by Jake Bible
Clay was not happy about it. Not happy at all.
Hank signed a greeting as he stepped from the mech’s hand and into the cockpit. Gibbons refused to force him to climb up the leg ladder.
“Hank,” Clay said and nodded. “Everyone else here and set?”
Hank signed yes and went into a detailed explanation of where everyone was set up. They’d put a plan in place in case Clay lost. There was no way Clay was going to go to all the trouble of fighting only to lose and have everything fall apart. He saw the entire situation as a war, not just what happened inside the tournament staging ground. Half the territory had forced Clay’s hand, so he figured he’d do a little forcing back.
“Good, good,” Clay said as Hank went over the plans a second time. “You should probably go get in position yourself. You’re the best shot we have. I want those crosshairs of yours right on General Hansen’s forehead and ready to shift to the Mister’s if this all goes south.”
Hank nodded his agreement and held out his hand. Clay stared at it for a second then reluctantly took it and shook. Hank signed good luck, gave the mech a pat, and stepped back out onto the waiting hand.
Clay closed up the cockpit then closed his eyes.
“The Mister will be ready,” Clay said. “So will General Hansen. All the plans we made will probably result in absolutely nothing.”
“But we’ll have tried,” Gibbons said. “That counts for something.”
“Does it?” Clay asked. “Yeah, I guess it does. If Hank can take out one of those bastards then this will be worth it.”
“I don’t know about that,” Gibbons said.
“I don’t either,” Clay said. He growled low. “That damn water tower filled with grey. It was like a honey pot.”
“It was totally a honey pot,” Gibbons said. “I would bet my left leg that the grey is only there to lure in mechs. Look around, Clay. How the hell did these people get all these mechs? When was the last time you saw so many in one place? I can’t recall ever seeing this amount of mechs together at one time. Not since the Bloody Conflict, at least.”
“Honey pot or not,” Clay said. “We’re here now. Time to fight our way out like we always do.”
“You have got to get your head in the game, man,” Gibbons said. “Stop moping and start getting ready to kick some metal ass. I can’t do this on my own.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Clay said.
He was about to say more when a small chime echoed over the com.
“Attention mech pilots,” a woman’s voice announced. “Fights will begin in ten minutes. Please make sure your machine complies to all rules and regulations. Any mechs that do not comply will be forfeited and confiscated after the tournament. There is no appeal process per the contract you have signed. Thank you and prepare for the brackets to be announced.”
“There’s your honey pot,” Clay said. “I bet the Mister and General Hansen both have an army of lawyers looking to spot infractions so they can confiscate the offending mechs. Slimy bastards.”
There was no response from Gibbons, but Clay didn’t care. He was busy looking at the fight brackets as the tournament schedule popped up on a screen in front of him.
“Hey, we’re in the first fight,” Clay chuckled. “No surprise there. We expected they’d do that so all the mech pilots could get a look at our combat style. We’re up against some pilot named Funko. Ha! There’s a name for ya. Funko.”
Gibbons still didn’t respond.
“Hey, buddy, you cool?” Clay asked.
“No,” Gibbons finally replied. “I was just going over the rules and regulations. We have a serious problem, Clay.”
“How? We spent six days going over everything to make sure there would be no surprises,” Clay said. “How is there one now?”
“We were looking at last year’s rules and regs,” Gibbons said. “Made sense since we were told they hadn’t changed in a decade.”
Clay slumped and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Let me guess. They changed it this year,” Clay sighed. “What changed, man?”
“Everything is exactly the same except one addendum has been added,” Gibbons said. “No AI integration per the law of all lands. It actually says that, Clay. ‘Per the law of all lands.’ Bunch of AI bigots.”
“That was why the Mister was smiling so much when we escaped,” Clay said. “He expected me to end up fighting. When did the new rule happen?”
“The day we escaped,” Gibbons said. “I’m looking at the quorum vote right now. It’s all legit. Well, as legit as anything can be in this place.”
