The fights had started without Megan's help, but she worked to keep them going and would certainly claim credit when it came time to collect her paycheck. A girl had to make a living, after all.
Megan Church knew how to handle such a crowd. There was no need to dive into the middle and get involved in the thick of the fighting. Those fools were already hooked on the adrenaline rush of violence and their own rage. Instead, she worked at stirring up people on the perimeter, goading them with the aim of getting more people into the conflict.
After nearly tripping over a trampled umbrella, she picked it up and stripped the last of the cloth and wire supports away. She wielded the handle and rod like an epee, dealing stinging slaps against the sides of people's heads and then fading back as those individuals rounded on the closest enemy. Only one man was a bit faster than she'd given him credit for. He was big and overweight, with the sun-and-sword crest of the Federated Suns painted on his face. Just another couch-warrior out for a little excitement and hoping to get a two-second shot on the main screen during a slow combat sequence. Megan dealt him a slash against his right ear, perhaps harder than she originally intended, drawing blood and knocking him off balance.
He recovered quickly, catching sight of her and barreling through a pair of fellow Davionists to give chase. Megan dodged around another arm of the growing riot, but was knocked aside when someone threw a man into her. She tripped over a manhole cover that had gotten pulled out of its seating. She went tumbling over the wet pavement, scraping skin from her hands, until fetching up against the body of a former—now unconscious— rioter. A large hand fastened onto the front of her leather jacket, hauling her to unsteady feet. A painted face glared down at her. One meaty paw slapped out, aiming to backhand her across the face.
"Steiner bitch!" he growled.
Megan was not about to get into a contest of strength with the big man. She hunched one shoulder, partially deflecting the blow, and then rolled with the slap to absorb most of its remaining force. The side of her face burned with the slap, and one eye teared up. Megan sagged back, spitting out the salty taste of blood from biting her tongue, cowering away as much as his grip on her jacket allowed. She tugged with little strength against her jacket front as if trying to free herself, then looked off to one side and screamed, "David, do something!"
Megan's assailant made the mistake of looking over toward her fictitious boyfriend or husband or whatever, while she twisted from his grasp and lashed out with a sidekick to his knee. She could break four boards with that kick, against which the poor engineering of the human knee stood little chance. She felt his leg give under the blow, twisting in the wrong direction, then stepped in with a palm-heel strike that certainly broke a rib.
Megan Church also knew how to handle herself. Solaris taught you that at a very young age.
The man stumbled forward, then collapsed alongside the unconscious form Megan had bumped into earlier, moaning through pain-clenched teeth. It reminded her of her own roll across the ground and that misplaced manhole cover that led her to—
The open manhole. It yawned a few steps to her left, a spot of darkness against the light gray pavement. One man was just crawling free, then turned to help a second up the ladder that extended down into the darkness. Megan knew of the extensive tunnel works beneath Solaris City, tunnels big enough to let BattleMechs travel from one side of the city to the other without ever seeing daylight. There was no way of knowing whether this hole led down into those tunnels or to a simple utility shaft, though from hand-held flashlights the men carried, she was willing to bet on the latter. One also carried a tool pack slung over a shoulder and had wrapped several loops of det-cord around his wrist.
One of the men noticed Megan's interest and took a step in her direction. His friend, more interested in his watch than any potential witnesses, grabbed at his companion's shoulder and pulled him back away from the open manhole. There was no mistaking their look of concern as both men then worked to put distance between themselves and the manhole.
Megan turned at a right angle to their retreat and sprinted away, directly into the heart of the brawl but with no time to be picky. She counted each pounding step, marking time. Surely they would give themselves room for an escape. At fifteen she caught a hurried blow against her shoulder, the jacket's padding absorbing most of the wild punch. At thirty a bottle smashed into the pavement nearby with a resounding crack that tricked her into slowing, thinking the danger was past.
She was still glancing around at forty, when the first explosion belched flame in an inverted cone not twenty meters in front of her.
