Enver Barrington, to Walter’s eye, seemed a bit young for someone with the financial means to charter a DropShip as luxury accommodations. A touch on the portly side, with reddish-blond hair, Enver carried himself well and appeared to be both at ease with himself and attentive to his friends. Accompanying him were his wife, Marie; his best friend, Robert Hart; Robert’s fiancée, Caroline Rissel; and her younger sister, Ulrike. Walter classified them as bored, exuberant, overwhelmed, and besotted, respectively. Regardless, all of them were well-mannered enough to make the dinner comfortable.
Enver acted the host, but had been kind enough to invite Sophia to dine with them. Jacques prepared a five-course meal, including a chipotle-yam soup, a simple salad of local greens, pheasant fattened on Harrison County’s famous mauveberry crop, and venison cutlets in a balsamic vinegar reduction with peppercorns. He finished with a variety of homemade gelatos with ingredients locally sourced but based on flavors the party had indicated on various forms as their favorites. Walter especially loved the honey-walnut.
During dinner Enver kept the conversation flowing, and focused attention on the guests of honor. “You’ll have to clear up one thing for me, please. On broadcasts of fights back home, on New Syrtis, you’re always referred to as MechWarriors, but, today, the public-address announcer referred to you as MechFighters. What is the difference, and do you have a preference?”
“Yes, Snorri, please,” said Ulrike, who was seated beside Snorri, batting her big eyes at him. “Both sound ever so dashing.”
“It is an insightful question.” Snorri patted Ulrike’s hand. “My sister and I, we have never gone to war, so we are not comfortable claiming to be warriors. And there are some pilots here who are happy to be called MechFighters, especially when they best someone like Wallace here, who has seen war. But, when the fights are shown on other worlds, I am given to understand the commentary is often overdubbed and the local idiom used.”
Aniki smiled. “And, sometimes, the fights are even edited to modify the outcome—allowing local favorites to fare better than they might have actually done.”
Hart glanced at Walter. “You were a mercenary, is that right? How much hype is that, and how much truth?”
“It’s all fighting for money, but yes, I have served as a mercenary.”
Enver smiled easily. “Then do you have a preference for MechWarrior or MechFighter?”
“Not particularly.” Walter returned the smile. “When I first arrived, I had a certain amount of contempt for MechFighters—my arrogance, really, since the fighters here are very good.”
Snorri winked. “And yet you took both of us down in audition.”
“Better to be lucky than good.” Walter nodded. “But, Mr. Barrington…”
“Enver, please.”
“Enver, what prompted you to come all the way to Solaris, and then come to the Exposition to watch circuit fights?”
Enver spread his arms. “As you can see, the Vulture’s Egg does advertise your fights. The crew is enthusiastic enough that their partisanship is infectious. While you are right—there are bigger and more spectacular fights to be had in the city—if that was all we wanted to see, we could have just stayed dirtside at home and watched on holovision. To be able to go back, to say we’d done something no one else had done, and to say we’d recognized talent—the three of you—before you’d stepped onto the larger stage… this is something that I will find amusing.”
Aniki frowned. “Why is that?”
Enver and his friends chuckled, with Marie blushing at the tips of her ears as well. She also gave him a look, but he chose to ignore the message that went with it. “Briefly, because of good fortune and some chicanery a couple of generations ago, I find myself oft interacting with old nobility and the highest of societies. My great-grandfather, the family legend has it, was born on the wrong side of the sheets, sprung from the loins of a Hasek. Being rather enterprising, my great-grandfather started a business. His children built it up into a thriving firm. In fact, they made enough money that when a full-blooded Hasek cousin needed a loan, they were quite able to accommodate him. They secured the loan with certain warrants and contracts with the regional government.”
Walter’s brow wrinkled. “What kind of business does your family own?”
“We own many, but they all center around notions, lotions, and potions—more commonly, toys for the general and collector markets, cosmetics, and pharmaceuticals. If we add diapers and coffins, we’ll have people covered from birth to death.”
“Stop it, Enver.”
