Prologue
                If one were to analyze all the books, commentaries, and histories of the Dunamai incidents, one would find that sheer chance played a huge role. How did that bandit just happen to appear and happen to become an enemy of the Dunamai, Emperor Matthew I, and the rest of Earth? One must look deep to find the reasons. But once one does, he can say that the fate of the entire five hundred years laid merely on one day: September the tenth, 2195.
                                                Christopher Glick, Emperor Arthur, Past and Present: A Look at the Dunamai
 
And a light shall lead him
To his destiny
                                                Alinion, in his prophecy to Auntanties Xavior immediately before his death, 4 B.C.
 
            Before stepping out of the black car, the man took a sy­ringe and thrust it into his forearm, wincing slightly, smiling a bit more, and inwardly laughing. He pushed the antivenin through his veins and then drew the needle back out, sticking a small band-aid on the spot. He pulled down his sweater sleeve to cover his arm.
            The man stepped out of his car into the lit parking lot, floodlights posted everywhere. He looked up at the lights for a moment, looking as if tempted to do something. He de­feated the notion and began walking towards the crowd that was swarming around the gates of the Fiat Lux Palace.
            He made it to what he guessed to be a line of some sorts. In it were some of the best and the worst of New London society. There were the few there for the chamber orchestra, others for the rock bands, and yet others for a novel way to become intoxicated - in the emperor's home. "Ha!" one man guffawed to another. "Just wait till my wife finds out I got smashed right in front of Matt's royal highness!" The man from the black car, dressed in black himself, thought the man already sounded a bit more than tipsy; he doubted if the drunk would make it through Fiat Lux's doors.
            It was the tenth of September, the final day of the annual Music Week which reached its rather energized apex at the em­peror's palace. Music Week was one of the emperor's few ways of connecting with the common people of his galaxy-wide empire. Those who were part of the empire's bureaucracy were automatics on the guest list. As for the spaces left over, invitations were sent at random to common citizens of the galaxy to come and listen to music from all over the Milky Way and be treated in royal style, right next to their emperor and his government. If a person on the random guest list couldn't afford a spaceflight to Earth, the government paid their way. The media called it a political stroke of genius, a way for an empire to not seem as evil as empires were made out to be.
            The man in black thought that Music Week was a well planned hoax to soothe the people into serving a slightly tyrannical dictator. Despite his less than rosy thoughts about the emperor, he was there, ready to enter into the emperor's lair as he passed the first line and walked to a dif­ferent entrance of the palace's many. The next one was home to a much better behaved line of men and women dressed in tuxes and elegant dresses. The man in black smirked as he got in line, look­ing out of place with his sweater and somewhat wrinkled slacks.
 
Unknowingly, Brett Avalon, looking out a window four stories above main entrance number three, was agreeing with the man in black. There was no way that a man in a sweater and ridiculously wrinkled slacks could belong in the line for Entrance Three, one of the lines for the socially elite. He pulled a communicator out of his tux pants pocket.
            "Commander Avalon to Entrance Three, over." A pause.
            "E-three responding; Lieutenant Jones here. Whatcha need, sir?"
            "Send an officer to tell the dumb guy in the sweater he's in the wrong line. Get him over to E-two."
            "Copy, sir."
            "Out."
            Brett watched below as a security officer walked out to the back of the line and started talking to the man in black.
            "Brett!" a high but male voice shouted from about ten meters behind.
            Brett quietly swore as he turned around, seeing the conduc­tor of the New London Philharmonic running towards him. "The strings section needs to go over the second movement of Serenista," the conductor said as he waved his arms excitedly. "They have completely lost their harmony, the fools!"
            Brett glanced out the window - the guard and the man in black were still talking - then gave a resigned sigh and walked with Mr. Conductor - what was his name? Jack, Joe, Jim, oh for­get it - to the stage and the piano.
 