A good thing she had slowed, actually. Her dash for safety had taken her out of danger from the first manhole but placed her closer to a second. The cover had been replaced on this one and went flipping into the air like some kind of giant coin tossed to settle a wager. People yelled in pain, panic, or anger, depending on their distance from the explosion. Another fiery eruption flared up beyond this one. The ground shook only lightly as the underground detonations spread their force over a wide expanse of thick pavement.
Megan had relocated to the damp ground as a cautionary measure. Now, with the danger apparently past, she got back on her feet. She scoped the area, looking for the quickest path out of harm's way. The fracas had staggered back down to shoving matches and a few wild punches around the areas where the explosions had occurred. Most of the brawlers were trying to figure out what had happened, while only the truly dedicated used the distraction to score a few more blows. Maybe the fighting would re-ignite. Maybe it would gutter out. Didn't matter to her. She'd done everything she'd been paid to do.
Megan would leave the rest of the night's work to the professionals. Whatever else was going on, she knew it meant . . .
* * *
Serious trouble. Four separate utility shafts had been demolished by planted charges, three on the coliseum's east side and one on the west. The ground and broken pavement caved in above one site, leaving a crater four meters across by fifteen in length. Over two dozen manhole covers blew out of their seating under the force of the blasts, causing several broken arms, concussions, dislocated shoulders, and a fractured clavicle. One also smashed square into the head of a Montenegro resident who'd pulled a hold-out laser on a Cathay rival, killing him on the spot. Fortunately for the mob—at least for the short term—most of the force was contained in the tunnels where the explosions ripped apart conduits and shattered piping.
Fiberoptic cables supporting the stadium's public pay-phones were severed, more inconvenient than dangerous. Also hit were security lines, and the damaged network fed several false alarms to nearby fire stations and police precincts. Fire trucks, paramedics, and cruisers were dispatched to the scene, pulling important sector security assets out of place. The Silesian Police Department even deployed a light 'Mech equipped for riot duty, just in case.
But the real problem was that the Coliseum's four primary power feeds had been severed, causing a sudden and massive undervoltage condition on the local main bus. In the sub-levels of the Coliseum, sensing devices registered the problem and a backup fusion reactor sparked to life, quickly powering up in an effort to help handle the load. Crucial seconds were lost as non-critical systems tripped off-line on the undervoltage condition. By order of priority, power-sensing breakers on all important equipment and systems automatically switched over to the auxiliary bus while waiting for the main bus to regain power.
Except that the auxiliary bus wasn't meant to handle such a demand. Designers had never planned for a complete loss of the independent main feeds, not with the fourth conduit for auxiliary power routed in on the far side of the Coliseum. As the breakers switched over, a building overcurrent condition now threatened to trip out the aux bus. More loads were automatically dumped according to designated priority, and all safety-affiliated systems were routed back onto the main bus and local power.
This included the detonator grid—the technology that provided the destr
uctive forces released in the arena. The fusion reactor could not possibly keep the system at full strength, though a margin of safety had been built in that allowed it to function at reduced-effect capacity while human controllers responded to the problem with appropriate actions. The current match would be called, and unless repairs could be made immediately, the Coliseum might not be able to host any more Grand Tournament fights. Which had likely been the saboteurs' plan.
They would eventually get their wish.
In the arena's electrical control room, also in the sub-levels of the Coliseum, journeyman electrician Keith Mick responded quickly to the problem of a complete loss of main power. He saw the fusion reactor come up and accept the high demand of the detonator grid. Even at reduced capacity, the grid threatened to overload it. He picked up a phone to call in to Coliseum Control. The arena was unsafe.
The line, however, was dead. Somewhere, sometime, someone had decided that internal stadium communications between the sub-levels and upper control rooms were less important than the ability to retain full recording and broadcasting capability. Keith wasted all of two seconds stabbing at the On button, and another few in realizing that the breaker was not immediately accessible. Then he was out the door at a full run, abandoning his station as he made for the elevator—no, the stairs!— and hopefully the Coliseum control room before disaster occurred. No, too late for that. This was already . . .
