Chapter 1
A Gentleman of Leisure
Peering northward through the dust and smoke of the battlefield, Eddy Lancaster couldn’t see any movement, but the enemy was still out there, and he was sure their final assault would come soon. He double-checked the battle-net to see who was left. The prognosis was grim; more than half of his ten-man squad had been wiped out, including the captain. He was now in command of the four remaining.
Staying as low to the ground as he could, Eddy cautiously crawled back down the berm he’d climbed to engage in his reconnaissance. His three comrades were huddled together in the trench below, waiting for him.
“Anything?” someone asked. It was Winston Fullbrook, whom Eddy had known since primary school. His face was partially concealed by his helmet and protective eyewear, and there was dirt smudged on his cheek.
“It’s quiet right now,” Eddy said, “but they’re coming. It’s only a matter of time.”
“What are we going to do?” someone else asked. The question had come from Nigel Deering, a mate of Eddy’s from his university days. He crouched down, facing up the trench, and had his laser at the ready. “We’re outnumbered.”
“Indeed,” Eddy said. Their previous assault on the enemy position had gone badly. The enemy had lost a few of their number in the skirmish, but not enough to even the odds. “But I think I have an idea.”
“Well? Let’s hear it, then, Lankster,” Jason Darby said, impatiently. His battledress tunic was covered in dust. “We can’t bloody well sit here with our thumbs up our arses!”
“That’s Acting Captain Lancaster to you, you knobhead,” Eddy said with a grin, “and I was getting to it if you’ll let me finish. Everyone go to the battle-net and check the map.”
“Alright,” Winston said. “What are we looking for?”
Eddy tapped at his wrist-top display with a gloved finger. “We’re here,” he said, drawing a circle around their position on the map. “The enemy is off over here somewhere. I couldn’t see any movement, so I don’t know for sure where.”
“We should fall back to the bunker,” Jason suggested. “It’s the most defensible.”
“No,” Eddy replied. “There are at least three ways they can attack the bunker. We can’t properly defend it with just the four of us.” He circled another area on the map, a convergence point of the trench network. “We should make our stand here.”
“Why there?” Winston asked.
“All of the trenches converge on this one point before splitting off again. The walls there are too high for them to climb over. The trenches here are narrow, you can barely fit two men shoulder-to-shoulder. They’ll be bunched up and won’t be able to take advantage of their superior numbers.”
“Brilliant,” Jason said, “except for one thing: they could just cross over the top, bypass that spot, and catch us from an elevated position.”
“They could,” Eddy said, “but I don’t think they’ll risk it, for the same reason we won’t: there’s almost no cover out there. We could easily pick them off from afar, and they know that. Their best chance of success is to move down through the trenchworks. They’ll be expecting us to fall back to the bunker, and we might catch them unawares. If we split off into two, two-man teams, here and here,” he said, indicating spots on the digital map display in everyone’s goggles, “we can catch them in a cross fire. Then, we retreat back this way, through the trenches. One man provides cover while the other moves. We can take up secondary and tertiary defensive positions here, here, or here,” he said, marking more spots on the map. “In these places there will be cover for us to utilize, whereas they’ll be exposed. Thoughts?”
“That does sound reasonable,” Nigel said.
“Agreed,” Winston said.
“It’s still a long shot,” Eddy said, “but I believe this is our best chance.”
“Well, I believe we’re all going to get slaughtered,” Jason said, “but you’re probably right in that this is our best chance.”
Eddy grinned at his mates again. “That’s the spirit! Let’s get moving, lads, time is of the essence!”
The four-man rump squad split off into two pairs and headed toward the designated ambush points. Eddy took Nigel and headed for the southwestern exit from the trench convergence, whereas Winston and Jason went to the southeastern one. The convergence point of the trench network was an open area maybe ten meters across. It had three entrances on the north side but only two exits on the south. There were ceramicrete barriers of different heights staggered along the trenches near the convergence.
“Get into position and take cover,” Eddy said, quietly, into his helmet’s headset. “Don’t fire until I give the command, unless they spot you first. We need to let as many of them get into the kill zone as we can. We have one chance to catch them unawares.”
“Roger,” each member of the squad said, in turn.
“In position,” Winston said. “Standing by.”
