"The DropShips?"
"Lost."
There was a pause. He imagined the speaker at the other end of the link hurriedly consulting with confederates. Or perhaps staring into space with thoughtful focus.
"Revert to status one," the voice said at last. "Resume normal activities. You'll be contacted when option two initiates."
Without bothering to acknowledge, he broke the connection. Inserting a band of thin metal into the credit slot, he ran a trickle charge through the 'phone's memory core. All evidence of the call disappeared. Resetting the machine to standard operation, he let himself out of the plastic booth.
"Everything okay at home?" Cambridge asked.
Bailey gave his stocky supervisor his best brave- through-adversity smile.
"Everything's about as good as we can expect," he said.
37
Ishiyama Arena
Solaris City, Solaris VII
Lyran Commonwealth
11 July 3136
The noises of the stone-walled 'Mech hangar echoed around him as Tommy hung back, watching Jazz wish Yulri luck in the shadow of the Black Hawk. No deep kissing or anything, in fact they didn't touch. But the way her body yearned toward him was embarrassing. Sweet, in a way. But sad, too, when you considered the Clanner didn't have a clue what to do with honest emotion.
He was vaguely aware of Jackson Silverlake beside him. talking. Canid had subcontracted the primo 'Mech customizer to give Yulri every edge today. Like that was going to help.
Silverlake was a large man. Not fat, not muscular, and not particularly tall, but something about him filled whatever space he occupied with presence. Right now he was also filling the space with words, nattering on about the job he'd done. Tommy tried to make appropriate noises at the right times.
“Your man Yulri's choice on the ER PPC and large pulse laser—classic combination of alternate configs A and B—is solid," Silverlake was saying. "Long-range punch may be a bit counterintuitive in the tunnels of Ishiyama, but keeping away from a melee 'Mech with a thirty-ton advantage is always sound tactics. But dropping the jump jets is the real genius to this setup."
"Herbert Jordan drives the UB variant of the Neanderthal, standard weapons mix," Silverlake said. His eyes never stopped roaming the Black Hawk, inspecting every line and joint. "One autocannon, one standard PPC— and the hatchet, of course. But what he loves are the two SRM6s. Even dropped a double heat sink to add a ton of missiles. He's a master of using them in confined areas: the scrap yard, the factory, and of course these tunnels."
Tommy nodded and hmm-ed.
Today had taken a while to set up.
Not Yulri going up against Herbert Jordan for a slot in the top tier going into the championships. That had been inevitable since his narrow victory over Petrovitch. (A Maelstrom had no business jumping.) The championships were still five months away, but getting into the sweet sixteen by midsummer meant a fifty percent boost in endorsements and a free pass through the first three elimination rounds.
But pairing this evening bout up with a high-profile night match for Jazz and her elite scrapper team—that had taken some juggling. And pulling in a few favors.
After that footwork, suggesting the scrapper squad come along to watch Yulri from the owners' box had been easy. Bringing along their van, packed with all their gear, had solved the logistics problems. Plus, after his win, Yulri could unwind watching Jazz and company take down the top-seeded Wraiths Stables' scrapper squad. The stage was set for a pleasant evening of kicking butt followed by a double victory party lasting into the predawn hours.
"Freeing up those two and a half tons boosts the Black Hawk's advantage." Silverlake proudly pointed out details on the BattleMech that meant nothing to Tommy. "Two extra double heat sinks means your man Yulri fires long-range bolts all day long and still needs a jacket. And an extra half ton of antimissile rounds takes the shine off Herbert's joy."
Tommy shared a meaningless chuckle and stepped off, headed for Jazz, now alone in the stone hangar.
The chain ladder was at last wound into the cockpit. The Black Hawk came alive, the body canting forward that few degrees that announced a live pilot aboard and ready for action.
Tommy put his arm around Jazz's shoulder in a fatherly fashion and led her toward the elevator to the owners' boxes. She was one of the few women short enough for him to pull that off; most times he felt like a kid reaching up to hold on to mother.