* * *
"An exciting match, game fans. The southern barricade is rising, catching them on opposite sides just when it looked like they might come to physical blows. Stormin' Michael Searcy isn't about to wait. He's heading for the eastern edge of the barrier. The fighting is brutal in there. Vandergriff's customized Banshee might be an older design, but it's standing up to Searcy and his Pillager remarkably well. If you're not here for the Coliseum's afternoon set, I'm telling you, you ought to be."
Julian Nero sat in the soundcast booth, just off the Coliseum's main control room. He was taking his turn on the live feed going out over radio, teasing the fans who'd decided not to purchase tickets for the Coliseum's live show. He hated the soundcasts, but his contract obligated that he do them once a week. More often than not he was competing with live video footage, the arena junkies who had bets on matches at Boreal Reach or the Factory and had brought in small receivers so they could keep tabs on the outcomes. He had to be part commentator and part salesman, trying to hook them into the Coliseum fights the next time around. And besides, just how many ways were there to say that a PPC hit melted armor off a BattleMech's chest?
Well, twenty-three so far. That included the new one he'd thought of tonight when describing Vandergriff's opening shot as "an azure knife brutally rending Searcy's armor from shoulder to hip." He had them all on a list, taped onto the glass wall that protected him from the noisy arena-controllers in the main room. Likewise, cheat sheets for lasers, autocannon, and missiles. With those lists, he could, theoretically, keep going for hours. That plus on-screen histories of both fighters and separate screens to dig up info on their 'Mechs, giving him access to plenty of background material. And he had one of the best views in the stadium, with the controllers feeding him holovid segments from three different camera angles.
Julian Nero was still the man in the know.
Time to get back to work. "If you're just tuning in, we have a sensational match underway in this first of Day Five's tournament bouts. These two fighters are out for blood this afternoon as Victor Vandergriff defends the honor of the Lyran Alliance and Archon Princess Katrina Steiner-Davion against Davionist—I'm sorry, make that Federated Sun loyalist—Michael Searcy."
Not too much sarcasm, Julian reminded himself. He shouldn't appear biased. "It's been billed the 'Battle of the Bruisers' ever since word got out that the two warriors came to blows in Valhalla last evening, and they're doing everything they can to live up to it. Michael Searcy is spending gauss slugs like they were Solaris scrip, but Vandergriff has surprised the Federated Suns favorite at least once by showing off the jump jets custom-installed on the Banshee by the great Lazlo Falcher. And if you want my opinion, I'd say it's . . ."
* * *
Only a matter of time now. And Michael Searcy knew it. Vandergriff could hide for only so long.
He worked the Pillager's controls, stomping the one-hundred-ton 'Mech to the end of the chevron-shaped southern barricade. Sweat streamed down his face from the hard-fought battle, despite the Pillager's reputation as one of the coolest-running designs and the top-line coolant suit Hasek-Davion had invested in for Michael. The exertion came more from fighting the terrain than Vandergriff, though.
The Coliseum was in "chaos mode"—MechWarrior slang for the way the pop-up barricades and pylons would randomly rise ten to twenty meters high or plunge back into the floor, making an ever-shifting maze in which the two 'Mechs hunted each other. The stadium managers were also trying to spike interest with strange effects again, strobing the lights to break up fluid movement and make the 'Mechs look as if they were being shifted about the arena by some invisible hand.
FLASH—Michael's Pillager slammed a gauss slug into the Banshee's side. FLASH—Victor relocated thirty meters to the right, one of his PPCs slashing a deep furrow up the Pillager's left leg.
Michael stood at the eastern end of the barricade. This was where Vandergriff would expect him to come around. Certainly the Lyran wasn't about to risk his neck in a frontal assault. Vandergriff would run away and hide. It was what Lyrans did best, running away and then striking out from ambush.