Eddy and Nigel were ready, too. Nigel, being a short fellow, was crouched behind a chest-high ceramicrete barrier. Eddy, at 185 centimeters, positioned himself behind a narrow barrier that was as tall as the trench was deep. He peeked around the cover while exposing as little of his face as possible.
Seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Sweat trickled down Eddy’s face from under his helmet. After a minute or so, he began wonder if the enemy had decided to go over the top after all. Then, through the omnipresent dust and haze, he saw movement. “Enemy spotted,” Eddy whispered into his headset. “Steady, lads, let them get into the open.”
One enemy trooper appeared first, then another. Cautiously, lasers up and at the ready, they moved into the convergence of the trenches. Like with Eddy and his squad, their helmets covered their heads and ears, their eyes hidden behind protective smart goggles. Each man wore a bulky haptic feedback suit with hard armor panels attached, and each was armed with a stubby laser.
There was a real danger here, Eddy realized. If they sent two men ahead to check the exit points before bringing the rest of their squad into the open, the ambush would likely fail. He was counting on them being overconfident and assuming that his squad had retreated back to the bunker. “Come on, then, come on,” he whispered aloud. “All of you, show your pretty faces.” A third man followed the first two, then a fourth, then a fifth.
“Bloody hell,” Nigel whispered.
“Steady,” Eddy said again. The fifth man entered the trench intersection. On the feed from his helmet camera, Eddy couldn’t see any more of them. It was now or never. “Open fire!” he shouted, leaning around the barrier he was hiding behind and bringing his laser to bear. They made a loud, crackling sound as they fired, their beams incandescent and blue. The enemy squad counterattacked, charging Jason and Winston’s position. Two men hung back and poured suppressing fire at Eddy and Nigel in a flurry of red beams.
The enemy was caught in a fatal funnel, however, and had no cover. Eddy squeezed his laser’s firing stud again and again, and the enemy troopers fell. It was all over in a matter of seconds.
Eddy looked over at Nigel, who grinned back at him. The two enemy troopers he could still see were down and the shooting had stopped. “Well done, lads,” he said into his radio. “Check in.” There was no answer. “Winston, Jason, report.”
The radio was silent. Eddy and Nigel looked at each other for a moment and began to press forward. They moved slowly and steadily, keeping their lasers at the ready, and entered the trench intersection. Hugging the south wall, they turned for the southeastern exit, where Winston and Jason had been. Near the exit another one of the enemy troopers was lying on his back, incapacitated and barely moving. Eddy could feel his heart pounding as he neared the corner.
Leaning to his left, he peeked around the corner. He barely had time to lurch back behind cover as he was met with a barrage of red laser fire. “Fall back!” he said to Nigel. “There are three of them left!” He kept his laser trained on the southeastern trench exit as he backed his way toward the southwestern one.
“Eddy, look out!” Nigel cried. He turned just in time to see his friend struck by multiple lasers. The shots had come from above! As Nigel dropped to his knees and laid on the ground, Eddy raised his laser to the top of the trench. Two enemy troopers were up there, crouched, lasers at the ready. Before Eddy could return fire, red beams struck him in the chest and helmet.
Barely able to move his legs, his laser rendered useless, Eddy sat down on the ground, laid back, and stared up at the sky as his vision went dark.
Words appeared in his smart goggles. YOU ARE DEAD. SQUAD WIPE. RED TEAM WINS. GAME OVER.
“Well, cock,” Eddy said, unfastening his chinstrap. He sat up and took his helmet off. With the helmet’s smart goggles removed, the digitally rendered dust and smoke of the area was gone, revealing a lovely spring day.
Nigel appeared and offered Eddy a hand. “Ah, no worries, Lankster,” he said, helping his friend up. “It was a good plan. We were just too badly outnumbered.”
The five lads from the opposing team gathered together as Eddy’s friends did the same.
“What happened?” Eddy asked.
“When we started shooting, I got one of them,” Winston explained, “but his mates tagged me right away.”
“Then it was two against one,” Jason said, “and they charged me. They came around my cover and zapped me before I could even get my bearings.”
“And then two of them appeared topside!” Nigel said.
“How were there seven of them left?” Jason asked.
“I’ll tell you how, lads.” It was one of the gents from the opposing team, Jeremy Bennington, his name was. He was a tall fellow, with broad shoulders and black hair. “We ambushed your assault on our bunker from two sides, same as you tried to do to us here, except our plan worked. The other six members of your team didn’t know what hit them.”