            "I waz noot aware that a niece sweater wood pro'ibit the ambossador of Anileron from going to ze great Emperor Matthew's wonzerful music feztivall at this abzolootly fabulous castle - what zid you call it, the Fat Lump? - and I wood ‘ave thought that an invite wood ‘ave zertainly meant zomething, eh, especially to an intelligent ‘uman being guard such azz yourzelf, and I mean, wouldn't you zuppose—"
            "Okay, okay," said the intelligent "‘uman being guard" who, frankly, had no idea where Anileron was, much less what its ambassador looked like. "I apologize, Mister...?"
            "Blackincase," the man in black said with his Irish/French accent.
            "Yes, Mr. Blackincase. You may go in but you will leave your weapons - excluding your sword, of course - at the door."
            "Oh, but, zir, I have told you...you moost understand how incredibly, fantaz­tically dangerouz my job izz and ‘ow many timesz I have been wounded in theze war called politics, eh, and how zure that no matter where I am zere, zere...zere must be zomebody after me, I mean, zir, you must know..." Mr. Blackincase trailed off.
            The intelligent human guard had been defeated once, but would not allow twice in a row. "Yes, Mr. Blackincase, I do un­derstand. That's what we're here for. We are called security guards. We secure your...security. So, you will leave your weapons at the door and your sword will be inspected."
            The man in black looked hurt, but finally nodded.
            "That's the ticket. Now wait in line and we'll get you in soon enough."
 
            "The man says he's the ambassador of Anileron. A Mr. Blackincase."
            Brett sat thinking on the piano bench as the conductor - Jakiah - reprimanded the strings section. Anileron. Quadrant Four of the Milky Way Galaxy. Yan-nee system. Humanoid native species. Barbaric culture...it has an ambassador?
            "Jones?" Brett spoke back into the radio.
            "Aye."
            "Stamp him."
            "Sir?"
            "What, did my radio fuzz out? I said stamp him."
            "I—I heard you, sir, but—"
            "No buts." A pause. "Just trust me."
            "Yes, sir."
            "Out."
 
            The man in black - now Mr. Blackincase, ambassador of Anileron - watched as guards checked papers and invitations and stamped the hand of ambassadors and governors from nearby provinces of Earth and not so nearby planets of the EPS Realm. Read paper. Shuffle paper. Read paper. The process climaxed with an ink stamp on hand, resembling a pass to enter an amusement park. And thus the monotony went on. Read, shuffle, read, stamp. Read, shuffle, read, stamp. Read...
            Mr. Blackincase handed his papers to the guard at the first door of main entrance three. Read. Shuffle. Read...pause. Stamp.
            Mr. Blackincase smiled genially at the guard but his mind was racing.
            They suspect me. Be natural. I belong. I'm fine. If I don't faint they can't stop me. I can't faint. I have the antivenin in me. I'm fine.
            He stopped at door number two and handed over his weap­ons, a MP-20 - a miniature laser pistol, popular among high-ranking officials trying to protect themselves - and his sword, a gorgeous work of engraved metal and whetted alloys. The pistol was tagged and put in a locker; the sword was returned after inspection. Then they frisked him. Twice. They were wasting time and Mr. Blackincase could guess why. The guards shot each other be­wildered looks but had no choice but to let him in, his papers in order, him being completely harmless, and the fact that he was not falling over as Mr. Blackincase feared but had known better.
 
            "Of course he won't be stopped by the stamp. Let him in."
            "But, sir, he must have a plot in mind."
            "I know," Brett snapped. "Which is why we let him in. He's playing games. Let him play, let his defenses go down, and then...strike. According to law—"
            "—Which means nothing to you—"
            "—we can't stop him anyway. And yes, Jones, law does mean something to me, as long as we can use it to our advantage. Otherwise...you know what I mean. Let him in. Surround him with SePo if it makes you feel better, but let him in."
            "Whatever you say, sir."
            Jones sprinted back to his post as the masses began to amble into the concert hall. The elite of the social latter were first, being seated at their respective tables by the attractive hostesses. They soon filled the colossal hall, an auditorium and banquet hall in one monstrously huge and ornate room, decorated with the finest and the most expensive, money seeming to be no barrier at all to the emperor's planners of this bash.
            Next were the common people, the bourgeoisie who wished they were more, and the proletariat who had no idea that they weren't anything less than middle class. They sat in the stadium seating surrounding the tables and circular stage in the center of the Starr Performing Arts Center. Soon, all the people would be seated and the hostesses would begin to serve the meal to the 10,000 plus crowd.
As soon as they started, the emperor entered.
 