Just like Michael's old C.O. had run away, leaving him alone in the path of that Liao advance. Arranging a flanking maneuver, the officer had claimed. Steiner blue—what a laugh. Their color was yellow.
But such generalities aside, there was also the matter that the Banshee's heat curve was far less than optimum. Every few moments Vandergriff had to break off and cool down or risk becoming incapacitated by the heat buildup. He would run, Michael was certain, and wait for the Pillager to round the barricade.
It wasn't going to happen quite the way Vandergriff wanted it. And that would make all the difference.
Cutting in his jump jets, Michael decided to "skywalk" the Coliseum. The high-ceilinged arena allowed for it, and with his range he could just clear the barricades. The customized Banshee had demonstrated a similar capability early on in the battle, catching Michael off-guard once, but he doubted Vandergriff had the spine to use it again.
FLASH—the Pillager rose on a hellish cloud of vented plasma, pulled from the fusion reactor and routed out special ducts built into the back of the assault 'Mech. FLASH—it came down right on top of the barricade, fifteen meters above where it had started. Its weapons pointed straight down into the arena, ready to pound twin gauss slugs into the head of the Banshee.
Only Vandergriff wasn't there.
The warnings wailed at him too late. Showing more backbone than Michael had given Vandergriff credit for, his enemy had walked his Banshee further down the wall and now rose up on his own jump jets to perch atop the same barricade. Blue-white lightning from twin particle projection cannons stabbed out as Michael hunched the Pillager down to decrease its targeting profile. One stream of energies flailed into the ferroglass protection of nearby private boxes, those spectators getting a closer look at the action then they'd bargained for. Fiery-white sparks and arcs of electrical energy jumped off the detonator grid—an effect Michael had never seen before and mentally catalogued automatically for later review. The other PPC carved deeply into the Pillager's left arm, deeply scarring the star slab armor.
His ambush sprung, Vandergriff ran his ninety-five-ton Banshee along the top of the thick barricade toward the Pillager, pinning it against the end of the barrier, which dropped off on three sides. He obviously planned to rush Michael's 'Mech, shoving it off the wall before pouring more firepower into it from above.
"Treacherous, money-grubbing Lyran!" Caught on the left flank and in no good position, Michael abandoned
his own chance to fire and instead cut in his jump jets again. The Pillager rose off the barricade five meters, then ten—a good twenty-five meters off the floor of the arena and coming even with the levels of main seating. He planned to sail up and over the closing Banshee, then come down in its rear quarter, carving into the weaker armor that protected Vandergriff's back. That was the plan. It should have been a simple maneuver for a MechWarrior of Michael's caliber.
It should have been a simple maneuver.
It should have been.
Vandergriff's paired medium lasers sliced more armor from the Pillager's left side and hip, followed by hammering blows from the Banshee's shoulder-mounted short-range missile system and the autocannon that replaced the Banshee's usual gauss rifle. The Pillager trembled under the fire, one missile drilling into the side of its head and throwing Michael against the limit of his safety harness. His head slammed back against the padded headrest of his seat, but was further protected by the lightweight impact helmet he wore in place of the usual bulky neurohelmet.
Then the Pillager suddenly lurched heavily to one side, its left-leg jump jet suddenly shutting down without warning. Michael hesitated on the controls, still shaken from the rough treatment and unsure what was happening. Telltale lights flashed a blockage of the venting port on his left leg.
In his mind's eye, he saw the emerald laserfire he'd weathered melting enough of the star-slab composite to splash molten armor into the vent, though that knowledge came late as he struggled to bring the Pillager back under control. If he couldn't land correctly, the fight might be over—No! He wouldn't give up the Championship so easily. Not now and certainly not to Victor Vandergriff! But the strobing lights made the visual cues he so desperately needed impossible to find, and he over-compensated with his right and centerline jets.
FLASH—the Pillager drifted into a tight leftward spin, out of control. Its head rocked back as it sailed out from over the barricade, still rising on its remaining plasma-vent lifters.
LE5790 - Illusions Of Victory Page 9