Eddy checked his wrist-top display. “We’re scheduled to play you fine gentlemen again in two months.” He looked up at Jeremy, smiling. “We’ll see then if your luck holds.” The opposing team was from The Garrick, a gentleman’s club from New Bristol. They were in a friendly rivalry with The Cheshire Club, to which Eddy belonged, but he wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction of being a sore loser. Instead, he offered Jeremy his hand.
Jeremy took it and shook it, firmly. “We’ll see you next time, then. Good game.”
“Good game!”
The Cheshire Club
Mayfair District, Drake’s Landing
Albion Prime
Later that afternoon, Eddy and his mates had all retired to the Cheshire Club to clean up, relax, and have dinner together as a group. The club was, in Eddy’s opinion, the finest such gentlemen’s social club on Albion Prime. That was a matter of opinion, of course, and Eddy would be the first to admit his own bias, but there was no other club that he would rather belong to. It wasn’t the oldest club, nor the wealthiest, nor the most prestigious. The Cheshires counted amongst their number no eldest sons from prominent families, and few of them had gone on to be notable statesmen or captains of industry. Lucrative professional connections were rarely made in the club and, in fact, matters of business and politics were rarely discussed at all.
That was rather the point, so far as Eddy was concerned. Every member of the club was a Peer of Albion, and almost all of them came from prominent families. The active membership was young—the oldest current member was Francis Darby, aged thirty-one local years (or thirty-nine Julian ones). Despite being the third or fourth sons in most cases, such young men often had great expectations placed upon them, by society at large and especially by their families. The Cheshire Club was a refuge from all that, a bastion of joviality in a world that took itself entirely too seriously.
The clubhouse was four-story building on the corner of Dover Street and 12th Avenue in the Mayfair District. Mayfair was one of the older parts of Drake’s Landing, the capital city of the Albion Commonwealth, and the architecture of the district reflected that. The clubhouse was originally an administration building for the young colony, a role that befitted its original bland, utilitarian construction. Beneath the much newer and more aesthetically pleasing exterior facade was an imposing structure of alloy steel and self-healing ceramicrete which had weathered centuries of continuous use. The interior had been completely renovated, of course, and was now luxuriously furnished, but the building itself had stood for nearly three hundred local years.
Showered, refreshed, and wearing his favorite dinner jacket, Eddy joined the other lads in the dining hall. It was a large, rectangular room, with floors made of native hardwood and lit by ornate chandeliers. At the head of the room was a large fireplace beneath a broad mantle of wood and stone. Hanging above the mantle, mounted on the wall, was the club’s crest. At the center of this crest was the grinning Cheshire Cat, a character from an ancient Earth fable, who the club was named for. Purple in color, it possessed luminescent eyes and an unnaturally wide, mischievous grin. Above it, in Ancient Latin script, was the club’s official motto, Laetitia et Fraternitas, which translated roughly to “mirth and brotherhood.” Below that, in Terran Standard English, was the club’s unofficial motto, “What’s the worst that could happen?”
In the middle of the dining hall were several banquet tables, each nearly five meters long and made of native Albion oak. There was enough seating there for the entire membership of the club, though it was rare that every member would be able to attend a given event. These group dinners, usually held on Fridays, were often a raucous affair; the employees of the catering company which serviced these meals had long since learned to be on the lookout for flying rolls and the occasional sword fight with table knives. They were good sports about it all, though, and the Cheshires paid them well for their services.
Eddy sat at the ends of one of the tables, next to Winston, Jason, and Nigel. The first course of the meal was, in keeping with Albion tradition, very simple. It consisted of nothing more than a flavored ration bar, sealed in a wrapper, and a bottle of purified water. After this was served, before anyone ate, the Cheshires bowed their heads and recited a prayer:
“Lord God in Heaven, Architect of the Universe, we are grateful as we pause before this meal, for all the blessings of life that You bestow upon us. We thank You for delivering us safely across the stars, and for providing us with this pristine world on which to live. Through toil and struggle we strive to honor You by transforming it into the very image of Earth. Bless this gathering and let us be grateful for the bounty that You have provided. In Your name, amen.”