“Marie, these good people understand.” He took his wife’s hand in his. “She’s very protective of my image, largely because those who feel they must tolerate me for the sake of social convention regularly savage me in my absence. Suffice it to say, when—not if but when—you become champions in Solaris City, my company will be making toy likenesses of you.”
Aniki chuckled. “Also, by coming here and claiming to have had a wonderful experience watching circuit fighting, your enemies will feel they have to come and do the same thing?”
Enver’s eyes flashed. “Devilish of me, I know. And, Sophia, trust me, they will come to you. I’ll tell them I paid three times what I did, and I expect you to charge even more. These people have no shame, and the only way to hurt them is to force them to spend a lot of money to convince themselves they’re better than I am. I mean, the story of a nouveau riche, illegitimate member of the nobility might not get much traction here on Solaris, but back on New Syrtis, it does as much damage as you three manage.”
Sophia nodded. “Thank you, sir. If it please you, I’ll see to it that we prepare souvenir fight archives which, I hope, our guests would be happy to autograph for you, so you can share them with your acquaintances.”
“Better yet…” Walter said, looking at Snorri and Aniki, “we would like to invite you to join us in our training facility. You can see how we work, and we can even set you up with a ’Mech to drive, if you wish. Perhaps even some sparring.”
Ulrike squealed. “I should like that, but I would be ever so frightened to pilot a ’Mech.”
Snorri leaned in toward her. “I have a trainer with a jumpseat in the cockpit. You can ride with me.”
“Please, Carol, please? I’ll never ask for anything again, ever.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise.” Caroline looked toward the head of the table. “Enver, this is your party. Can we?”
He nodded. “It means we might miss dinner with Gray Noton, but we’ll just extend a couple of days, if the Vulture’s Egg is available?”
Sophia smiled. “Of course, sir.”
Enver nodded toward Walter. “You’ve raised the ante for anyone else. I like how you think. I’ll make sure, when the time comes, that our sculptors reflect that as they immortalize you as a toy.”
Chapter Six
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The Gallery, BattlePark City
Solaris VII (The Game World)
Rahneshire, Lyran Commonwealth
10 November 3001
“What’s the delay, Spurs?”
Ivan glanced up from the tablet as he entered the fight arena’s ready room. “Swapping out some statuary from the rotunda.”
Maisie Lee-Kerr, Walter’s new fight partner, half hid a yawn behind her hand. “The Gallery often has this problem. Someone decided they saw something that matched the curtains in their front room. At least it keeps the lights on and lets them cater more than stale chips, warm dip, and warmer beer.”
The Gallery was a leading example of what had become a hot sector in the arena-fighting world: boutique arenas. The regentrification of Park City’s industrial sector had involved small businesses building out old factory spaces. The Gallery had gone a step further and, in an odd industrial entertainment and arts cooperative alliance, created an arena where ’Mech battles were viewed as perform
ance art. This meant that to watch the fights, a spectator had to be in the arena seating areas, in the gallery, or connected to an expensive and local-only pay-per-view network. On top of that, the business had constructed the arena to look like a museum—largely influenced by the Hermitage on Terra—on a ’Mech scale. Then, they decorated with replicas of old masterpieces and entirely new works. They’d close wings while new exhibitions were prepared for the next season, and on nights when they had no fights scheduled, or even pre- or postbattle, they’d hire the space out for actual art openings and corporate functions.
Best of all—and the cause of the delay—was that art would be installed prior to fights, and patrons could bid in silent auctions throughout the battles on pieces they wanted to own. Artists regularly donated artwork, because the publicity bonus from having a piece of theirs destroyed and “lost forever” would spike prices on their other work. Moreover, art pieces that received cosmetic damage often sold at a premium, and most owners had no interest in having the artworks restored before displaying them.
“Works for me. I regularly fight for snacks.” Walter drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Learn anything new on our opponents?”
“Carson and Koyota still look good on a spreadsheet, but Rich Carson is the weak link.”
Maisie’s green eyes flashed. “You sure about that? He racked up quite the string of wins in the City.”