The owners' boxes were simple four-by-five-meter rooms with one long wall entirely devoted to holovid displays. Canid didn't have its own box, of course, but was renting one of the "generic" boxes available to smaller stables. This one was laid out very like the Sportsmen's Club, with comfortable chairs on risers facing the display.
Small talk in the box was light and general, the scrappers ignoring the commentators ("Right you are" Dave and Gwen) explain the complexity of Ishiyama Caverns. The exact extent and layout of the tunnels under Stone Mountain were closely guarded secrets, so there would not be an overall display showing the relative locations of the combatants. Viewers would see the match via hundreds of pivoting holovid cameras positioned throughout the caverns, remotely aimed by operators in Central Control.
Tommy was struck by the similarity between this arrangement and the Black Hills Urban Combat Zone. Ttoe first time and the last time he would see these two fight would be on holovid feeds from inside the action.
Dave and Gwen agreed their way through a summary of the sort of booby traps and obstacles—physical and electronic—the MechWarriors would have to contend with in addition to each other. They just had time to squeeze in a sixth recap of the importance of this bout before the starting horn sounded.
The conversations around Tommy faded as the Canid scrappers got their first look at Herbert Jordan's Neanderthal.
The 80-ton hulk filled the tunnels, its broad, stooped shoulders gave it an apelike mien; or that of a troll. One almost expected its melee weapon to be the thighbone of some gigantic beast, though the uranium-edged hatchet was imposing enough. Herbert was going to have to be wary of headroom if he intended to swing that thing.
Starts at Ishiyama were notoriously dull—or fraught with suspense, depending on the watcher's perspective. The contenders entered separately, with a general idea on how to find their opponent. Both were hunters, but metal-heavy walls, electronic noise, and projected false sensor images made contact as much an issue of luck as tracking skills.
With ebullient accord, Gwen and Dave filled the time explaining the point handicapping involved in a medium BattleMech engaging an assault, confirming for one another that it was possible for the Black Hawk to be destroyed and Yulri Wolf still declared the winner. Unless, of course, he made several piloting errors or was otherwise disqualified. Interestingly enough, while the bulk of the betting centered on how long the smaller 'Mech stayed viable, there were a significant number of people betting on Yulri making a clean win—carrying the points and disabling Jordan's Neanderthal.
Tommy sighed.
On the split-screen display, Yulri could be seen making casts down side tunnels, evidently trying to catch some scent of his quarry. Once he found a pit trap, invisible in shadow, and once destroyed a trip-wired SRM2 with his medium laser. But there was no sign he had any idea where Jordan was.
By contrast, the New DeLon Stables MechWarrior was moving through the tunnels with evident purpose. Whether he had some indication of Yulri's position or was simply maximizing his search radius through speed wasn't clear.
Tommy's pocket comm buzzed. Not looking away from the screen, he fished it out with an icy hand.
"Tommy Gunn," he said.
"Now." Garnet's voice. Then the signal went dead.
"What?" Tommy exclaimed. Leaning forward in his chair he waved at the others to be quiet. Someone muted the audio feed.
"Say again?" Tommy asked the dead instrument in his hand. "No, no, no. Don't do nothing. I got some people here. We'll talk and I'll get back to you.
Don't do nothing."
Slipping the comm into his pocket he looked around the circle of expectant faces. On the screen behind them Jordan's Neanderthal stepped on a flash mine that detonated in harmless silence. Tommy focused on Jazz.
"New DeLon has slipped some sappers into Ishiyama," he said. "They're going to set a trap and Jordan's going to lure Yulri into it. It's going to look like a natural fall, like Yulri screwed up. When he's down, Jordan's going to pound him to scrap."
"We've got to call the refs," said Clayton, the scrapper team's heavy machine gunner.
"The DeLon squad's got comm," Tommy said. "We call the refs, the sappers fade. No evidence for our claim and we forfeit the match, maybe face discipline."
"I thought the Caps blocked all comm in the tunnels." That was Petersen, the new guy.
"I'm telling you what I was told," Tommy snapped.