With that, everyone consumed their small ration bars, drank from their bottle of water, and conversations erupted anew throughout the dining hall. No electronics of any kind were allowed during dinner. The catering company was chosen because it was a local, family-owned business that didn’t use robots to prepare or serve the food. As rowdy as things got sometimes, there was to be no profanity at the table, and everyone was expected to dress properly for dinner. The discussion of politics and business was strictly prohibited; breaking this rule was a sure way to get bombarded with bread and crumpled napkins.
The main course tonight was a beef roast with vegetables, and Eddy thought it was delicious. The wine was of an excellent vintage and washed the food down nicely. Everyone was in good spirits despite being defeated by The Garrick that afternoon.
“You had a good plan today, Eddy,” Nigel said between bites of roast. He was a stout, handsome fellow with copper skin and black hair. He was fairly short, at only 175 centimeters, but was one of the most athletic men in the club. Like most of the Cheshires he wasn’t in any rush to get married, but it was known that several bachelorettes from eminent families were vying for his attention. “I mean, it didn’t work, but it was the best chance we had to salvage the match.”
“I was skeptical,” Jason said, pausing to sip his wine. He was the virtual opposite of Nigel in appearance. His skin was fair, even more so than Eddy’s, and he was a little on the chubby side. The youngest of four brothers, Jason had outraged his family by breaking off his courtship of Daphne Winthrop after she told him she didn’t like dogs. “As usual, my skepticism proved correct. I expect you’ll apologize for calling me a knobhead?”
Eddy grinned. “Of course, of course. Jason Darby, I, Edwin Danforth Lancaster, hereby apologize for saddling you with the incorrect and mean-spirited label of knobhead. After much consideration I have determined that you are, in fact, a bellend, and will address you accordingly.” That got a laugh out of everyone.
“You know, Lankster, you really did do well today,” Winston said. Possessed of a freckled face and curly red hair, Winston and Eddy had grown up together. The Fullbrook family had expected him to become a doctor, like his older brother, both his parents, and his grandfather. Instead of medicine he’d opted to study computer science, and while his family had come to accept it they still weren’t pleased with him. “You should talk to Chuffy about taking over for a match or two, see how you do.”
Winston was talking about Rodney Chuffnell, the current captain of the Laser Battle team. “Oh, I don’t think so,” Eddy said.
“Why not?” Nigel asked. “You do well under pressure.”
Eddy chuckled humorlessly. “I assure you I don’t,” he said. “In any case I’m content with where I’m at. Say, Nigel, how’d your date with Felicity Byng go?”
Nigel was always eager to talk about women—the attempt at changing the subject worked. He agreed with the lads that he’d come up with a good plan, but Eddy didn’t think he was up for being team captain. There was more to it than last-ditch contingency plans. In Eddy’s experience, every time he found himself getting a little too cocky, things had a way of blowing up in his face. Chuffy was a good captain, despite that day’s defeat, and was a natural leader. Eddy didn’t want to let the club down by taking over for him and failing. He was, as he’d told his friends, quite content where he was at.
After dinner, the Cheshires dispersed throughout the clubhouse to engage in the evening’s activities. Many were just there for the company, enjoying the opportunity to spend time with their friends in person. Others broke off into groups to play games, smoke cigars, or have a few drinks down in the club bar. Eddy was tired after the match, though, and declined the invitation to the bar. He instead found himself alone in a small study on the fourth floor, one of his favorite places in the club. It was a quiet reading nook with a large bay window overlooking the street.
Eddy took his jacket off, sat down in a plush, comfortable chair, and kicked his feet up. In his hands was a book, an actual, physical, paper-and-binding book with a leather cover. Hard copy books weren’t exactly rare on Albion Prime, not in the modern era when there were forests to harvest for paper products, but they tended to be a niche product. Many people were of the opinion that real books were little more than pretentious, archaic novelties, status symbols for the wealthy. There were those who enjoyed collecting and displaying them without ever reading them, which admittedly was pretty pretentious.
Eddy loved reading, though, and he took particular pleasure in reading a physical book. While the methods of producing them had changed, the general layout of books was the same as it had been some sixteen hundred years before, when Johannes Gutenberg invented the printing press. For Eddy, there was something timeless about holding a book in your hands; the sensation of the pages between your fingers as you turned them over, and the feeling of community that came with knowing that countless other readers had done the same thing with the same book.
