FLASH—one hundred tons of armor, weapons, and control systems hurtled back against the ferroglass shield and detonator grid protecting the main stadium seating. Protecting thousands of cheering, bloodthirsty fans. A cascade of bright, white-hot sparks lit up an entire quadrant of the arena as the underpowered grid overloaded trying to push back such a large mass. In its reduced capacity, there was simply no chance.
FLASH—the Pillager smashed through, detonator grid, ferroglass shield and all, to plunge into the Coliseum's packed stadium seating.
9
The Coliseum, Silesia
Solaris City, Solaris VII
Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance
15 August 3062
"It's bedlam in there. The lights are still flashing, freezing the action into a series of rapidly changing still shots and making it hard to ascertain the full extent of the damage. But Michael Searcy is definitely into the stands. Fight fans, he is through the detonator grid."
Julian Nero kept his voice just at the edge of control, his delivery professional but letting his excitement bleed through to charge his listeners with a sense of frantic energy. For Julian, what began as an irksome duty had become a once-in-a-career opportunity. That he was on soundcast at the very moment when the Coliseum's safety features were breached could be thought of no other way, and he wasted no time pitying the video commentators. It would be Julian's voice first carrying a report of the tragedy to Solaris City, the Game World in general, and perhaps the whole of the Inner Sphere. The great Nero. The man in the know.
The man who had been dealt one incredibly large stroke of luck.
"I think I see Searcy standing back up." He saw a dark outline, framed by the continuing shower of sparks and electrical discharges of the ruined detonator grid. "Yes, the Pillager is back on its feet and hovering at the breach in the ferroglass shield. The arena controllers seem to be having trouble bringing up the Coliseum's main lights. I can see them in the control room arguing with someone from the maintenance crew."
A trail of bright fire clawed up through the darkened arena in between light strobes, careening off the left arm of the Pillager, throwing flinty sparks and shards of armor over the assault-class 'Mech's left shoulder. Julian bent over the monitor as if pressing his nose to the screen might improve his sight. Was that—could that have been . . . ? Was that the Banshee's autocannon fire ricocheting off the arm of the Pillager to range deeper into the packed stands?
The question was only half-formed in Julian's mind when the monitor suddenly brightened with a cascade of brilliant azure striking out from the top of the barricade and whipping manmade lightning up through the breach.
"By the Archon! Victor Vandergriff is continuing to fire! The detonator grid is down, and that PPC—two, two PPCs—spent their hellish destruction into the lower level seating. I don't know if Searcy's Pillager back-stopped the damage or if it bled directly into the crowd there. These strobes make it difficult to tell. But there's the Pillager. It's still on its feet, framed by the wide hole smashed into the ferroglass shield. If you could only see this. Is Searcy attacking? I can make out ..."
* * *
Twin, muted flashes of blue light. Victor saw them. It was the discharge of electricity from heavy capacitors dumped into the acceleration coils of two gauss rifles, one in each arm of the Pillager. The flash of energy would create a strong magnetic field in each weapon, latching onto the nickel-ferrous slug with an invisible but unbreakable grip and rapidly accelerating it along the length of the barrel.
The silvery was not visible in that instant of travel, not with the chaotic lighting of the arena, but Victor Vandergriff knew the telltale flash of the coils and tensed for the blow. One of the slugs tore into his Banshee just right of the centerline, screening off the angular torso and smashing to impotent shards his protective armor. A fault indicator for one of his heat sinks spiked the cautionary amber straight to red as the crushed armor caved in over a faulty support and ruptured cooling equipment.
Victor was sweating freely in the sauna of his cockpit, the pair of extended-range PPCs driving his heat up quickly. Coupled with his earlier jump they had worked to drive his fusion reactor output into the yellow band. The reactor's waste heat bled into his 'Mech and up into the cockpit. If not for the coolant lines threaded through his vest, he might have passed out from the roasting temperatures. But he couldn't pass out—wouldn't allow himself.
Not while Michael Searcy was still trying to kill him.
