Which meant first getting a dueling license, a sponsor, and a BattleMech. Even then he would have to fight his way up through the secondary arenas, before gaining equal footing with the likes of Gross and Rebelke in the Class Six Open Arenas of Solaris City. That could take years, while careers in the 'Mech games were too often measured in months. Months! Unless he could find a way to make himself a hot ticket.
Coming to the Game World was no idle whim; Michael had researched it as thoroughly as possible. The ones who lasted in the games, in the ratings, were those who made themselves memorable—loved or loathed, that didn't matter. So long as people remembered.
Theatrics, yes. But on Solaris VII appearances were important, and Michael had better get used to it.
Quickly.
Engine, Engine Number Nine
1
DBC Studios, Silesia
Solaris City, Solaris VII
Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance
10 August 3062
On the holovid wall screen in Donegal Broadcasting's studio number five, two 'Mechs stalked a nightmare battlefield. Walls rose and fell at random intervals, creating an ever-changing maze. Gouts of flame burst from the floor, bathing the contestants in flickering, hellish daylight before the twilight dimness reclaimed the arena.
The BattleMechs looked less like machines and more like avatars of war as they closed, pummeling each other with an incredible array of weaponry. Lasers stabbed out from both 'Mechs, the backwash of gem-colored light playing over the armored machines in a garish display. The Orion staggered, two new scars slashed into its broad chest. The edges of those scars glowed bright orange at first, though faded quickly back to an ember-red. Recovering its balance, the seventy-five-ton BattleMech pressed the attack. Three of its four launched missiles corkscrewed out on gray contrails to hammer at the advancing Penetrator, sending a shower of armor fragments to the ground. Then a tongue of flame licked out from a side-mounted barrel, accompanied by the metallic scream of the Orion's eighty-millimeter autocannon. Tracers staggered into the ammunition feed flared in a brief stream of greenish sparks, marking the hail of depleted-uranium slugs that tore across the Penetrator's right arm,
A new color effect, Michael Searcy noted, his expert eyes missing nothing. He was seated to the left of Todd Richards, host of the "MechTalk" show. He knew that his was the secondary seat, but here in the Lyran sector of Solaris City, wasn't he the enemy? Sitting to Richards' right was the afternoon's principal guest, Jarman "The Ripper" Bauer.
Bauer leaned forward from the edge of his chair, riveted to the wall screen and twitching with every exchange of weapons fire as if reliving his exciting battle against the Orion. He wore the green leather jacket with gold piping of Overlord Stables, while Michael was garbed in black and copper Blackstar livery. Physically, the two Mech Warriors were as different as the colors under which they fought, Bauer's thicker build, dark hair, and beard contrasted Michael's trim form and clean-cut, blond good looks. The bruiser versus the artist. The bear versus the fox.
Steiner versus Davion.
Not that such differences would matter tomorrow, Day One of the Grand Tournament. In tomorrow's contest, the best warrior would prevail, no matter how he looked or sounded. Michael had no worries on that score; he had no doubt who was the better man. But until then appearances mattered very much. The betrayal on New Canton and his subsequent court-martial had taught Michael a lesson only reinforced by his three years on the Game World. "Appearance is so easily accepted as reality" was one of Drew Hasek-Davion's favorite sayings. Nowhere was that more true than on Solaris VII.
Todd Richards had half-turned from the live studio audience, showing off his strong profile to the cameras as he watched the battle unfold on the wall screen. He winced and nodded and made appreciative noises in all the right places, catering to Bauer. He, too, leaned in as if anticipating the crushing blow that would come at any time. The live audience also sat enthralled, though most—if not all—of them had certainly caught the highlights the night before. Michael wondered how many in the audience had lost money on Bauer's upset.
More than likely every last one of them had bet. The people couldn't help themselves. In the six centuries that 'Mechs had dominated the battlefields of the Inner Sphere, humanity had never lost its fascination with the lethal machines. Or with the warriors who piloted them. And for more than three hundred years, the games on Solaris VII had mirrored the reality of continuous warfare, only in a safe environment that soon gave rise to the most successful sporting event ever.
