “I’ve been trying to find it myself.” Replied Michael.

“Is that so, huh?” Derek slumped back and looked at the ceiling, deep in thought before closing his eyes, “If only there were no more wars, wouldn’t you say so, buddy?” It was ironic, at least, to Michael. Considering both of them profited from war, although he understood. He understood too well.

“I wish there weren’t any more.”

“Aye.”