From the start of the fight, there was little doubt in Victor's mind on that score. Searcy had all but threatened it on the news vids, hadn't he? And then the despised FedRat had chosen one of the deadliest headhunter 'Mechs out there—the Pillager, with its twin gauss rifles. The same weapon Stephen Neils had used against him, also trying to kill him.
It wasn't enough anymore that Victor be defeated— sent back to the ranks of the has-beens and wannabe-warriors where he had labored mostly unnoticed ever since the trade to Lynch Stables these last six years. They wanted him dead for daring to hold his head up proudly again. They all wanted him dead, the 'Warriors and stable owners and fans, rooting against him in the games and waiting for him to take the final fall while making jokes at his expense. A member of the Top Twenty, ridiculed! "Placeholder" was another of his nicknames. It bit at him every time he heard the news channels list the top nineteen MechWarriors on Solaris VII, as if he didn't deserve mention.
Victor himself might have wished for his death. Wouldn't it be better to die in the games, which were all he lived for anymore, before suffering an ignoble defeat? But now he decided he wasn't going out so easily. A champion—a Champion—never gave up the fight.
Victor would take his enemy with him. He would give them all something to remember him by, and that vow colored tonight's battle as he fought with a savage ferocity he hadn't felt in a long time.
Victor had seen Searcy's second sky-walking maneuver, the Pillager rising above the barricade on which they stood. Anticipated it, and turned his short-range weaponry on the 'Mech while preparing for the tight turn when Searcy came down at his back. Then the Pillager had veered hard for the stands, smashing into the protective shields. Did it force its way through? The strobing lights made everything seem so disconnected. So out of focus, though he relied on thermal imaging over true-sight.
How many seconds had he lost between flashes? One? Two? He triggered his light gauss rifle by reflex, then stabbed out with his paired PPCs. But Searcy was already in the stands, and Victor's attack looked as if it had stabbed deeper, past the outline of the Pillager. His hands loosened on the control sticks for a second, trying to make some sense of the disaster.
And that second of inattentiveness almost cost him his life. The gauss slug that punched down at his head just barely missed, ringing off the Banshee's right side and throwing a hard tremor into its step. Walking a tightrope, even a thirty-meter-wide tightrope, was no place to be lapsing. The fight was still on. Searcy was still after him.
There were Lyrans up there—Silesians—but Davionists from the Black Hills as well. And residents of Cathay, Montenegro, Kobe, and the outlying districts. No one could tell who had claimed what section, and to Victor it really didn't matter. Something inside him simply turned off—the remorse for the tragedy and any pity for the vultures in the stands who had tormented him all these years with their fickleness and sneers. The ones who had abandoned him. The ones he supposedly fought for. No, Victor Vandergriff fought for himself. First and foremost. He walked forward under the guns of Searcy, ready for a gauss slug to punch through his cockpit canopy at any moment and end his existence. But it didn't happen. The fates were not finished with Victor Vandergriff, and he meant to push their generosity to the fullest measure.
He cut in his own jump jets, ready again to meet Michael Searcy in a head-on challenge and settle their fight once and for all. The Banshee rose on fiery jets, angling for the same hole the Pillager had already made.
"Stop me if
you can!" he called out into the tight confines of the cockpit, enjoying the sound of his own voice—defiant to the end.
Searcy gave way, as Victor had known he would. The Banshee settled into the destruction, the sloped levels of seating now crushed beneath the feet of an assault-weight BattleMech. Shadows scurried around him, vague forms in the uncertain lighting, scrambling over the ferrocrete slabwork like cockroaches heading for their cracks in the walls. One particularly large crack was just about BattleMech-sized, a place where the Pillager had fallen through the sloped floor and created a tunnel leading out to the huge system of walkways and ramps that circled the entire Coliseum floor by floor. A huge shape moved within it, backlit by the red emergency lighting of the hallways beyond.
Drifting his targeting reticle into that gap, Victor smiled when the cross hairs burned the dark gold of target lock. He snapped off a single PPC blast, the swirling blue-white energies streaming out to slam into the Pillager's back. Damn that bizarre lighting! If Victor had known he had Michael by the rear quarter, this fight might be finished right now.