Solaris City was even modeled after the rest of the Inner Sphere, its five main sectors corresponding to each of the Great Houses. Michael had known all that when he arrived three years before, but he hadn't truly appreciated the depths of the bitterness that divided one sector from another. He had made the Black Hills his home, the sector affiliated so strongly with House Davion and the Federated Suns that it had never officially acknowledged the thirty-year alliance with House Steiner.
Then there was Kobe, reflecting the samurai culture of the Draconis Combine, and chaotic Montenegro, representing the fractious Free Worlds League. Shattered Cathay also seemed to mirror House Liao's troubled Confederation. There were even a few Clanners fighting in the arenas! But if Michael understood right, these 'Warriors were ostracized by their own kind for stooping to make a game of combat. Maybe they were like him and had come to the Game World seeking to redeem their honor.
Today Michael was in Silesia, land of the enemy. Where the Lyrans and the people of the Federated Suns had once united to create the great alliance of the Federated Commonwealth, its people were now united only in their bitterness in speaking out for or against Katrina Steiner-Davion usurping her brother's throne. The unofficial feud divided people on every world, and Solaris VII was no exception, except that the lines were more clearly drawn. Here FedSun loyalists had always clung to the Black Hills. Now, with tensions running so high in the outside world, entertainment again imitated reality as fighters rededicated themselves to the old loyalties. Fights between Federated Sun warriors and Lyrans were high-profile tickets and among the most savage battles fought.
Like the one Michael sat watching now. It was a duel between an Orion and a Penetrator, two Lyran warriors scrambling for one of the last slots in the Grand Tournament that would decide this year's Champion.
Michael leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest as he pretended for the viewing audience that the fight left him unimpressed. It wasn't too difficult. There were reasons this battle looked exceptionally fierce, and Michael could identify almost every one. The low-angle shots that made the 'Mechs look even bigger than their actual three-story height. The dim setting, for better display of a laser-light fight. And the pyrotechnics, of course, which were great crowd-pleasers but distracted only the greenest MechWarrior. You didn't come up through the Solaris games without learning something about production.
Or tactics, and from the start Michael had known that the Orion was in trouble. Right away it had gotten pinned into a corner of the arena. Lacking jump jets, it couldn't hope to escape Bauer's advancing Penetrator. Bauer had worked in to point-blank range, and now the Penetrator's six medium pulse lasers spat out a flurry of ruby darts. The staggered bursts of energy flashed away the last of the Orion's armor and cut deeply into its midline. It was this armor-shredding power that made the Penetrator such a devastating in-fighter and a favorite among the fans. The Orion shuddered violently as the rabid energies slagged its gyroscopic stabilizer into ruin. Seventy-five tons of upright metal suddenly lost their fight with gravity and toppled clumsily. The ground shook with the impact, and then the lights came up to show the Penetrator standing over the fallen Orion.
The image froze there—the Penetrator raising its arms in victory. The sounds of combat faded out to the canned ovation cut into the footage, now matched by cued applause from the audience.
"Well, a very intense finish to that bout," Todd Richards said, segueing back
into the live interview. "And I'm certain the fans in Steiner Stadium appreciated it as much as . . ." Richards trailed off as the sound of belated, slow clapping interrupted him.
Michael continued to applaud as both Richards and the show's star guest turned to stare. In an instant, Todd Richards rolled with the interruption, almost as if it had been planned. Which, in a way it had. Everyone in the studio knew how the interview was supposed to end.
"You don't agree, Mr. Searcy?"
Michael shrugged, but stopped clapping. He slipped his hands into his jacket pockets as he slouched back. Matched up against Bauer on the first day of the Grand Tournament, he knew his role on the show was to provide a foil for Bauer and to ramp up the tension and the betting. Well, they asked for it.
"Oh, it was amusing, but hardly a real battle," Michael said, while Jarman Bauer glowered. Turning toward the camera, Michael caught the eye of his bodyguard waiting off to one side, behind camera number three. The big man tensed, then nodded while Michael said, "Nice light show. Poor tactics."