A couple of others added their two percent, but Tommy didn't bother to track or answer. He was watching Jazz.
Jazz wasn't talking, she was thinking. And, poor kid, everyone else knew she was thinking what they wanted her to think.
"Tommy, do you know any way into the tunnels?" she asked. "Not the 'Mech entrance."
Tommy considered, his heart an icy lump in the pit of his stomach.
"Yes," he said at last, drawing the word out. "Parking deck, not far from the van, there's a service entrance of some sort. I don't know exactly where it goes, but I've seen techs carry holovid cams through it. Only thing they 'vid is the arena."
Jazz nodded. Collecting her squad with a glance, she headed out the door.
Tommy waited a three count.
"Wait a minute," he called, keeping his voice low to not alert the other owners in their boxes. "Where are you going?"
Jazz paused at the elevator door until he was near. Grabbing his arm, she pulled him in and keyed the parking deck.
"The sappers can keep off camera, so can we," she said. "From the way he was moving, Jordan was headed for a specific location. Anyone paying attention?"
"Yeah, straight two hundred meters, right, left, left again, then straight," Chin said, narrowing her eyes in memory. Two of the others nodded agreement. "If we can find where he started from, piece of cake."
"Entrance seven, from the look of it," Tommy said, ignoring the bile in his throat. "Supposed to be a secret, but the way I hear it, that's the south side, not far from the boxes."
"Find entrance seven, go after them," Jazz finally answered Tommy's question. "If we can persuade them to quit without stopping the game, great. They don't persuade—well, the shooting will alert the refs and we'll have all the evidence pinned down for them."
Tommy blathered ineffective pleas for wisdom as the squad popped the van and geared up. Without a word, they shed all their ammo packs, tossing them back into the van. Petersen pulled an unmarked case from under the seat and began handing out fresh magazines.
"Please tell me those are just improved paint rounds," Tommy said.
"What you don't know," Jazz answered, "you can't get charged with."
"We should just call the refs," Tommy said, knowing it was way too late.
Jazz cocked her head, catching him with her wide left eye, and grinned. The daughter he never had excited about her first date.
The service door's lock yielded to a knife blade and the scrapper team was gone.
Tommy gently shut the van—there was still enough valuable Canid Co-op equipment inside to outfit another team—and headed for the elevator. The ride up was long and uneventful and over too soon. Making his way down the owners' hall on leaden feet, he stopped at the door to New DeLon's box.
Garnet opened the door himself a long minute after Tommy's knock.
"They're in," Tommy said simply.
Garnet nodded and stepped back, inviting Tommy into the room. It was empty except for Garnet's two goons—or reasonable facsimiles thereof. Tommy was reminded of his theory about Clan cloning.
"I anticipated your success," the New DeLon assistant manager said, turning his attention to the holovid display.
Gwen and Dave were center stage, looking decidedly less chipper than usual.
At a nod from Garnet one of the goons ticked up the audio.
". . . is certainly their right and covered under the escalation conventions," Dave was saying. "Though those conventions have never been applied to mixed- unit combat."
"To recap," Gwen said without a right-you-are, "Canid Co-op, in a flagrant violation of their own much- touted anticheating stance, has inserted an anti-'Mech team into Ishiyama Arena . . ."
An inset box showed Jazz and her team moving with cautious determination along a rocky tunnel. That they were not equipped to meet a BattleMech was obvious even in the dim light, but that didn't seem to affect the commentators.
"In response to this Canid anti-'Mech team, New DeLon Stables has elected not to stop the match," Dave was saying. "Instead they have enacted the escalation clause usually reserved for infantry matches. They are sending in a squad of their own to prevent the anti-'Mech squad from crippling Herbert Jordan's Neanderthal—"
There must been some signal, for the screen was suddenly mute again. The inset box above and between Dave and Gwen continued to track Jazz while a new inset below showed a squad Tommy didn't recognize.
Then he did. One of the most vicious teams on the illegal full-contact circuit.