The scarlet lance of a large laser speared back as the Pillager turned to face him, hitting the Banshee in its broad chest. Armor melted and runneled to the floor below, but the assault 'Mech hardly missed it. The gauss slug that tore into his right leg was another matter, scraping the limb nearly clean of any protection. The Banshee stumbled under the onslaught, threatened to totter back through the hole in the ferroglass shield. Victor bent forward, his own sense of balance fed through the neurocircuitry to the Banshee's massive gyro. He held his feet, if barely.
The Pillager was gone, having gained the outer ramps. Probably waiting now in a Davion-style ambush, Victor decided. FedRats were rather unsporting that way. He smiled grimly and walked around the lower level, each step crushing more of the arena seating. Three sections, he decided. Then he would smash a new exit some way down from Searcy's. Victor Vandergriff was not about to be predictable, and he wasn't about to give up. Not now.
The hunt had only begun.
10
The Coliseum, Silesia
Solaris City, Solaris VII
Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance
15 August 3062
The siren wailed like a banshee through the 'Mech storage and repair bays in the Coliseum's lower level. On the wall a red light began to spin in warning. But a warning of what? Karl Edward had been resting against the foot of his Cestus, in partial repose and partial contemplation of his upcoming fight. He quickly scaled the gantry ladder up to his cockpit, thinking that whatever the reason for the alarm signal, he'd be better off facing it strapped in, powered up, and ready to move.
The other thought that crossed his mind was whether his grudge match against Tom Payne of Overlord Stables would be postponed, again. Their fight was scheduled between the two Grand Tournament tickets on tonight's lineup, but if something was wrong, his would be one of the first bumped from the program. The Grand Tournament took precedence, and rightly so. After all, it wasn't that big a grudge, was it? -
Reaching the gantry platform, Karl peeled off his jacket and threw it aside. He alrteady wore his cooling suit, the newer life-support technology available to a few of the more prominent stables and replacing the old ballistic cloth vest. Though he still relied on the tried-and-true neurohelmet, it would be a simple matter to hook into the 'Mech's life support and control systems and bring his Cestus's reactor up to power. Halfway through the hatch, though, he glanced again at the flashing red warning. Damn if that didn't sound like an attack alarm. Here? On Solaris VII? Karl pushed down an instant of dread, then ducked inside and began to bring his sixty-five-ton avatar to life.
He wasn't alone. All around the big bay other warriors also scrambled for their rides. Karl could imagine the same scene throughout the Coliseum warrens, the adjacent tunnels and bays that were part of the vast underground tunnel system beneath Solaris City. Tom Payne, just across the way, was already powering up his Steiner-variant Hunchback. In the next rack over Estelle Goulet, another of Tran Ky Bo's Starlight "starbrites," walked her Penetrator onto the main bay floor. Most of the others weren't far behind. Karl plugged into his communications system. Already the commline was alive with chatter as everyone requested information or made wild speculations.
"Fusion reactor online," the soft voice of the computer informed him. "Initiate security procedures."
Because BattleMechs represented a huge investment, sometimes in the tens of millions of C-Bills, tight security measures prevented just anybody from walking off with one. In the several hundred years of Succession Wars and numerous minor skirmishes, very little was as valuable as control of a 'Mech.
"Karl Edward," Karl said, activating the voiceprint match. "Starlight Stables."
"Pattern match obtained. Cross-check requested."
The technology to fake a voiceprint did exist, though to do it correctly usually required a decent amount of expertise. So a second level of security was installed: a code phrase known only to the 'Mech's primary operator. Without it, the 'Mech would shut right back down. Karl's dated back to his childhood and the name his little brother had bestowed on him. "I am the High Tyrant of Munchkins," he said, doubting anyone could ever delve far enough into his past to unravel that one.
"Security procedures confirmed. Welcome, Karl Edward. Remember, little brother is watching."
Karl stepped his Cestus onto the main floor and came face to face with an Emperor painted Steiner-blue and bearing the crest of Silesia Coliseum Security. His commline crackled to life on the emergency frequency, overriding all others. "There has been a breach of Coliseum safety," the voice said. "All MechWarriors will stand down immediately."
