Theodore Gross!
Gross practically ran under Garrett's cross hairs, dodging the feet of other 'Mechs on the move as he made a beeline for his own Omni. With the Mad Dog powered and its weapons hot, Garrett almost burned him down right then and there.
Yet he held back, watching as Gross scooted between the legs of a lumbering Sirocco quad-Mech from Bromley Stables to reach the gantry alongside his Warhawk— misnamed a Masakari by the Combine—and one in beautiful condition. If it wasn't travesty enough that an Inner Sphere barbarian fought in a Clan Omni, the 'Mech had been a gift to Gross from the ruler of the Draconis Combine. Not only had they stolen this beautiful piece of work from the Smoke Jaguars, but then they shamelessly put it into service among their own. By comparison, Garrett's Mad Dog was a battle-ruined shell of its former glory. Gross didn't deserve that 'Mech. Hardly anyone on the Game World did, except perhaps Garrett himself.
Still watching, he couldn't deny that what Gross was doing took courage, but it wasn't enough to change Garrett's mind. The man was scrambling up the gantry ladder now, still under Garrett's cross hairs. Without remorse, he triggered the forty-millimeter autocannon mounted on the Mad Dog's right arm. It chattered out a quick burst, sending a hail of lethal metal across the mounting gantry and into the Solaris Champion. What chance did flesh and bone have against a weapon intended to use against other BattleMechs? Blood erupted in a geyser of crimson, staining the gantry and spraying red mist in the air. The body, torn and battered beyond recognition, tumbled awkwardly to the floor, where it piled up like a rag doll.
"Same chance you gave my Clan," Garrett said out loud.
Methodically and without haste, he unbuckled his safety restraints and opened a small compartment under the control panel. He selected two printed circuit boards, one controlling basic 'Mech security and the other fine-tuned to interface his brain waves with the neurocircuitry link to the gyro. Inner Sphere 'Mechs were rigged to prevent theft by others. Among the Clans, theft was inconceivable; besides, 'Mechs were often assigned to different warriors when necessary. Unless the Combine engineers had radically reworked the Warhawk's computer system—which Gross always boasted was in pristine condition—the extra layers of security typical of Inner Sphere BattleMechs would be missing. If so, it was a simple matter of replacing circuit boards and the Warhawk would be Garrett's. Deservedly so.
He released a retractable ladder from his cockpit hatch and climbed down to the bay floor. He walked calmly toward the Warhawk, looking neither right nor left, not once worrying about a stray laser beam or bullet. He knew nothing could touch him or stop him from taking command of the 'Mech. His Clan was dead and Garrett should have died long ago.
Perhaps at the controls of the Warhawk, both could be reborn.
* * *
Michael Searcy limped his Pillager west along Narvik Street, which led through Silesia's fashionable Riverside district. A few high-rise hotels and the occasional cluster of condominiums broke up the grounds of rambling estates and luxurious single-dwelling homes. The crowds had not yet converged in force on the area, but as more of Silesia's poorer residents figured out what was happening, the looters wouldn't be far behind.
He tapped open the commline. "Give me a read, Karl."
A burst of static announced the incoming transmission, whispering a soft crackle in Michael's ear. "Northbound on Liszt. Aubry and I left Thor's Shieldhall behind us a minute or so back. Coming up on the Grateful Burger." A pause, likely for a sensor check. "Two heavy Romans and a MadCap bruiser still chasing us, spoiling for a fight." Michael recognized the slang for two Lyrans and a Capellan warrior. "You're out there somewhere, aren't you?"
"I'm here," Michael said. He checked their positions on an auxiliary screen showing a detailed map of Solaris City, currently scrolled to the Lyran sector of Silesia.
"I'm calling the ambush at Hewitt and Ninety-first Street. You come straight up Liszt to Barer, then break over to Ninetieth and try to pull them onto a parallel track. Don't lose our friends."
Michael switched channels, checking in with the others relying on him to coordinate their actions, then switched back over to the frequency he and Karl Edward had claimed for their own.
