“My dear Gray Noton, how pleased I am to see you’ve made it!” Enrico Lestrade, clad in a navy-blue dress uniform with more medals and gold braid decorating it than were available in most of the Successor States, pushed through the crowd gathered in his private box at Steiner Stadium. He grabbed Noton’s extended right hand in both of his own, pumping it furiously. “You honor us with your visit.”
As other of Lestrade’s guests turned to stare at Noton, he forced himself to smile, inwardly trying to decide whether to shatter Lestrade’s clammy, fleshy hand. Instead, he grabbed Lestrade’s right elbow tightly and gently squeezed. “So kind of you to invite me here to watch Teng battle Wolfson. It should be a good match.”
Lestrade winced at the pressure on his elbow and quickly freed Noton’s hand. Lowering his voice, he said, “We should speak. Come to my office.”
Noton nodded and followed Lestrade back to a small room. As the door closed behind him, shutting out the party’s noise from the soundproof cubicle, Noton touched a button on his watch and waited for a red light to glow on the face. When nothing happened, Noton smiled. He’s not recording this meeting, and that makes him a fool. “You have the ticket, Baron?”
Enrico Lestrade nodded. He flexed his right hand several times to try to get some feeling back into it, and frowned at Noton during the process. “I’m sorry, Noton, but that is how I greet all my guests.”
Noton’s eyes slitted. “I trust you do not have covert deals with all of them.” Double-cross me, Baron, and you will regret it.
Enrico shook his head and began patting his pockets in search of the betting ticket. “No,” he said, “most are visitors from the Commonwealth, and a few from the Federated Suns. Wolfson, being one of the Capellan Mafia—as Capet has so quaintly labeled his pack of warriors—is a great draw. I’ve even invited him up here after the match.”
“You did what?” Noton’s voice exploded in anger. If you’ve done anything to suggest that this fight is fixed, I will have you flayed alive.
Lestrade recoiled from Noton’s tone, as though from a heavy blow. “Come now, don’t take me for a fool. I did not invite him up. I invited the winner.” Smiling conspiratorially, he found the silvery slip of paper and extended it to Noton. “Just because we know who will win doesn’t mean we need to broadcast it.”
Noton took the ticket and let a slow smile transform the mask of fury his face had become. His fee, fifty thousand C-bills, had been used to place a bet at two-to-one odds that Wolfson would win. With the fight fixed, Noton got double his fee from the bookmakers on the planet, and no one could trace the transfer of wealth. “Very well. Let us rejoin the party.”
Enrico beamed. “You’ll be pleased to know, Noton, that the contessa is here this evening.” He opened the door and escorted Noton among the guests, making a few preliminary introductions. Then he slipped away into the chattering crowd. Noton excused himself from a conversation about the neo-abstraction of the Deia traditionalist school, and navigated a path toward the bar.
The bartender smiled up at him, “Sir?”
Noton glanced at the various types of beer half-buried in a tray of ice, but changed his mind. Business is over. I can afford to drink, especially if Lestrade is paying. Noton smiled. “A PPC, Steiner, straight up.”
The bartender smiled knowingly and set a brandy snifter on the counter. Into it, he poured four shots of grain alcohol, and because Noton had specified “Steiner,” he cut it with two shots of peppermint schnapps. He reached for a sprig of mint, too, but Noton warned him off with a shake of his head. The bartender smiled and handed him the drink. “Be careful. That stuff can etch glass.”
Noton laughed and cradled the snifter in one hand. He swirled the clear mixture around and watched as it picked up and distorted the sights and colors around him. With a pleased smile, he raised the glass to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of the liquid before it could fully numb his tongue.
“Not a sipping drink, is it, Mr. Noton?” Contessa Kym Sorenson commented as Noton screwed his eyes shut against the drink’s jolt.
Noton relaxed his face, then opened his eyes. “You are a most welcome vision, Contessa.” She wore high-heeled black boots gathered at the ankles, black trousers, and a sleeveless, strapless satiny green shirt that matched the silk scarf knotted around her pale throat. Noton smiled, took her outstretched hand, and raised it to his lips. “Please, call me Gray.”