Used to obeying the regulations and restrictions that governed the games, especially with regard to arena safety, Karl reached for the bank of toggles that would begin shutdown procedures. But a niggling doubt stayed his hand over the switches. Nothing he could put a finger on, just a vague uneasiness that something didn't make sense.
A feeling others apparently shared. Estelle Goulet's voice came in over a private frequency reserved for Starlight Stables. "Karl, you got any clue what's going on here?"
None. Especially when Tom Payne and two other Lyran fighters continued to walk their BattleMechs out of the bay. The Emperor made no move to stop them— even moved aside to allow more room for a squat, wide-shouldered Bushwacker to pass.
Karl dialed for the emergency channel the Emperor had used. "I thought all MechWarriors were to stand down," he complained.
"The Silesian 'Mechs have been authorized to assist in containment. You will shut down at once!"
"He's full of it, people. This is Aubry Larsen of Blackstar Stables. I was listening in on Michael's fight, and they went through the wall. Nero's saying they're still fighting it out in the parking area now, though Vandergriff is beginning to fall back toward the river. Pick it up on civilian freqs—channel setting seven, should be. These guys have been called out to put the fighters down. Want to bet who they'll be shooting at?"
No takers here. One Emperor was left to contain the rest of them while three other Lyrans went hunting Michael Searcy. Karl slowly drew his hand back from the toggles, aborting the shutdown sequence. Tran Ky Bo might disapprove. There was no love lost between him and Michael. But that was a MechWarrior out there, dammit—the best the Federated Suns had to offer on Solaris VII. And he was Karl's friend.
"I doubt Silesians will be trying too hard to bring Michael back in one piece," he told the Emperor pilot, wishing he was dealing with another arena fighter rather than a die-hard Lyran Alliance soldier. "We'll go out and bring him in. Stand aside."
A Tempest painted the purple and white of Fitzhugh, one of the Montenegro stables, stepped forward. He was followed by a stable-mate piloting an Anvil. "No, we'll go. We've no personal stake in this. Let cooler heads prevail here."
Several 'Mechs throttled into slow walks, including Aubry Larsen's Dragon Fire and Estelle's Penetrator. The
Emperor pilot was one step away form losing control of the situation, and obviously knew it. He had a few options on how to handle it. He chose poorly. A large laser flared from the Emperor's right arm, followed by a second from the left. Rather than flash warning shots or tag the forward-most 'Mech, which was the Fitzhugh Tempest, he chose to reach back into the stable for Estelle Goulet's Penetrator. The emerald beams slashed away armor from her 'Mech's left shoulder and then stabbed deeply into the side of the head.
"I said stand down!" he commanded.
The Penetrator staggered forward, reeling from the hard-hitting blow against its most vulnerable point. Karl froze for a crucial second, his own anger warring with his shock at seeing the Lyran direct such heavy fire against a non-hostile opponent. But only when the Emperor pressed forward did he realize the threat posed to his stable-mate. He throttled forward, trying to insert himself between Estelle and the Lyran, but before Karl could intervene, the Emperor triggered its LB-X eighty-millimeter autocannon. Cluster rounds spat out in a high-velocity stream, fragmenting into a wide spread of lethal destruction. The deadly shower sanded away at the Penetrator while Karl stood there in impotent rage.
In the tight confines of the bay, that was overwhelming firepower. Several of the submunitions pierced the thin armor left protecting the Penetrator's cockpit, and the 'Mech crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut, landing heavily on its left side.
Karl punched in the private Starlight Stables frequency. "Estelle? Estelle!" No answer. He could see the jagged holes cut into the right panes of the ferroglass canopy. Karl wanted to believe she was all right, that the damage might simply have severed her communications ability, but from the way her 'Mech had collapsed, the only real explanation was complete failure of the gyroscopic stabilizer system. The housing protecting the gyro itself was intact, hadn't been touched in the brief assault, which meant the system had been destroyed from the other end—the neurological signal taken from the brain and fed down into the stabilizer on a feedback loop.
LE5790 - Illusions Of Victory Page 10