Raising one hand to forestall an outburst from Bauer, Richards took the bait. "Poor tactics by William Paulson, you mean. After all, Mr. Bauer won the fight and will meet you next in the Grand Tournament." Richards, too, had turned toward the camera now, trying to regain control of the conversation. "Day One tomorrow, sports fans. One hundred and twenty-eight of Solaris VII's finest beginning the week that will test their endurance and skill in the various Open Class arenas."
Michael stared icily at Richards, who had, fortunately, left him an opening. "Skill is exactly my point. Paulson is a better fighter than Bauer any day of the week, even after his daily bottle of Glengarry Reserve." There, let that bit of information trickle out into the tabloids.
He stabbed a finger toward the screen, where the victorious Penetrator was still displayed. "That wasn't a battle. It was a slugging match. Bauer's idea of tactical surprise is to hold back his medium lasers—which any Solaran third-grader knows he's got—until he can make a showy finish to his opponent. The fact that Paulson walked into it makes me wonder if the Steiner-affiliated stables didn't get together and flip coins for the victory." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Tell me, Jarman, was the fix in?"
"Damn Davionist!" Bauer jumped to his feet, nearly upsetting his chair. "Who the hell do you think you are, Searcy?" He looked ready to grab Michael by the throat. Only a wide, low table strategically placed between the two MechWarriors kept them apart. Even the minor prop was no accident, but had been carefully placed to buy time for more invective.
Never one to let a challenge slip by—not Stormin' Michael Searcy—Michael also leapt to his feet. He pulled his right hand, already balled into a tight fist, out of his pocket. With his left he grabbed the lip of the table and flipped it out of the way. The prop clattered across the studio floor.
Bauer blinked his surprise; he was supposed to have kicked the table to the side—later. Michael sailed into the other man's confusion. "I'm someone who didn't fail Jaime Wolf's class in strategy and tactics on Outreach," he shot back, definitely a low blow. Bauer's pained expression—and on camera no less!—suddenly made the cash outlay for that information a bargain. "But what can you expect from a Lyran?"
Bauer took a step forward, as if ready to swing, then faltered and looked to his host for some sign. Richards, getting more than he'd hoped for on the show, was staying out of the way until the two MechWarriors got to the point that was his cue.
"It'll take more than Lyran money to make you Champion," Michael taunted. What was it going to take to get Jarman to come at him?
Bauer had apparently decided to stick to the loose script arranged beforehand, hovering back as if the table still blocked the two of them from coming to blows. "You wait till I get you into Ishiyama," he said. "I'm going to bury you under Stone Mountain!"
Enough of this, Michael decided. Any more and it would begin to look comical. He stepped forward, pushing against Bauer's chest and shoving the larger man back a good few meters. "C'mon, Jarman. Right now! Let's go, farmer!"
On cue, or close enough, Todd Richards leapt forward to position himself between the two. From off-stage a pair of big men also raced out to restrain them— Michael's and Bauer's bodyguards. Still shouting curses and challenges, Michael and Bauer managed to work back close enough to place themselves in the same close-up shot with Todd Richards. Richards would segue into a break, and the show would cut to commercial. That was how the game was played.
Then Michael slipped his bodyguard's grip.
Right arm cocked back and ready, he lurched forward and pistoned his fist into Jarman Bauer's jaw. That one punch rocked the other Mech Warrior back, knocking him unconscious to the floor.
A few seconds of stunned silence fell over the studio. That wasn't part of the script. Todd Richards stared dumbly at Bauer, for several long seconds forgetting to call for commercial. Then came the cut, and Michael's bodyguard was hurrying him off the floor and into the studio wings. From there, they went down a short hall cluttered with props and a few stagehands, and out a side door where an Avanti luxury hover sedan waited in the light afternoon rain.
The Avanti's driver was holding the rear passenger-side door open. Michael paused to wave to some Mech-bunnies being restrained by security. They were mostly teens and not adverse to staking out the studio doors in hopes of catching a glimpse of a favorite arena warrior. Maybe score an autograph or, in Michael's case, offer some lively curses for his future. One of the Lyran teens threw a half-full bottle of soda in his direction, shattering it against the sedan's forward fender.