The contessa nodded and smiled. “Gray, it is.” She turned and leaned against the bar, glancing wearily from the milling crowd to Gray. Pointing at his drink, she said, “Does that make these gatherings any less stuffy?”
Noton shrugged. The light rippled off the black velvet of his tunic, whose wide v of gray velvet running from one shoulder to his waist and back up to the other shoulder made the MechWarrior seem more slender. “Lestrade runs with a rarified crowd. I remember many of these people from the days when the Battle Commission honored me with parties because of my victories out in the arenas. They’ve always been stuffy, and, yes—” he looked down at his drink, “—I’ve found PPCs a great help.”
The contessa turned to the bartender. “I’ll have a PPC, too.”
The bartender smiled as Noton, standing behind the contessa, signaled the man to dilute the drink by half. “How would you like that, my lady?”
The contessa frowned and turned to Noton. “Gray?”
Noton smiled. “The drink has several variations, each one known by one of the Great House names. I drink the Steiner variant, which cuts the white lightning with peppermint schnapps. The Liao version cuts it with plum wine, and the Kurita dilutes it with sake—or aviation fuel, whichever is handier.” Noton paused for a moment, trying to recall the other variants. “Davion cuts it with bourbon, or tequila, if you’re in the Capellan March.”
The contessa wrinkled her nose. “And Marik?”
The bartender brandished a bottle of ouzo, and the contessa smiled. “I’ll have mine Marik.” The bartender quickly complied and handed her a snifter identical to the one that Noton was holding.
Noton led the contessa away from the bar to the first row of chairs looking out over the Arena. “You’d best sit down before you drink that. The first one is something of an experience.” Noton waited for her to sit, then dropped into a plush red seat beside her and began swirling his drink again.
The contessa aped his motion. “Why do they call it a PPC?”
Noton laughed. “The particle projection cannon is one of the most powerful weapons a ’Mech can carry. It packs a nasty punch, just like this.” Noton nodded toward her glass. “The trick is to get it down before.”
“Before what?”
Noton quickly drank and swallowed hard. “Try it and see,” he whispered hoarsely.
The contessa reared her head and tossed off the PPC. She swallowed, then coughed and wiped the tears that sprang to her eyes. She waved a hand in front of her mouth for a couple of seconds, then swallowed again. “I see.” She coughed again lightly. “My mouth is numb.”
Noton smiled. “In about thirty minutes, that numbness will hit your brain. You ought not to notice the stuffiness of the party anymore.”
The contessa smiled and turned to look out the massive window. Below, in a sandy, open arena reminiscent of the coliseums of ancient Rome, a trio of medium ’Mechs battled twice their number of more agile, lighter ’Mechs. Nearly invisible and impossibly delicate, a crisscrossed cage of wires surrounded the arena, separating the killing area from the glassed-in spectator galleries and, above them, the luxury boxes.
The contessa pointed to the wire mesh. “What is that?”
Noton, sitting back as the drink spread its warmth through his body, knit his brows in concentration. “That is a detonator grid. Any missiles flying from the arena will hit it before they hit the spectator windows. The windows are covered with the same sort of high-impact plastic used in ’Mech canopies, but no one wants to take any chances.”
“What about lasers or PPC shots?”
“The grid will siphon off PPC energy. The windows themselves are reflective.” Gray laughed and leaned forward. “I remember once using the window to bounce off a shot at a foe’s weakened aft armor.” He nodded at the arena. “There can actually be a home-field advantage for a warrior who fights regularly in one arena.”
Kym furrowed her blond eyebrows. “Neither of the two men we’re here to watch is from the Commonwealth, and so neither would have that advantage?”
Noton pursed his lips and watched as one of the battling MechWarriors ejected right before his ’Mech exploded. “Billy Wolfson, the guy who will pilot the Hermes II, has fought in this arena more times than has Fuh Teng, though Teng has more fights overall.”
“Won’t a Vindicator take the Hermes apart? The Hermes surrenders five tons and some weaponry.” Another explosion down on the killing floor flashed yellow and orange light against Kym’s face and hair. “I should think Teng will walk all over this Wolfson.”
Noton smiled carefully. “That’s what the bookmakers believe. They have Teng a two-to-one favorite over Wolfson.”
Kym smiled impishly. “But…”
“But?”