“The comunistas didn’t say a word,” Clay grumbled.
“They didn’t know, I’m sure,” Gibbons said. “There only needed to be four competing parties to form a quorum, it looks like. They have four votes listed, all in favor of the addendum.”
“Okay, then I guess we go with our backup plan,” Clay said. “Send word to the others that Operation Shoot Them All is in place.”
“Yeah, that isn’t going to work either,” Gibbons said.
The screen in front of Clay split into several views, each one showing an ally being accosted by either Sheriff Trang or one of his deputies. Hank put up a good fight until he was brought down by a stun wand. Well, three stun wands. He was quite the fighter.
“This isn’t good,” Clay said, his eyes focused on the image of a smiling Mister as Nasta was walked away in handcuffs while Firoa was physically lifted and hauled away, kicking and screaming, spitting and biting. “I’m still beat to shit, buddy. Without your integration, I’m going to be slow as hell. I’m just not in fighting condition.”
The screen blinked off.
“Bullshit,” Gibbons said. “You have better instincts than any of these posers. You know our mech and you know what it can do. Play to your strengths.”
“Nice speech, coach, but that doesn’t change anything,” Clay said. “The first time I get my bell rung, this fight is over.”
“Pilot MacAulay, please report to the battlefield,” a voice called over the com. “Pilot MacAulay, please report to the battlefield.”
“On my way,” Clay responded.
He powered up the mech then realized there was a serious problem.
“Shit, shit, shit!” he cried. “I’m not in my suit! I haven’t had to use an integration control suit in forever! Not since I first learned how to pilot!”
Clay got up and scrambled back to a locker that was covered in dust. He yanked it open and stared at the suit inside.
“Oh, this is going to suck,” he said as he pulled out the suit and stared at it. “I don’t know if I can even fit in this thing anymore.”
“Better hurry and find out,” Gibbons said. “They started a countdown. You have sixty seconds to get us onto the battlefield or we automatically forfeit.”
“Shit!” Clay yelled as he stripped down to his underwear and pulled the suit on over his legs.
It was a very, very tight fit. He sucked in his gut as he got to his midsection then struggled into the arms. He barely managed to get zipped up and back to his pilot’s seat as the countdown reached twenty seconds. He yanked out old cables from under his seat and plugged them into the suit with ten seconds left.
“Here we go,” he said then switched the com on. “I’m coming! I’m coming!”
He stayed standing and ran the mech out onto the battlefield as the last seconds ticked off the countdown. A good-sized mech stood waiting, its left foot tapping impatiently.
“Asshole,” Clay said then realized the com was still open. He switched it off and sighed.
“Pilot MacAulay, please turn off your AI unit,” the tournament voice said. “No AI co-pilot integration or assistance is allowed.”
“Or assistance?” Gibbons snapped. “Where the hell does it say that? I didn’t read that.”
“Great,” Clay said. “Just great.”
“I have to shut down, man,” Gibbons said. “Sorry. I’ll hang in the stealth decks
and watch everything, but we won’t be able to communicate at all. You are on your own.”
“Yeah, I am very aware of that!” Clay exclaimed, his voice an octave higher than he’d have liked.
Clay watched with horror as the AI console went dark and he was left all alone in his mech in a too small integration control suit that was already beginning to chafe in places he didn’t want chafed.
“Pilots, please prepare for the fight,” the tournament voice said. “Three, two, one, fight!”
Twenty-Seven
It was not like riding a bike.
Clay had become so used to having Gibbons in the back of his mind as he piloted the mech that when Funko threw the first punch, Clay just stood there, expecting his left arm to come up in a defensive position and his right to lash out with a hard hooking punch. Neither happened and he found himself flying backwards as the opposing mech’s fist collided with the cockpit.