Michael piled in, still wired from adrenaline, his bodyguard close behind. He settled back into the plush leather seat as the Avanti rose up on a cushion of air and glided away from the curb, moving away from the small mob and into the streets of Silesia. His bodyguard took the rear-facing seat cross-corner to Michael and directly facing the portly man who'd been waiting for them in the hovercar.
The man was Drew Hasek-Davion, Michael's boss. Fortyish and overweight, he looked more like an old-time robber baron than the master of Blackstar Stables. He also affected a thin oily mustache that gave his face a ratlike appearance. Michael grinned at the man, expecting praise for his performance.
"What was that bit about 'farmer'?" he asked Michael, his tone sharp.
"Bauer is the German word for farmer," Michael said. "It will become a derogatory nickname for him within a day. What's more, it's also Solaran slang. A farmer is a warrior who drives a tractor."
Drew caught on quickly. "A BattleMech unworthy of the arenas. Or, the converse, a warrior who is unworthy of his BattleMech." He nodded. Yellow teeth showed as he made a brief stab at a smile of his own, a smile that died almost before it was born. "And the information about Paulson's drinking habit and Bauer's training failures?"
"All true, and paid for from my own pocket."
Drew frowned but nodded again. "Well played, then." He didn't sound so certain. He tapped the gold-plated lion's head of his walking stick against one thigh. "Still, you should leave the planning to me, Michael."
Michael shrugged, annoyed by Drew's condescension. "I'll bet you my percentage of the Day One purse that Bauer will lose the three percentage points his upset over Paulson netted him."
He watched as Drew's self-importance and the desire to rake in a good pot warred with the possibility of being raked himself. Meanwhile, the sedan gained Narvik Street to head west as the Silesia sector gave way to fragmented Cathay. In the end, Hasek-Davion shrugged off the challenge. "I only take wagers where I have a hand in the outcome."
"You like a stacked deck, you mean."
"Which is why I own you, dear boy." Drew settled back into the plush seat. "Try not to forget that." He paused to lend the veiled threat some additional weight. "Fortunately, you paid off again, dropping Mr. Bauer with a single blow. Now you merely have to end the feud tomorrow. And quickly, as you did today."
Michael decided not to take issue with Drew's belief tha
t he owned the Federated Suns favorite. He had personally groomed and trained Michael in his fighter's persona, holding up the young man—and by proxy himself—as the great hope of Davion supporters on Solaris VII. Episodes such as tonight's interview helped cement that image. He also held Michael's contract, and that was close enough to ownership on Solaris VII if a 'Warrior wished to keep fighting. Which was what Michael wished more than anything. It was why he was here on the Game World.
Far more insulting, though, was the insinuation that Michael might lose to a pretender like Bauer, or to any Lyran for that matter. He wouldn't—couldn't—let that happen. It would threaten everything he'd worked toward these last three years. No, his first serious competition wouldn't come until Day Three, when he would likely fight Bromley Stables' Evelyn Czerny. She was the best Marik-affiliated fighter and ranked number two overall, five above Searcy himself. Now, she could be a problem. As for Bauer . . .
"Did your man find one of the new light gauss rifles?" Michael asked, and Drew nodded. "So we switch out the regular gauss rifle on my Dragon Fire for the lighter version and rip out the ECM package, then upgrade my autocannon to the twelve-centimeter bore of a Defiance Disintegrator. Bauer will close quickly. It's all he knows how to do, and I'll allow it. Then I'll rip that Penetrator to scrap." His smile was devoid of humor. Bauer had already lost, and tomorrow would merely be confirmation.
Did Drew smile in answer? "It seems I am not the only one in this car who appreciates a stacked deck."
Michael cocked his head to one side, as if considering. Then he tossed the roll of coins he'd been holding in his fist while sitting across from Bauer on the set. He'd kept them hidden in his hand until just before the argument came to blows. Nothing like a little extra advantage-insurance that one punch would drop his enemy. The bodyguard looked away, careful not to see anything.
LE5790 - Illusions Of Victory Page 2