For the last hour, Michael and Karl had worked on joining up with little success. In fact, Michael was currently coordinating about four different running battles through the streets of Silesia, but none of the Federated Suns friendlies had yet been able to link up. There were too many enemy units in the streets, herding the Davionists first one way, then another. So, besides fighting sporadic encounters on his own, he had to keep track of the others as they played a deadly game of hide-and-seek among the rioter-filled streets.
Caught up in their own concerns, no one on the ground seemed to care much about the lethal firepower being exchanged between the 'Mechs towering over their heads. They either had their own Lyran-FedSuns scores to settle or were simply thte have-nots looking for the haves. One enterprising tong or street gang had painted a large bull's eye on the side of a bank, hoping a passing MechWarrior would oblige. Michael hadn't, but returning that way five minutes later, he noticed that someone else had. The looters were now swarming over the spot like ants at a picnic.
Not that he worried overmuch about the people scurrying about below. They were only the dregs of a money-loving but morally bankrupt realm, or so he kept telling himself. Yet, he couldn't help the slight twinge over his escape through the stands at the Coliseum. Was it his fault that the detonator grid and shielding hadn't held? Or that Vandergriff had kept firing on him, forcing him to choose between fighting a live duel amid the spectators or burrowing back into the Coliseum to escape outside? Certainly he couldn't surrender! No one could have expected that. If anyone should have surrendered, it was Vandergriff. Anyway, the Lyrans had only their faulty engineering to blame for putting him in that kind of position in the first place.
That was only one of the ways this spoiled fight in Silesia reminded Michael of the debacle on New Canton. Once again he'd been abandoned by his commander— this time Drew Hasek-Davion, who hadn't even been present at the match. Nor had Drew responded to any attempts at communication, even though Green Mansion had a high-powered comm system connecting with the Blackstar training facility to the north. Then he'd been set upon by a large force with nothing in the way of support. It was almost as if the erratic lighting of the Coliseum was still affecting his vision. First, he would see the streets of Solaris City. Then, in a blink of an eye, he was back on New Canton, caught in a stretch of steep-faced canyons as the Capellan forces stormed his unit's position.
Vandergriff had pressed hard, just as that Capellan 'Mech had done, forcing Michael's 'Mech into a shutdown from overheating. He hadn't a moment's respite. Vandergriff had pursued him through the Coliseum, where they'd traded ineffective fire among the arches and short passages of the stadium. From there, they'd continued on into the parking area, then into the Silesian streets beyond.
Only this time Michael rode his heat curve more carefully, wiser now about where it paid to take a risk and slowly gaining the upper hand. His Pillager's gauss rifles reached out at range to smash open the Banshee's chest and expose its fragile innards. Vandergriff had been wading through acres of cars in the parking lot, kicking them aside in his haste to close with Michael. Suddenly it was his turn to back away, worrying that another highvelocity round might cripple his 'Mech.
Michael had pushed Vandergriff toward the river for several blocks before losing him among cramped apartment buildings. An UrbanMech rigged for riot control— its lasers replaced by water cannon—had intervened briefly, its single autocannon chipping away at the Pillager's armor. Michael fired a well-aimed gauss round that took the other 'Mech's leg clean off, the titanium femur snapping just above the knee joint.
With one enemy driven off and another beaten, nothing remained to remind him of New Canton. He was no longer a lowly member of the Kestrel Grenadiers but one of the best MechWarriors on Solaris. When the other Dav
ionist 'Mechs finally escaped the Coliseum, it was only natural that they looked to him for leadership. Karl had led them up from the tunnels, but the trouble he had holding everyone together proved that they needed someone stronger.
Slowing his Pillager for a corner, Michael moved onto Ninety-second, heading south for Hewitt. A burnt-out upper leg actuator made the turns difficult, though a light touch on the controls coupled with his own sense of balance fed down into the gyroscopic stabilizer corrected that problem. Speed, though, was uncertain. Never a fast 'Mech, the Pillager was now limited to forty-some kph—slower if Michael wanted to avoid a debilitating skid on the slick pavement. He pushed it for top speed, working more to correct the hitch thrown into the Pillager's step as he raced to set himself up for the ambush.