Spurs nodded, his attention back on his tablet’s display. “I’ve done a statistical breakdown of fights over the last twenty years, factoring in all sorts of variables that others tend not to put much stock in.”
She snorted. “Which is why the betting line still has us as losing.”
“That could be, but one statistic tends to be ignored emotionally by most people.” Spurs’s head came up. “Carson was very good, and still shows sparks of his skill here and there in fights. Intellectually, folks know that he still has the skills to win fights, but when you look at the numbers, he doesn’t have the will to fight. Specifically, he lost badly to Gray Noton. Since then, his fighting stats have been down. And here, if you look at the distribution of scores over time in fights, things become really interesting.”
Spurs flipped the tablet around so Walter and his partner could look at the score distribution chart. Points started low, rose to a peak at the twenty-minute mark, then tapered back off to zero by forty minutes. A sidebar chart reported that most of his fights since that loss had been decided, on average, by the thirty-minute mark.
Walter ran a hand over his chin. “So he warms up slowly and doesn’t finish strong?”
“First half is right. He’s slow to start. Once he gets going, he does fight strong. He’s fifty-fifty on partner fights where he’s outnumbered, but having a partner shot out early doesn’t do much to warm him up. Marginal delay to warm-up, but not statistically significant.”
Maisie’s brow furrowed. “What about Irina Koyota? I’ve fought her twice in group, but I’ve never gone toe to toe with her. Seems a bit reckless. What do the stats say?”
“Not enough data to be solid, but she is very flashy.”
“Hence driving the Firestarter.” Maisie shrugged. “But her ’Mech is strictly short range. When she closes, if we keep moving, we can use the Gallery’s interior build to leave her without Carson’s cover.”
Walter nodded. “Sounds like a plan to me. Spurs?”
“I wouldn’t let her get close…” Ivan’s commentary trailed off as the ready room’s door swung open. “Can we help you?”
Agent Fujitaka pointed at Walter. “A word, Mr. Richards?”
“Now?” Walter frowned. “Your timing lacks…”
“You’re in this building, you’re on my time, Mr. Richards.” The commission agent tossed him a plastic cup. “Fill it.”
“Right now?”
“You intending to fight this evening?” Agent Fujitaka turned the tablet around to show his picture and “00:00” flashing in an angry red. “Your timer ran out.”
Walter sighed. “You want to make sure it’s me?”
“DNA analysis will take care of that. Anything but your DNA in that cup, you’re done.”
Walter slipped into the WC and complied with her order. Never worried about this in the field, but no one was betting on the outcome of our battles—save for our employers. He screwed the top on tight and deposited the receptacle in the plastic bag Fujitaka had produced. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“That’s quite enough.” Her expression eased. “Best of luck to you.”
Walter watched her leave, wondering if her comment was directed at the fight or his urine test. As the door closed behind her, he exhaled loudly. “Well, that was special.”
Maisie shrugged. “At least you don’t have Creepy Carl as your agent. He would have watched.”
“Thanks for small blessings.” Walter shook his head. “What were you saying, Spurs, before…?”
Ivan blinked, then glanced at his own tablet. “Right, okay. Based on some analysis, picking away at the Firestarter from range could provoke some recklessness on the other side. If they’re a disciplined team, they will be tough.” Spurs gave them a thumbs-up. “I have no doubt of the outcome.”
“Well, at least they can’t scare the piss out of me.” Walter smiled, then slapped Maisie on the shoulder. “Let’s go give them everything we’ve got.”
The main difference between circuit fighting and the small arena battles—aside from the permanence of the arenas—was that both the weapons and armor were closer to military grade than not. A carbon nanotube mesh sandwiched between ceramic layers constituted the armor. It still came in the scale pattern used in the circuit-fighting ’Mechs because of how it shattered and for ease of replacement. All the weapons saw power increases, which raised the odds of a pilot getting hurt or even killed, but spectators had a better chance of dying on the way home than a pilot did, by several orders of magnitude.