            Mr. Blackincase could hear the thunder of thousands of feet hitting ground, could imagine the people rising in honor of their git of an emperor. He began to laugh softly to himself. He zipped up his pants, washed his hands, and exited the Gentleman's Room, walking briskly towards the Starr Center. He met a perky blond named Denise who "will be sitting you right down at the table reserved just for you by our magnificently fabulous protector and emperor, Matthew Dale Bolding." Mr. Blackincase smiled politely and showed her his table number, printed on the invitation.
            By the time he had entered through the single entrance of massive, wooden double doors, the mindless flock had already sat down because the all-powerful shepherd had given the word and commenced his own meal, in his usual style, smack dab in the middle of the hall. The or­chestra had commenced a quiet piece to eat dinner to, the con­ductor in white, and a piano player in a red tux, matching his rust colored beard and hair. The tux had been tailored to show off an already obviously muscular body.
            Mr. Blackincase smiled at the vanity of the head of secu­rity at Fiat Lux, who doubled as a piano player, Brett James Ava­lon. He continued to stare at the well built musician and warrior as Denise sat him at table forty-nine, which already had seven other guests sitting around it. Mr. Blackincase gave his fellow forty-niners a nod and began his meal - ordered in advance - wordlessly.
 
            The crowd finished eating and the real music began. The emperor moved off the stage to a seat at table one, fifty feet from center ring. The man in black stared at the emperor until the lights faded. He then began to look around himself as the violins struggled through some loud concerto. There were six secret police watching him cur­rently: one at table forty-six; a hostess who was keeping busy by talking to a gentlemen at table fifty-two, keeping the man inter­ested by bending forward far enough to let her blouse hang a little off her chest; two others who were acting as security on stage; and the other two were at his very own table forty-nine. They were quite easy to point out, at least to watchful eyes. Each had three things in common: thin eyebrows, a mustard stain somewhere on their dress shirts, and moles behind the left ear; easy enough for an infiltration expert.
            He glanced at his watch, waited for the perfect moment, and then,
            "Oh! I'm so sorry. So clumsy. I wasn't thinking...let me go get a hostess," said Mr. Blackincase, without accent, to the man next to him who, at the moment, didn't look too pleased due to the water freshly spilled onto his lap. Mr. Blackincase got up and walked to the hal­ter topped hostess at table fifty-two. "Excuse me," Mr. Blackin­case said politely, "could you please stop showing off your breasts and clean off table forty-nine?"
            The SePo agent shot up and smacked Mr. Blackincase across the face. "How dare you!" she bellowed. "In all my time, I have never, I cannot believe...you—" She froze as people turned to take a look-see. "YOU!" She said again, this time with a tone of realization. "You are under—"
            Whatever Mr. Blackincase was under never was discov­ered because her attempted word turned into scream - something like "arreahhhhh!" - as quite suddenly the power surged, the concert speakers screamed their high pitched whines, blew, and then bel­lowed two hundred decibel white noise at the crowd, the lights shone bright and then—
            Darkness.
           
            Brett shot up from the piano just in time to see a shot of white laser come from...well, he didn't know where it came from, but he knew what direction it was heading.
            Table one.
            He yelled into his comm over the din of screams and yells from the crowd. "Code Red!" he shouted. "Enemy in the palace! Surround the grounds! Flood Starr Center! I don't want anybody or anything leaving this palace!" Several more laser shots. "And get me a med team!"
            Brett thanked God for generators as a dull yellow light appeared from somewhere; he then sprinted in the direction of the white lasers. He quickly surveyed the hall, sprinting to he didn't know where, looking at the general area of table one, but he couldn't see the emperor because of a large swarm of people hovering around the spot. Not a good sign, Brett thought to himself. He looked at the doors of the Starr Center, but once again to no avail: people we're rushing out as fast they could, and the shooter of that weapon - however it got in the castle with "Blackincase" - had surely already blended in with the hysteria.
            "Commander Avalon!" his comm blared a female voice.
            "Here. Speak fast."
            "It was the man in the black sweater, our supposed Mr. Blackincase. He was right next to me, the shots were fired from where he was, and when the lights came on...gone."
            "Lock down every room in the palace!" Brett shouted into the radio. "I repeat, total lock down. No exceptions." He ran to the doors of the Starr Center and ordered the guards to lock them, to allow only staff and the med team in. As he ran off towards the lobby of Fiat Lux, he heard the boom of the gigantic doors closing into the place and the subsequent yells of people on the other side.
            To add to the chaos of the hundreds of people yelling and shouting and trying to make their way out of the palace through elevators and stairs and escalators and a couple young idiots try­ing to jump off banisters - maybe they were just having fun - the P.A. system blared on.
            "Can I have your attention please?" The crowd gave a re­sounding "no" by way of continuing to shout and yell and point and scream and sprint in all the wrong directions. The attempted pleasant male voice plowed on through the madness anyway. "The castle is currently in a state of lockdown. You cannot leave the castle, so please sit down where you are and wait to be ad­ministered to by the staff of Fiat Lux and EPS representatives. The situation is currently being taken care of."
Brett laughed bitterly to himself as he fought his way through the throng of panicked souls. Situation being taken care of? We don't even know what the situation is yet, but it's being taken care of. He shot down a winding stairwell, the elevators still busy with the disobedient people. He was in a hurry to the get to exits, not even stopping to help the lady he knocked down; she should have sat still. He came to a stop on main level - the lobby - and darted into the pillared vestibule. His eyes hurriedly scanned the crowd; but to look for a man out of hundreds was ridiculous. He had a flash of an idea. "Control," he shouted into his comm, "the surveillance camera. Give me whoever was watching Mr. Blackincase."
A pause. Static. "Sir," a panicked voice said, "every­thing's...blown up. The power surge fried our wires. But, but...let me look...yes! I just got a report by SePo that says he was near the Throne Room."
Brett raised his eyebrows, gave a thanks to whoever he was talking to in Control, and sprinted towards the Throne Room. He threw open yet another large door and sprinted carelessly in.
 