Karl had warned of two heavy Romans. That meant two MechWarriors from the Coliseum, piloting heavy-class BattleMechs. Also a MadCap bruiser. If Michael was reading Karl's half-slang half-code correctly, it was a warning that a Capellan assault 'Mech pilot had thrown in with the Lyrans for reasons of his or her own. That made for even odds, maybe weighted a bit toward the Lyrans.
Michael Searcy would even things up.
The Pillager gained the intersection at Ninety-second and Hewitt just as Karl's Cestus turned onto the same avenue two streets to his right. Aubry Larsen's Dragon Fire followed him through the turn, then both 'Mechs raced away at a right angle to their original course. Michael nodded his satisfaction, throttling down and dropping his cross hairs over the back of his fleeing allies. Good enough.
"Michael, be warned. One of the Romans might have split wide through an alleyway."
Warning lights flashed for attention, and Michael's sensors wailed. A short hundred meters further down Ninety-second, a Falconer stepped out from between two store fronts, flanking him. At the same instant a Capellan-marked Emperor moved up Ninety-first to place itself between the Pillager and the retreating pair, already committed to going after Karl. The Emperor spitted its broad back on Michael's cross hairs.
"Anything else you forgot to tell me?" Michael shouted in frustration, tensing for the hit while squeezing into his own salvo.
The Capellan had chosen sides poorly. Michael's large laser stabbed a scarlet lance into the rear right flank of the Emperor, slashing deeply before his twin gauss slugs slammed in behind it. One silvery blur careened off the hip, raining armor fragments onto the rain-slick street. The other followed the scar already melted into the back, smashing aside several support struts as it burrowed into the medium pulse laser and a heat sink. The attack might have been enough on its own to take out the ninety-ton assault 'Mech, but Michael wasn't finished. He punched three of his four medium lasers into the Emperor, two of them grouped together into one large cascade of energy that completely gutted the right side of the Capellan BattleMech.
By some miracle the savage assault missed the ammunition bin stored in the Emperor's right side, and the 'Warrior managed to engage the dampening fields before the reactor blew out of the weakened physical shielding. But as an instrument of warfare, the machine was finished. It continued to turn in a lazy pirouette, then tumbled onto its right side. Its arm, caught against the ground, smashed through the ruined torso—driving into the gyro housing and adding insult to the grievous injury.
Michael had no time to gloat over his victory or worry about his heat spiking into the red bands except to slap at the shutdown override. The Falconer was already on the offensive, firing with its PPC and lasers. The PPC carved into the freshest armor Michael owned, on the Pillager's right arm, and burned through an upper arm actuator. Two of the lasers worried at his gimped left leg, weakening supports and completely destroying the clogged jump jet that had originally landed him in the Coliseum stands. The only saving grace was that in its rush to engage, the Falconer missed with its own gauss rifle. One of the nickel-ferrous slugs skipped off the pavement and further down the street, where it became the problem of looters and rioters. And welcome to it, in Michael's opinion.
Michael lumbered a half-dozen steps before turning the Pillager around out of sight of the Falconer and throttling back into a rearward walk. "Guard my back," he ordered Karl, counting on his friend to field the second Lyran wherever it had gotten off to. "Where's he at—where's the third 'Mech?"
Waste heat bled through the cockpit, and the Pillager's reactor spiked with the power draw his lasers had demanded. Sweat beaded and ran down Michael's face, burning his eyes, though his coolant suit quickly brought his core temperature back toward normal. He blinked away the tears of sweat, concentrating on drifting his cross hairs back into the intersection he'd just vacated. He waited for the Falconer to round the corner. The Lyran second-guessed him, taking to the air on his jump jets to cut the corner and come in over and behind Michael's hundred-ton titan. -
The gauss slug flew true this time, cracking the back of the Pillager dead center and weakening the skeletal structure, though failing to do much more. The PPC flayed more armor from Michael's left arm, while the lasers again flashed out in a spread of damage that fanned across his back. The Pillager shook violently under the assault, but Michael kept the machine upright with a quick repositioning of its feet. He twisted about to bring at least his right arm into play against the Falconer. Fortunately for him, his back armor was mostly unscathed and had absorbed the lethal damage fairly well. Michael had to admit it was a gutsy move, though, the kind that won games in the arena.