The work he’d chosen, Plain Tales from the Hills, by Rudyard Kipling, came from the club’s library. Eddy had been slowly working his way through the collection of ancient stories as time allowed. A proper education on Albion Prime included reading the classics of the Ancient English Canon. Eddy found much of it dreadfully dull, but the words of writers like Kipling, Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis always spoke to him. He was grateful that their work had been preserved when so much of humanity’s pre-space culture had been lost to history.
He was about to begin reading when he realized that he hadn’t checked his messages in hours, not since arriving back at the club. He stood back up, walked over to the coat tree, and reached into the inside pocket of his dinner jacket. Grabbing his personal codex, he returned to his seat, propped his feet up again, and looked down at the device in his hands. As he hit the release, the device automatically scanned Eddy’s face to verify his identity. The two halves of the codex slid apart and locked into place, revealing a transparent screen between them.
There was one unread message from his Aunt Deidre, his late father’s elder sister. Eddy sighed. He was about to close the device and go back to reading, but hesitated. Perhaps it’s just a dinner invite, he told himself. He opened the message and his aunt’s face appeared on the display.
“Edwin, my dear boy,” she said. His aunt was a refined woman who was always careful to look her best, even for a video call with her nephew. Her hair was done up in a neat bun, and she wore a bit of makeup. “I’m sure you’re busy with your friends so I’m leaving you this message. I have exciting news! I caught up with my old friend Honoria Stanley-Stark. You’ve heard of the Clarington Stanley-Starks, haven’t you?”
Eddy hadn’t heard of them.
“Of course you have,” Deidre insisted. “Her youngest daughter, Stephanie, just graduated from Exeter University and is back at home.”
Here it comes, Eddy thought, glumly.
“She’s a few years younger than you, but Honoria tells me she’s sensible and mature. She graduated with honors from the College of Music! She plays the violin!”
“The violin,” Eddy said, unenthusiastically. “Splendid.”
“Honoria and I think you two might be a good match.”
Eddy frowned. And there it is.
“I admit, the last date I arranged for you didn’t go so well, and I’m sure you’re tired of my meddling, but…as a favor to me…would you consider taking her out? Perhaps a nice picnic luncheon? I hope you will, because I told Honoria you would. I mean, I couldn’t very well turn her down, could I? She would have been offended.”
Everyone’s opinions are considered except mine, Eddy thought.
The video recording of Deidre smiled. “Humor your poor old aunt just one more time, won’t you? Here, I’m sending you a photograph.”
A picture of a girl appeared on Eddy’s screen, then. “You must be Stephanie,” he said, studying the image. In the photo, she was dressed in a black, floor-length dress and was holding her violin. She had brown hair which was done up in an elaborate braid. Her eyes were big and green. She was beautiful, Eddy thought. His aunt was a sly one. What man could turn down a date with a lovely young woman like that?
But then Eddy remembered the last date Deidre had set him up on, with Piper Sutherland. Piper was beautiful, a tanned goddess with long black hair and a perfect figure. She was something of a famous fashionista on social media, with hundreds of thousands of fans and followers amongst the Commoners. Eddy had spent most of their date taking pictures of her, at her insistence, for her photostream. She was nice enough but had been more concerned with impressing her audience than impressing her date. In any case, Eddy had no desire to be involved with a celebrity like that—the thought of having his life planned, recorded, edited, and put on display for the whole world mortified him.
There was no reason to assume Stephanie Stanley-Stark was like that, but there were plenty of other things that could go wrong. Comely young women from wealthy Peer families had no shortage of suitors and Eddy found the courtship game dreadfully shallow. Aunt Deidre meant well, but Eddy didn’t want to go on yet another blind date. They gave him anxiety and always seemed to go poorly. He couldn’t just refuse to go, though. Well, he could, but he really didn’t want to embarrass Deidre or offend the Stanley-Starks.
It would serve them right, he mused, for volunteering him for something without asking him beforehand. That wouldn’t do, though. It wouldn’t just embarrass his aunt, it would embarrass the whole family. The Lancasters were well-respected and highly thought of, and he didn’t want to stir up drama for everyone. He needed a tactful way out of this. He’d have to remember to ask his man Mason about it—he always knew just what to do in these situations.