Bayonetta leaned in toward the portable holographic projector and, unable to help herself, reached out to tease the palm-sized projection. "You look absolutely adorable like this, my dear little boy." Her tone, as always, was intimate. The hologram of Solomon Damonet was Thumbelina-small—any random toad could have scooped him up. He was bent over, fiddling with something; the scanner rendered it faithfully, but the model was so tiny that even with her glasses on she couldn't make it out.
"When are you coming home? The Cheshire Cat is already complaining she's been stuck babysitting." She poked a finger at Solomon's ghostly cheek, as if that would jog the memory of a lover far away. "I think the Cheshire Cat's mental health needs watching."
A little girl in shark pajamas shot past the study like a gust of wind, short legs churning so fast they blurred. She barreled down the corridor like a chubby cannonball, giggling, with a gray short-haired cat sighing along behind her—the Cheshire Cat would pounce before the girl could crash into a vase or sculpture, bite the pajamas, and drag her away from danger. Solomon looked up and set his work aside; only then did Bayonetta notice it was a Guardsman helmet taken apart to a mess—he looked to be doing a manual upgrade. There were also some disassembled firearms on the desk, explosive-tipped rounds, and a few blades; far-off engine noise rolled into the mic like a chorus, and she could almost smell the tang in the air before a great battle.
Solomon's expression turned teasing. "Hers or yours?"
"Both," Bayonetta admitted cheerfully. She plucked a piece of Turkish delight from the gift box in front of her and took a bite. "But thanks to the sweets you sent, we can table that." The witch wore a Grecian-style white dress; fine gold accents trimmed the gown enough to keep it from looking plain. It was an afternoon-tea outfit, casual in theme, nowhere near as lavish as what she wore outside.
She already knew what Solomon was about to do; it's not as if she hadn't read The Unified Truth—she and Jeanne had even handled the errata for the Italian and French editions. She could understand the goodwill that bled through the book and see the necessity in the dark prophecies for what Solomon was about to do, but that didn't mean she was willing to join the war he would unleash. Her one demand of Solomon was that he come home for dinner tonight and do his duty as a husband. So far he'd done quite well—no matter how busy he was, he worked to create a warm family life.
Bayonetta figured that was good for his mental health, too; on this front she was domineering enough not to let anyone interfere. When even Constantine tried to talk her into giving Solomon more office hours, all he got for it was two hundred handgun rounds punched into the same spot on his helmet, until even he had no temper left. She knew Solomon wasn't truly cold-blooded; otherwise he wouldn't have saved so many lives in war zones. Bayonetta knew he was human—with human flaws and virtues. But when necessary, he would sacrifice those lives without hesitation to wring out their greatest value; it was hard to say anyone understood the misery that lodged in his heart.
Solomon smiled and shook his head, offering no answer. Instead, he set about reassembling Hammurabi's Honor Guard helmet.
He added retinal projection to the AR HUD so that even with the visor damaged the helmet could still faithfully display the power-armor computer's telemetry. The prototype in his hands would soon be issued to the other Honor Guards as standard. Hammurabi and Constantine already had their improved helmets; only Suppiluliumas, being in South America, would have to wait for the next resupply to get his.
Solomon expertly assembled his signature bolt pistol, then stuffed every .75-caliber, solid-rocket-propellant armor-piercing round on the table into a thirty-round mag. This ammunition, which relied on the intense heat generated by micro-fusion and composite-material warheads to inflict damage, had been a hit from the moment it debuted. When the Latovinian regulars initially faced a disadvantage against light armor, it was the Undying City-supplied heavy bolters (.75 caliber) that salvaged the fight.
Even as follow-on armored units gradually made up the deficit—and more and more Latovinian youths entered armor schools for short courses and got hands-on with laser and plasma weapons—the bang-bang of the bolter remained, to many soldiers, the strongest weapon of all. Even now, with a few idiots lying in field hospitals thanks to injuries from ignoring procedures and misusing heavy bolters in training, Latovinian teenagers' enthusiasm hadn't dimmed in the slightest—because they'd seen bolters peel open the steel hides of heavy armored cars bought by the Latovinian royal family with laughable ease.
"Show me your office today." Bayonetta accepted the hot coffee the maid brought and motioned to Solomon. "It looks different from yesterday."
"Of course, of course." Solomon racked the bolter and hung it at his waist, then stepped out of the tent. Bayonetta's gaze tracked with the portable holographic projector as he moved. When Solomon lifted the flap, the camp's racket washed over him. Tracked APCs rumbled back and forth past the lines; dozens of self-propelled guns had their barrels trained in the same direction; more tanks were warming their engines. Oily black smoke rose in the distance, and the wet dirt threw back the sky's chalk-white light—not all of this armored force belonged to the Latovinian regulars. Much of it had been shifted to the northern line, under Constantine's command, to brace for NATO's attack.
"We pushed to fifty kilometers from the capital today. Tomorrow we launch and take the city—everyone's getting ready." He pointed at the castle spires on the horizon. "Victor von Doom is negotiating with the royal family now, pressing them to evacuate civilians from the city. But I don't think it'll go well. The royals are using civilians as hostages and dead-set on dragging us into street fighting."
"What are you going to do?"
"Constantine's on the northern line. Hammurabi and I are enough to settle this." Solomon returned the warm greetings from the logistics crews passing by and neatly sidestepped a goose that charged his boots. He'd joined the war three days ago; with his help the Latovinian regulars had seized the villages around the capital at speed. Many soldiers had watched him, bolter and sword in hand, take point and clash head-on with the royal tanks—many figured he was a dead man. But when they entered the village, all they saw were tank carcasses scattered everywhere, with Solomon sitting beside the burning wreckage, yawning.
Beside him had been a ferocious goose and a large gaggle of rescued, panicked civilians.
Latovinians had also taken to the Honor Guards quickly. Some even thought the Honor Guards were stronger than Solomon, because the towering Guards wore high-tech power armor and looked far more imposing than Solomon, who stood only a bit taller than an ordinary man. They hadn't yet seen Solomon armored up; the warlock doubted anyone would dare call out to him when they did—armored, he was taller and mightier than the Honor Guards. A touch of magic took his strength to another tier; he figured even the Hulk wouldn't be able to match him in power armor.
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