His mech landed on its back and Funko leapt into the air, ready to come down with a sky punch that would destroy the newly damaged cockpit hatch. Clay shook his head and stared at the falling mech for a split-second before he realized it was all about to be over. He twisted his body and the mech rolled out of the way just as Funko landed, a giant fist making a giant hole right where Clay had been.
“Oh, man, oh, man,” Clay said as he got his mech back up on its feet and jogged a few paces away from Funko.
He turned just as Funko was sending a straight leg kick at his left knee. Clay jumped out of the way and an alarm bell rang out in the cockpit.
“First warning,” the tournament voice said. “Only warning. Do not leave the battlefield or the fight will be forfeit.”
Clay brought up an image of the battlefield and saw his right heel was just at the white line painted in the red dirt. He hadn’t even noticed the line was there. He had no intention of making that mistake again.
In fact, as Funko charged him, he had no intention of making any mistake again.
He was a goddamn mech pilot and he needed to start acting like one. Plus, despite the small size of the integration control suit, it actually made some of the pain in his body go away as it held wounded parts and pieces in place. Being injured was no longer an excuse. Nothing was an excuse anymore.
Clay had one chance to keep from losing his mech and, more than likely, his life.
Funko came at him again, but Clay was ready.
He ducked low and sent both fists straight into Funko’s midsection. He knew the blow would be blocked, but it was all a feint anyway. Clay had set his legs so as soon as Funko put all his power into blocking the fists, Clay could let loose with a sweeping kick from his right leg.
Funko’s mech hit hard and the ground shook with the impact. Clay wasted no time and launched himself into the air. He acted like he was going to use the same sky punch maneuver that Funko had tried just a minute before, but at the last second he let his arm fall and instead went into a tight roll as Funko dodged the fake punch.
When the two mechs came up, Clay was right in Funko’s face. He slammed both of his fists together, trapping Funko’s cockpit between them. There was a small scream and then it was over as Funko’s cockpit was pulverized.
Clay took a few steps back and waited. The mech didn’t move. He reached out and pushed it with one hand. Funko’s mech fell backwards, stiff as a board.
Clay laughed to himself as an old bit of mech pilot wisdom came back to him. Something his great grandfather had said once about only fool pilots tried to destroy an enemy’s mech when all that needed to be done was destroy the mech pilot inside. They were much easier to break than a fifty-foot battle machine.
“Pilot Funko is down which forces Team Crawley and Burnwood out of the tournament as that was their only mech,” the tournament voice said. “Match goes to Pilot MacAulay of the Flower Peoples Brigade.”
“Seriously?” Clay shouted when the name of his team was announced. “God, I hate comunistas!”
He piloted his mech off the battlefield as a set of heavy rollers came out to haul off the fallen mech. He checked his scanners and zoomed in on a section of the crowd. The spectators’ faces ranged from shock to rage. There were no friendly faces anywhere. People glared, booed, and hissed as he walked his mech back to the line of other mechs waiting to be called.
Clay gave a thumbs up to the others as he walked the line and returned to his parking space. No mechs returned the gesture.
“Okay, okay, I got this,” Clay said to himself. “Be the mech. Be the mech.”
There was a swell of laughter from the spectators and Clay realized he’d left the com open again and his words were broadcast over the entire staging grounds.
“Crap,” he grumbled as he set his com to permanent mute.
The next match was between one of the Mister’s pilots and one of Mrs. Feathergorge’s pilots. Clay laughed as the name was spoken. He stopped laughing when the match lasted all of fifteen seconds. The Mister’s pilot was ripped right out of his cockpit and thrown to the ground then stomped into a pulp. It looked like someone else knew that a mech was nothing without a live pilot.
Clay gulped and took a couple deep breaths as two more mechs stepped onto the battlefield.
The first was one of General Hansen’s with the second being one from a ranch called Grapple Dapple. That match lasted much longer than the previous one. All of two minutes and thirty-six seconds. Both mechs ended up taking a good amount of damage and Clay realized why the Mister had wanted him as his best pilot’s second. Neither of the mechs on the battlefield were operational when it was all done.