Bam! Brett flopped to the ground with a resounding flump against the gold flooring.
"Not so tough in person, are you, Sir Avalon?"
For a response, Brett leapt to his feet and pulled a four foot sword from its sheath on his left, brandishing it at a Mr. Blackincase no longer dressed in slacks and a sweater, but rather a outfit looking suspiciously like Zorro, hat, mask, and all.
Mr. Blackincase followed suit with Brett, pulling out his own sword, slapping it against Brett's. Brett bowed ever so slightly and then charged forward, sword at an angle, then coming down on the Zorro look-alike. Mr. Blackincase ducked, hopped, and then came down, crouched, swiping at Brett's feet. Brett jumped evasively at an odd angle, landing on the floor with his rib cage for a cushion. He let out a slight groan but made his own slash at Mr. Blackincase's ankles. Blackincase jumped, flashed a smile, and gave a swish of his cape, as if tempting a bull.
Brett took the lure and charged a second time; the two men clashed their swords furiously against each other in the golden Throne Room of Emperor Matthew. They flew across the room, flinging the stainless alloy blades as fast as they could at their respective enemy, each time looking for a fleeting moment of vulnerability, a second of defenselessness, but each time the sword was blocked by the other, a blow turning into a clang and an echo in the room.
Brett swung at Blackincase's sword with full strength, half-way knocking it from its owner's hand, but Blackincase re-gripped, switched hands, and again smiled cunningly at Brett. Brett was not daunted though, as he tried again, looking like Babe Ruth swinging for the bleachers. The swing hit home, chucking Blackincase's sword to the floor, leaving a long scratch in the gold tile. Brett took the sword and aimed for the neck; he swung...
A fire erupted in Brett's chest as another white laser came from Blackincase's eyes, violently blasting Brett to his posterior. A look of utter surprise swept across Brett's face, a look of triumph on Blackincase's, as those eyes again glowed an eerie black and shot a second laser at Fiat Lux's head of security. But Brett's reflexes caught up and his hand shot up just in time to morph itself into a blue shield, flinging the laser back at the man in black. The man ducked, shot Brett a look of bewildered panic, and ran as Brett collapsed onto the ground, the effect of the first laser finally doing its job on Brett's body. Brett heard a crash of glass, a laugh, and a man's running footsteps disappear into silence.
 
More footsteps. Two voices. Man. Woman.
"Who was that?"
"What in the Throne's name happened?"
"Commander Avalon?!" a panicked voice. "Sam, help me get him. He has a burn on his chest. Oh my..." The lady turned away.
Sam took the torso; the lady gritted her teeth and took the legs. Step, step, step. Creak of a door. Step, step, step. "Get him to the med center, quick," someone was telling someone else. "I think he got hit full force with a laser."
"How the he—"
"I don't know, blast it! Just hurry!" Brett's body was moved to what felt like a stretcher.
"I know," a voice rasped.
"Don't talk, just concentrate on breathing," a female voice said.
"No," Brett said anyway. "Tell the emperor...tell the emperor that our culprit is Blackbandit." Brett couldn't see but could imagine the confused faces looking at each other. "Tell him that the Übermensch Force has come...has come to Earth."