Michael Thomas - Gates of Cilicia

The two young men moved quickly to avoid the weapons of the training automatons. Though artificially created, the creatures looked like a man and moved with the skill and grace of a dancer. Even so, the two young men were just as fast. Wearing nothing more than their training tunics, they were completely exposed to the curved blades and spear points of their opponents. Gryllus and Eustathios were almost indistinguishable from each other. Both of the brothers were dark haired and fit from months of training. The only discernible distance was their height; Eustathios was a fraction shorter and slightly broader at the shoulders.

“Now!” cried Gryllus.

They jumped forward and ducked passed the machines. The four automatons stabbed with their spears, but the boys were too fast. The first was cut down, three slashes that removed a leg, arm and finally a head. The final three stepped back and aimed their weapons at the boys, keeping them at a distance. Two stabbed at Gryllus, and he managed to sidestep them, but only just. One of the tips grazed his cheek, but he was able to cut down to remove the arms of the machine. It slumped down to its knees and deactivated.

“Move back!” shouted Eustathios.

He didn’t even wait, knowing full well his brother would do as asked. His blade swung and cut into the fallen automaton and removed its head. The two remaining automatons dropped their spears and drew a pair of blunt training swords to match the boys. Both were curved and about a metre long. One hacked away while the second stayed close, waiting for a mistake by either boy. Gryllus parried attack after attack, but the machines were too quick for either of them to counterattack in time.

Eustathios stumbled and fell to the floor, and one of the automatons broke ranks to chase him. It was a simple trick and easily spotted by a human. These automatons were nothing like the artificial life used by the Empire as workers. These were stripped of all but the most basic routines to make them useful for combat training. Anything more would encourage the possibility of revolt, and something the Laconians had learnt long ago, much to their cost.

Eustathios rolled to his side and then slashed out at the automaton. From his low position, he easily cut through the ankle. The strike sent the machine to the floor only to be followed up by Gryllus. Eustathios jumped up and joined his brother for the final blow.

“Nice work,” exclaimed Gryllus with a cheeky grin.

“Enough!” called out the old man that watched from the safety of the balcony.

The automaton instantly shutdown and gave the impression of a lifelike statue in the gymnasium. The two boys looked up to their father, disappointment in their eyes. He looked down and smiled.

“You have both done well. These automatons are expensive, and I have no doubt you would have eliminated the last as quickly as the first. You will practice against a new trainer tomorrow, a live Terran trainer from old Laconia. He will hone the two of you into formidable warriors. For now, rest yourselves, you have a big day ahead of you.”

Two servants helped Xenophon to his chair at the side of the gymnasium. His body was old, yet his muscles were firm and his face bright with life. At one hundred and seventeen years old, he was no longer a young man. Yet in an age where a man’s life could be extended to nearly double that, he could still feel the aches from him numerous old wounds. As he sat down, he rubbed his right hand, the numbness in the knuckles still bringing a little pain. Bizarrely, he smiled at the feeling.

“What is it, Father?” asked Gryllus, his youngest son. He was confused at his mixture of pain and enjoyment. Xenophon looked back, unsure as to what he was referring to.

“What do you mean?”

“What are you smiling at?” he asked again.

“Ah, you boys remind me of my youth. Glaucon and I used to train very much like you two, before the war with Laconia.”

The young boy looked confused, scratching his chin. There was something about his tone when he mentioned Laconia that sounded sarcastic. His father said nothing more though, so he picked up his training sabre. It was a basic design with a simple hilt and long curved blade. He used it often during his training and had performed routine maintenance on it over a number of years. He held it out in front of Xenophon.

“Why did you train with weapons like these then?”

“Ah, I see,” replied Xenophon. “You don’t understand why we trained to use close quarter combat weapons when we had access to much more powerful weapons. That is a good question.”

He adjusted his position, making himself more comfortable.

“Back when the Alliance still existed, some of us trained for all kinds of combat. There are times you might be forced to fight when you’re unarmed, and other times you might have to fight with a knife or blade. Our first real battle at the Cilician Gates involved a great deal of bladework.”

Eustathios wandered over and sat down next to the two of them.

“Only some of you trained? Not all soldiers?” he asked, now interested in their conversation.

“No, very few did outside of Laconia. It proved useful in our dealings with Clearchus and the Ten Thousand though,” he said, smiling to himself.

“The expedition against the Medes?” asked Gryllus.

Xenophon nodded slowly at them both. He moved his hand in a gesture that brought up a map of the star systems nearby. He was about to speak but turned back to them, noticing their confused expression.

“Of course, that was well before you two were born.”

He looked back to the starmap.

“Not many talk about it now, except for those that are still alive that took part. We were the first to discover the rot at the heart of the old Median Empire.”

He brought up an image of a battle filled out with dozens of warriors engaged in a violent firefight. Both sides were armoured, but one group was very different to the Terrans. Whereas the humans wore armour that shared much in common with archaic human armour used back on Old Earth, the Medes were very different. Taller, more slender and wearing close fitting body armour, they looked both alien and elegant. One had his helmet removed, and it showed off his long hair and almost elfin facial features.

“Recognise the artwork?”

Gryllus spoke first.

“The Battle of Plataea, where the Terrans allied for the first time to fight back the Medes.”

“Father, of course we know the image. It’s one of the most famous pieces of art still left from the wars.”

Xenophon smiled at them both, pleased with their knowledge and interest in the subject.

“Our old rivals and most bitter enemies. None of that would have mattered without one particular decision. In this case, the last one ever made by the Terran Alliance and its much vaunted democracy.”

Attica, Capital of the Terran Alliance

“Today we choose to go to war then?” asked Xenophon, with more than a hint or sarcasm to his voice. His old friend Glaucon tried to respond but was drowned out by the roar of six Thunderbolt fighters. The heavy fighters flew over the city, leaving a trail of vapour and smoke behind them. It was a show of force by the Alliance military, and more than likely a reminder as to which way the public were expected to vote. Xenophon smiled inwardly, lowering his gaze to the people and the exquisite buildings.

“Come on, we have work to do.”

Glaucon glanced at his friend, recognising the keenness to vote. They shared much, but a view on politics wasn’t one of them. He followed Xenophon to the entrance of the main buildings and stopped when they reached the guards. The Prefect of the Inner Ward stood nearby with his symbol of authority, a centuries old glaive. The old-fashioned polearm weapon was a relic from a long bygone era, and one of just a handful remaining. It consisted of a single-edged blade on the end of a pole and was encrusted with precious stones and metals. Two guards stood by in full Alliance military uniforms and cradling standard issue pulse carbines across their chests.