And a mech and their pilot were considered one entry, so the winning pilot couldn’t just hop in a new mech and keep fighting. The winning mech did happen to belong to General Hansen which meant that was who Clay fought next, since each side of the brackets seemed to be taking turns in the battlefield.
Clay watched the rest of the fights with fading interest. Except for a couple of impressive moves, everyone was simply amateurs. The rest of the Mister’s pilots swept their fights while General Hansen’s went fifty-fifty.
That meant five of the remaining mechs were the Misters, three were General Hansen’s, two were Mrs. Feathergorge’s, and two were from the Lovesnuff ranch, plus a last few individual stragglers. Counting Clay, there were sixteen mechs set and ready for the next round of fights.
Clay heard his name called and stepped out onto the battlefield as General Hansen’s replacement mech followed close behind. Before Clay could even get his feet set, the other mech slammed a fist into his back, sending him sprawling across the dirt. A damage claxon rang out and Clay searched the systems for the problem.
One of the servos in his back was fried, crushed beyond repair. The offending mech was instantly disqualified, but it had done its job better than if it had actually fought. It made it near impossible for Clay to turn his mech at the waist.
The tournament representative tried to calm Clay down, but he was having none of it. He shouted curses through two fights before his voice went ragged and his throat was so raw he couldn’t do much more than squeak.
“You can drop out now,” the tournament rep said to him. “It is your choice. You would forfeit your mech, but you would be alive. More than some of these pilots can say.”
“Suck a Gila monster’s egg,” Clay said.
“I believe Gila monsters are a live birth reptile,” the tournament rep said. “But I get your point. So, officially, you wish to continue with the tournament?”
Clay squeaked out a couple of new curses and the tournament rep sighed.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the tournament rep responded. “One more bracket fight in this round then on to the next one. I have you down as active, so be ready to fight when your name is called.”
“I’ll be ready,” Clay groaned then closed his eyes, taking the time left to get some rest.
Twenty-Eight
Clay’s rest was short lived. The last bracket in the round lasted b
arely a minute. One of the Mister’s mechs took out one of his other mechs, since that was how the bracket played out due to the numbers, destroying the machine in an explosion of metal shards that had the spectators not protected inside their rollers running for cover.
Clay watched as Pilot Bunting exited the battlefield, her mech barely scratched from the last two fights it had been in.
“Great,” Clay said as he powered his mech back up and started walking towards the battlefield. “Fingers crossed that she goes down before we meet up.”
He waited then sighed when there was no response.
“I hate not having an AI co-pilot,” Clay said.
He stepped onto the battlefield as his name was called. Having learned his lesson, he spun about right off to make sure the opposing mech didn’t get a cheap shot in. It was an awkward spin, all stiff and locked hips. Clay watched as a squat mech, one that would never have been used as a battle mech during the Bloody Conflict, waddled forward.
Clay recognized the model as a Bento 2330 Demolition Mech. It had been originally designed to punch its way through mountains, either to create rough tunnels or passes for troops to get through so they could fight, fight, fight, for whatever side they were on. Clay was not cool with facing a demo mech. They had wicked strong legs and arms that, well, could literally punch through a goddamn mountain.
The good thing was they were slow, as evidenced by the unbelievable amount of time it took the mech to get onto the battlefield, across the battlefield, and set itself for the fight.
The tournament voice called the start and Clay started to circle the other mech. He quickly realized that was a bad idea since circling an opponent required the ability to twist at the waist, something he could no longer do. So he switched to a sidestep movement which seemed to entertain the hell out of the spectators.
Clay risked a glance at one of his vid screens that had the live feed of the fight on it. Yeah, his mech looked pretty ridiculous as it shuffled one foot then the next, looking like a teenager learning to slow dance for the first time.
