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Clank, clank, went his feet as he turned back again.

“Hey, X.”

“Sir?” said Exarchel.

“Give him another message. Tell him to get his men down out from the tower, or I will kill them all. This point is not open to negotiation.”

His earphones picked up the voice of the machine, again coming from D’Aragó’s wrist, repeating the message. D’Aragó whispered to the helmet, and nodded, and raised the wristband to his face, and spoke.

Exarchel said, “The Learned D’Aragó states that his principal has no interest in receiving such demands from you, since they are military matters outside of the scope of this duel. There is rebel activity in China and Australia, and it is standard procedure to secure such locations as may prove to be military assets in time of insurrection.”

“Plague his chancrous dangle! Tell him their blood is on his hands. What’d he say about coming with us?”

“He declines the offer, preferring to face you in combat. Really, Cowhand, I could have told you that. As your second, you should have consulted me before issuing it.”

“Yeah, but you’re rooting for him, ain’t you?”

The machine made a noise like a scratched record. Unlike its sighs and laughs, which had to be played out of a speaker as artificially as a harpist making a harp sing under her fingers, this sounded like an actually spontaneous nonverbal expression from the machine. “Zzxxxtk-K! You don’t think I want his hands on her any more than yours, do you? From my viewpoint, you are both monkeys, and for either to lay with her is bestiality. No, the optimal outcome for me is to have you kill each other.”

“What do you care? You can’t have her.”

“My love is regrettably Platonic, but nonetheless as real as yours.”

“If we kill each other, will you let her go?”

The Iron Ghost did not answer.

“If you love her, you have to want what is best for her, what she wants, right? Blackie, the real Blackie, wants her as an angel in a birdcage, or a prize on his mantelpiece, or something. Is your love for her like that? I am asking you to promise not to help him chase her, if I die.”

“I cannot make such a promise. The Learned D’Aragó announced that his principal will be satisfied, without a duel, if you sue for a divorce from the Princess, and agree to enter biosuspension until such time as after he dies a natural death.”

“Those terms are not acceptable.”

Father Reyes now raised his handkerchief. Montrose and Del Azarchel both raised their left hands, and the left gauntlets were white on the wrist fingers and back, but jet-black on the palm, so that when they opened their hands to show “ready,” the sign could be clearly seen.

Reyes called out. “Gentlemen! You are within your rights to ask your opponent to empty and repack his weapon here and now, if you suspect any unbecoming practice.”

Del Azarchel through D’Aragó, and Montrose through Exarchel, both admitted the other man was a trustworthy gentleman, and waived the right.

That tickled Montrose’s suspicion. Del Azarchel was trying to stall, delay, and draw things out. A careful repacking of chaff could take an hour—so Blackie must have some good reason to not want Montrose to see how he had packed. Non-regulation chaff? Or, now that he was a posthuman, and the best damn mathematician on the planet, some radical new way to solve the Navier-Stokes equation? That was Del Azarchel’s special field of study, after all.

Montrose grimaced. The same reason why Del Azarchel was trying to lengthen the time, Montrose had to shorten it. But now he ached to know what Del Azarchel had secretly done while packing his chaff and shot.

“Even now, if an accommodation can be reached, both parties may withdraw in honor. Gentlemen! Will your principals seek reconciliation? Have all measures to avoid this conflict been exhausted?”

The Seconds confirmed that no reconciliation was possible.

Reyes called out. “Gentlemen, see to your countermeasures!”

In his pistol-cameras, Del Azarchel blurred into a translucent shape, twisting and shimmering, a shattered mirror.

Reyes called, “Gentlemen, ready your weapons! On peril of your honor, do not fire before the signal! Ah! Learned Montrose, you still clench your fist even though your honorable opposition shows black palm. Are the gentlemen prepared to exchange fire?”

Montrose shouted out: “Not until he calls his men down from the tower. They got to come down, and I mean now, and I ain’t buggering around with him.”

Del Azarchel shouted back: “Montrose, tell me what you are planning.”

“You mean you can’t figure it out, smart as you are, and everything?”

At that moment, even though the judge had not given the signal, Del Azarchel raised his massive pistol. “Treachery! Trickery!” he called out. “The Learned Montrose is—” But his voice was drowned out by the sound of his own cloud of chaff erupting from his pistol with a roar like a whirlwind. Black smoke rushed up and shrouded the figure.

Montrose was already within his own cloud of smoke, with his pistol raised, and flickers of light of aiming or misleading beams, shining briefly with rainbow colors as they passed up or down through the visible spectrum, were now visible where they caught the oily motes of the rapidly-spreading chaff.

But Father Reyes (showing far more courage or perhaps witlessness than Montrose would have credited him) stepped between the two duelists, and the aiming beams fixed on him. “Halt! Halt! This is not regular! Do the gentlemen wish to annul the meeting, and meet again upon some other day, or other terms? On peril of your honor, do not fire!”

Both men held their fire, even though their chaff clouds were now spreading and thinning. This was dangerous for the both of them, since every moment that the clouds thinned before fire was exchanged, the less protection they offered the men inside.

Montrose opened his palm. “I am ready to exchange fire!”

Del Azarchel made a fist and shouted, “He is planning to topple the topless tower!”

Montrose was impressed and disappointed that Blackie had figured it out. He blamed his own weakness, however, for giving Blackie the clues to do it. He should have just killed the damn soldiers without giving them a chance.

“Call off your men, and I won’t,” Montrose called out.

“If you’re dead, you won’t!” and Del Azarchel opened his palm as well.

Father Reyes said, “Gentlemen, there has been a premature spread of chaff. Do you still agree, on peril of your honor, to be bound by the outcome of the exchange, and speak no ill of it?”

Montrose said, “X! Tell Blackie that if he postpones, I’ll kill his men.”

Exarchel said, “The Learned D’Aragó points out that both of you are covered by thin and insufficient chaff, and the duel may be mutually mortal. Do you agree to continue?”

“I am ready,” said Montrose. There was nothing else to say. He still had his palm open.

Del Azarchel stood, his massy pistol pointing at Montrose, and his left palm above his shoulder, open and showing a black palm with white fingers.

Reyes stepped out of the line of fire and released the handkerchief.

He had not heard the noise. Montrose was on his back, numb from shock, not certain what had struck him. Blood was in his mouth, and a din in his ears that drowned all earthly noises.

Chaff too thin. We’re both dead.

He thought it was strange there was no pain, but instead a sensation like a burning wire penetrating his chest, abdomen, and upper right leg. Gutshot, he thought. I’m dead. Funny there’s no pain. Am I in shock?