"Wait a minute," Tommy said. "Wait a damn minute. You were just supposed to blow the whistle on them. The deal was Yulri and the Canid scrapper team get disqualified and the damn honesty oath get discredited. You never said anything about—"
About killing.
Garnet regarded him with blank disinterest.
"Here's a thought," he said. "Why don't you go to the refs? Maybe go to the gaming commission. You could explain to them that you illegally conspired to disqualify your clients, working for a cooperative you also represent, but decided to complain because you were double-crossed by your coconspirators."
He turned his back on Tommy and eased into a wide- backed chair facing the silent screen.
"New DeLon could survive such a scandal; we've survived worse. We have resources," Garnet said. "But you. Tommy, all you have is your reputation. Any of this gets out and—between penalties, lawsuits, legal fees, forfeit commissions—you'll be on the public dole before the quarter finals."
"But—"
"Good-bye, Tommy."
He was in the hall, looking at the blank wall opposite the New DeLon door with no clear memory of whether he'd moved under his own power.
He pulled out his pocket comm. keying in a number with shaking fingers. His thumb hesitated over the "transmit" button. Licking his lips, he looked both ways down the short length of the empty corridor. Time seemed to be rushing and he wasn't even breathing.
With a curse, he jammed the comm in his pocket and headed for the elevator. It was empty, door still open right where he'd left it, and within the minute he was in the parking garage. The van unlocked to his thumbprint and he stood for an age, looking at the racked weapons and the unmarked case Petersen had pulled out, still a third full of magazines.
"Right."
He resealed the van.
Armed with the only weapons he'd ever known, he headed into the tunnels of Ishiyama Arena.
* * *
Weapons lock from behind.
Yulri pulled the joystick, sidestepping into an alcove. Not a good move tactically, but it got him out of the way of the flight of short-range missiles that spent themselves against the walls and ceiling of the tunnel. Six, his computer told him, at the end of their range. Jordan was conserving ammo for a long fight. Or a final barrage.
Reversing position, Yulri sidestepped until his right- arm extended-range particle projector cannon had a clear shot down the corridor. He hated relying on the targeting computer in these metal rocks without confirming with his own eyes, but he had no intention of exposing his cockpit if he was close enough for Jordan to unleash an alp
ha strike.
Good tone and he fired. A second time, taking advantage of the reduced recycle time the extra double heat sinks afforded. If Jordan had dodged then stepped out, counting on normal recycle time for his return shot, he would have gotten a nasty surprise.
Yulri followed the second PPC bolt with a quick sidestep into the tunnel center, both weapons trained back the way he had come.
No Neanderthal. He grinned at a fresh puddle of melted armor on the stone floor. A glancing hit. But first blood was his.
Choosing a tunnel that doubled back some sixty degrees from his original course, Yulri stepped out at a steady forty kilometers per hour. Fast for the uncertain footing of the caves. But he wasn't going to follow Jordan around any blind turns only to find himself toe-to- toe with the assault 'Mech. Long, straight corridors were his friends.
This one became less friendly as it bubbled into a cavern, the floor and ceiling sloping away into shadow. It wasn't completely dark, of course; there had to be enough light for the holovid cameras to capture the action. But Ishiyama's designers favored reddish lights that generated enough heat to fog thermal imaging. And directed lighting produced inky shadows that hid pits, ordnance booby traps, or—potentially—his enemy's BattleMech.
The floor of the cavern was dotted with massive stalagmites, many taller than his 'Mech. False magnetic- imaging signals—a platoon of light tanks—were being transmitted from somewhere. Yulri ignored the urge to move toward them and investigate. Trapping him required better bait.
Running from Jordan was not going to win the battle. The objective was not merely survival but victory. He would need to either hunt the assault 'Mech and attack it where he found it, or find a setting that favored his Black Hawk and entice Jordan into attacking him there.
He'd been looking for an open area—the Lake Cavern, if possible—where he could fire from range while avoiding the bulk of the Neanderthal's weapons. However, given the cagey game of cat and mouse Jordan was playing, it was not likely his opponent would cooperate.
However, this place . . .
Wolf Hunters Page 27