Kym laid her hand on Noton’s thick forearm. “You obviously have your own opinion, Gray. Who do you think will win?”
Noton chuckled softly. “Touché. This is Teng’s first fight in several weeks. His knee is now braced, and he’s fighting without his brother at his side. I think that Wolfson, who is a good fighter on his way up, will win the contest.”
Down on the battlefield, two of the medium ’Mechs finished off the last light ’Mech, and the maintenance crew appeared to clear away the debris. They worked quickly and efficiently to tow any ’Mechs unable to leave the arena on their own.
Behind Noton and the contessa, Lestrade’s other guests also noticed that the fight had ended. With a whispered rustle of silks and satins, the guests quickly took seats overlooking the field. A few cursed their luck concerning bets on the last battle, and several loudly predicted the outcome of the fight they’d all come to watch. Whenever any overheard pronouncement seemed particularly absurd, Kym turned to Noton, and both shared a silent laugh.
“Ladies and gentlemen of all nations and races,” boomed an announcer’s voice. “This is the ninth fight on this evening’s card. In the Medium Class, from the stable of Lord Brighton, we have a Hermes II. Its pilot for this evening is Billy Wolfson.”
The cheering in Baron von Summer’s box echoed, in a small part, the thunderous ovation from below.
Chapter 18
SOLARIS VII
RAHNESHIRE
LYRAN COMMONWEALTH
20 FEBRUARY 3027
Justin Xiang reached out with his right hand to adjust the volume on his external microphone. The crowd’s applause for Billy Wolfson and his Hermes II did not surprise Justin, but the vibrant insistency of it did. They dearly want him to win. The loud ovation rasped across his brain like sandpaper, threatening to release the anxiety he’d earlier managed to lock away with a round of tai chi chuan exercises.
I’ve never fought before an audience, Justin thought, then involuntary laughter filled his neurohelmet. That’s the least of your worries, he reminded himself. You’ve never fought without your left arm before, either.
He glanced over at the synthetic limb. The ribbon cable, freed from the compartment at his wrist, had neatly clicked into place on the armrest, and Justin had closed the fingers of his metal hand around the joystick. He did not want the limb falling and jerking the cable free in the middle of combat. Checking and double-checking, he verified his ability to control the Vindicator’s left arm. The ’Mech’s hand and the small laser both functioned normally, as reported by the test lights flashing on his command console. He also verified that the missile control was operational for the LRMs. Though they launched from the Vindicator’s torso, their controls were also on the left joystick.
Justin’s “good” hand controlled the ’Mech’s major weapons. The PPC occupying the whole of the Vindicator’s right forearm, and the medium laser built into the ’Mech’s head were both controlled by the right hand. The joystick control led the targeting system, and the buttons fired the weapons exactly the way Justin remembered it in the simulator on Sakhara.
Justin watched Wolfson’s Hermes II march into the arena. Slightly to the right and just above the ’Mech’s waist, Justin saw the wide maw of an autocannon. Remembering how the Rifleman’s autocannon had shredded his Valkyrie in the duel on Kittery, he felt a sudden cold chill.
In an effort to regain control of himself, Justin focused on the humanoid ’Mech he had to destroy. He knew it carried a medium laser in its right forearm. Though a formidable weapon, it did not worry him. That flamer, on the other hand…
The weapon formed the ’Mech’s truncated left arm. Six canisters of fuel, each about the size of a small aircar, ringed a slender cylinder. It opened into a nozzle that most resembled the muzzle of an ancient blunderbuss and measured almost a full meter across. Despite attempts to keep it painted, the nozzle showed only the carbon buildup easily associated with a flamethrower.
Justin nodded as the blue and gray Hermes stopped and raised its right hand to salute the crowd. That flamethrower could bake him inside the Vindicator and force him to eject. Though fire really could not damage his ’Mech, it could prematurely end the fight and rob him of victory. I cannot allow myself to lose.
The announcer’s voice burst in on Justin’s thoughts. “And from Teng Stables, we have a Vindicator!”
Justin slowly and deliberately walked the humanoid Vindicator onto the field. It had been Vindicators that had once turned House Davion back at Tikonov. How fitting for me to use one now to embarrass the Federated Suns. Justin raised the ’Mech’s left arm to wave at the crowd huddled invisibly behind the mirrored arena walls. Though he heard none of the applause given to Wolfson, he forced the irritation away. Victors deserve praise, not combatants.
