By Michael Collins

 

 

Chapter 1 – The end . . .

 

Both of the AC s spun in a graceful pirouette, before igniting the overboosters and charging in.  Both AC s feinted before spinning back at one another.  Slash parry, slash slash, parry, an observer might make the mistake that he was looking at something fighting it’s own reflection.  But there were no observers, not up here.  The battle had been underway for several hours, and the sun was crawling up the landscape to welcome the dawn. 

The opposing pilots – wordless screams of primal anger racking them – performed endless master techniques on one another – while simultaneously blocking the other. 

On the ashen ground there lay weapons – long since discarded from lack of ammo or damage.  They spun in again; sabres whirling in a complex pattern, and then broke apart again, circling one another warily.  Both AC s were heavily scarred, and were down to beam sabres and laser rifles.  A really keen observer would have noted that neither had fired for some time, and were probably saving the remaining charge for a certain shot.  The overboosters flared again, and on wings of light the AC s roared toward on another again.  Both slashed, both parried, pushing each other off balance.

Seeing the opening they raised their rifle and aimed at the cockpits.

Neither fired.

Both knew that this was the end – there was no drawing in this situation – a direct hit to the cockpit with a modified karasawa would vaporise any pilot, but whoever fired first would certainly be incinerated in the retaliation.

“Kanto, this is it.”

“It would seem so – rookie”

Moments passed.

“Bugger”

“Yes, I know”

More time passed.

“Couldn’t we . . .”

 

“No.”

“Just a thought”

Thunder rolled in the distance.

Both AC s jumped to the side and fired all of their remaining charge.

Both AC s hit.

Both AC s tumbled to the ground.

Both AC s were still