Except that this was no game, and Michael no average 'Mech jock to be dismissed so easily.
His throat parched and constricted by the scalding air, Michael reached out with his right arm to point the laser barrel straight into the cockpit of the enemy. Scarlet energy lased out, splashing its destructive power over the ferroglass canopy and back off the cockpit's right side. It wasn't enough to penetrate the armor protection, but the head-shot had surely shaken up the warrior inside and left him fighting the dizzying effects of flash-blinding for a few seconds.
It gave Karl Edward and Aubry Larsen their chance. The two had turned back, and now gained the same advantage against the Falconer that it had held against Michael's Pillager. Short-range and by the back. Aubry was faster on the trigger, her Dragon Fire's large laser spearing the Falconer dead center, while the LB-X autocannon showered it with fragmenting cluster rounds, sanding away more critical armor. Everything else missed.
Karl, more cautious but twice as effective, lanced out with two more lasers, which tunneled through the Falconer's back to carve away the gyro housing. A gauss slug hammered in immediately and finished the job, crushing the delicate equipment and punching out through a flaw in the Falconer's front armor. The slug, its momentum mostly spent, bounced off Michael's Pillager. Michael stared down at the misshapen slug, battered and carved from its trip through the innards of the Falconer. Then a shadow fell across the ruined ammunition as the Falconer collapsed right over it.
Michael stepped forward, bringing his whole hundred tons down on the Lyran's arm, crushing it beneath gargantuan metal-shod feet. Another step ruined one leg, and the other followed a few seconds later. Certain that the enemy 'Mech wouldn't get up anytime soon, or even be considered salvageable, Michael limped off to rendezvous with his two comrades.
"Not a bad piece of work. Score one Emperor on my record. Karl, good shooting—nice assist. We'll make a contender out of you yet."
"The third 'Mech bugged out when the Emperor went down," Karl transmitted, ignoring the remark. His voice was flat, hinting at displeasure.
Did Karl expect solo credit on the Falconer? Michael frowned. Well, that wasn't going to happen. The Falconer had been so focused on Michael's Pillager that it had ignored the others to its own detriment. And Aubry had gotten a piece of it before Karl touched it. So had Michael, in fact. No clean kill there. Michael would have to arrange a talk with Karl later, if there was time.
"Now what, Michael?" Aubry asked, automatically deferring to the senior Blackstar fighter.
He took a slow tu
rn with his Pillager, trading his attention between the view out the canopy and his sensors. He picked up neither enemy contact nor friendlies. Just rioters and the occasional vehicle speeding down streets trying to bulldoze its way to its destination. Back toward the Coliseum, pillars of greasy smoke roiled into the gray sky.
Somewhere out there Victor Vandergriff had found a place to hide, to escape his fall and prevent Michael from claiming the victory he was due. Michael wanted to search him out, finish the battle Vandergriff had forced outside the arena, but now was not the time. Not in a wounded 'Mech and while being hunted by Silesia security and any warrior belonging to a Steiner-affiliated stable. Not to mention the other factions with a grudge against Blackstar or Michael personally.
"Now we hold the door open and try to route the others in this direction," he said finally. "Narvik Avenue can take us all into Cathay, and the three of us alone should be able to spearhead a drive along the riverfront if the MadCaps try to give us any trouble. Then it's an easy run back to Boreal Reach, where we can make repairs. Maybe get some ideas of where things stand in the city. Who we can count on, and who's against us."
"Can't say I'm sorry to be leaving," Aubry said, "though I wouldn't mind kicking in the side of a few more banks. Doing my part to accelerate the Lyran trickle-down theory of economics."
Karl cut in over the end of her signal. "Maybe we should be trying to figure out how to stop this before things get too far out of hand."
"Too late for that, Karl." Michael was already planning his next moves to bring in another set of Federated Sun Mech Warriors. He'd save who he could, and then they'd all pick up as much salvageable parts as they could carry and head for the Black Hills. He glanced around once more, searching for a target. For Victor Vandergriff.
LE5790 - Illusions Of Victory Page 12