The announcer’s voice, tinged with excitement, again filled the arena and Justin’s neurohelmet. “We’ve just received word that Baron von Summer has issued an invitation for the victor to come to his private box after the battle.”
Wolfson’s Hermes turned toward Lestrade’s box and saluted, and Justin’s ’Mech followed suit, though its pilot performed the action without thought. He knows. He must know the fight has been rigged. Justin chuckled to himself. Billy Wolfson is in for a rude shock.
“Let the game begin!”
The Hermes immediately triggered a burst of autocannon fire that raked across the Vindicator, blasting small craters into the torso armor. Justin jerked his ’Mech to the right and dropped to one knee as the Hermes’ laser sliced through the air and splintered against the windows around the arena.
Justin popped open the LRM compartment in the Vindicator’s chest and launched a flight of five missiles at the Hermes. Wolfson quickly moved his ’Mech to the left, keeping the PPC out of line, evading all but one of the missiles. The one that hit peeled back some armor on the Hermes’s left leg, while the other missiles exploded against the protective screen.
Concentrate, Justin! You can’t afford any sloppy shots! He darted a quick glance at the prosthesis to assure himself that the cable had not broken free. Wolfson thinks the fight is fixed. Use it against him.
Wolfson’s return shots from both the autocannon and the medium laser slammed into the Vindicator’s chest. Autocannon rounds smashed into Justin’s armor, tearing divots from it. The laser, firing on the same targeted spot, cauterized the autocannon wounds and melted them into ugly scars. The Hermes followed up its shots and closed the gap between the two ’Mechs.
Justin continued circling his Vindicator to the right, then stopped and pivoted on his left foot to swing around and lunge at the Hermes with his PPC. His right index finger tightened up on the trigger, and his middle finger jerked the trigger for his medium laser. The heat monitors in the cockpit blazed up from green into the red zone, but Justin ignor
ed the computer’s keening complaint about excess heat. The Hermes, moving in, strolled directly into his fire zone.
The laser stitched a stuttering line across the Hermes’s eyes, and the ’Mech jerked as Wolfson reacted to the blinding scarlet light. The beam itself did little more than melt an outer layer of the pilot’s canopy, but the shot distracted Wolfson from the need to turn and face the Vindicator’s attack.
An azure whip of pure energy lashed out at the Hermes. The PPC’s beam stabbed at the Hermes’s left arm and ripped armor from the flamer with the ease of a cyclone tearing shingles from a roof. It caressed the Hermes for less than three terrible seconds, but that was enough to strip all but the barest of armor from the smaller ’Mech’s fearsome weapon. Suddenly, the flamethrower became a bomb strapped to the side of the Hermes, and Wolfson’s quick turn showed that he realized the outcome of the fight was not fixed after all.
As Justin’s Vindicator moved toward the Hermes, Wolfson brought his ’Mech’s right arm up and triggered a blast of laser fire to hold him back. The ruby energy beam bubbled ablative armor on the Vindicator’s torso, but failed to penetrate further into the ’Mech’s working parts. When it did nothing to slow the Vindicator’s advance, Wolfson began to sprint his ’Mech off across the arena.
Justin hit his jump jets and launched a flight of LRMs, aiming the missiles deliberately wide and to the right of the Hermes. They exploded in a line of flaming geysers that brought the Hermes up short while the Vindicator soared above it and almost grazed the arena’s mesh roof. Justin grounded the Vindicator to the left of the Hermes. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, Wolfson.
Sweat poured down Justin’s face and tasted salty on his lips. Ahead, the Hermes turned. Its medium laser fired a red bolt of energy, while its autocannon boomed out a staccato accompaniment to the rain of metal it spat out. The autocannon slugs plucked away at the armor on the Vindicator’s left leg and dotted it with jagged gashes. The laser drilled into the armor on the Vindicator’s center torso and burned away the last of it. Enough of the laser fire had penetrated the armor to burn into the heart of the Vindicator.
Warrior: En Garde (The Warrior Trilogy, Book One): BattleTech Legends, #57 Page 15