The Gallery functioned on three levels. The basement and upper-story configurations consisted of many small rooms, with low ceilings and shorter ranges for tight and nasty close-range battles. The main floor featured a long, tall central gallery, with smaller rooms to each side, and a rotunda at the north end. Ramps at the arena’s four cardinal points allowed for egress up and down. Maisie and Walter started in the basement at the Gallery’s south end, while Koyota and Carson started in the rotunda’s upper reaches.
Walter immediately flipped the holographic display to infrared. Maisie’s barrel-chested UrbanMech showed up red with just a hint of gold at the heart. She’d named her ’Mech “Lil Slugger,” and the nickname fit. An autocannon made up the whole of the ’Mech’s right arm. The left arm was a third of the size of the right one and housed a small laser. The autocannon packed a punch at range, but if their opponents got in close, Lil Slugger would be hard pressed to survive.
Walter’s Blackjack featured two smaller autocannons, one per arm, paired with medium lasers. The ’Mech’s flanks housed two more medium lasers, providing Walter with a good mix of long- and medium-range power. If combat got close, he’d be better equipped to handle trouble, but he still wasn’t going to last that long.
Ivan’s voice crackled inside Walter’s neurohelmet. “Boss says things would work out best if Irina didn’t go out before Maisie.”
“I’m supposed to sell out my partner with my MBC agent in the building.” Walter shook his head. “I’ll work on it, but no plan survived contact with the enemy.”
“Roger… Good luck.”
Maisie headed her ’Mech up the ramp first and cut toward the right side of the entry to the main gallery. Walter came up quickly and positioned his ’Mech on the other side. He checked his holographic display, then keyed his radio. “I have nothing.”
“Copy, same.”
“Moving in.” Walter cut the Blackjack around through the entryway and sidestepped left. The Gallery’s main hall featured two dozen round pillars that split t
he hall into three long sections. The pillars were six feet wide and suitable for cover. Though they appeared to be made of granite, they were fabricated from a faux-stone silicate that shattered dramatically yet could be patched very quickly. “Clear. Come.”
Maisie executed a move similar to his, but to the right. “Clear.”
Walter started to the left and moved forward, up toward the next pillar, but Carson’s Vindicator stepped into the rotunda entrance and fired at him. Fire blossomed on the left side of the humanoid ’Mech’s chest as Carson launched a quintet of long-range missiles. They spiraled in at the Blackjack. Three hit, shattering armor scales on the ’Mech’s chest. By reflex Walter countered the impact, keeping the ’Mech upright and unhindered by the blasts.
More worrisome, the Vindicator’s particle projection cannon shot a bolt of artificial lightning in Walter’s direction. The incandescent blue-white beam ripped up the Blackjack’s right arm, from wrist to shoulder. The beam’s infernal caress melted armor scales, which splashed, steaming and molten, to the floor.
Walter’s twin autocannons blazed away in return. One chipped away at the armor on the Vindicator’s right hip, doing little more than cosmetic damage. His second shot also hit, and did no more damage, save that it struck the Vindicator in the head. The projectiles pockmarked the left side of the ’Mech’s head and blew a hole through the decorative helmet fringe. The shot hadn’t done anything serious, but no pilot liked shots that scored the cockpit’s shielding.
“You okay, Wallace?”
“Armor only, but need to protect my right arm.” Walter forced a quick laugh. “If that’s starting slowly…”
“Yeah. Do you see her?”
“No.”
“I have the doorway covered. Move up.”
“Roger.” Walter shifted the Blackjack’s right shoulder back to shield his ’Mech’s arm, then moved laterally to the left.
The Vindicator darted right into the doorway again. Carson launched another salvo of LRMs. Three hit, slamming into the Blackjack’s chest again, pulverizing more armor scales. He also unleashed the PPC’s hellish beam, but it slid wide of Walter’s ’Mech. The beam poured its fury into the pillar that had provided him cover. At the point of impact it glowed white, then bright gold, before exploding. Shrapnel peppered the Blackjack, sounding like hail against window glass, but it did no damage.
Catastrophe Unlimited Page 5
