Sortek stabbed his autocannon forward and nearly touched it to the Awesome’s wounded flank. The weapon’s unholy metallic hail crushed straight through the enemy’s remaining armor and opened a gaping wound in the chest of the Awesome. The projectiles filled the ’Mech with jagged, ricocheting shrapnel. Pieces of circuitry rained out of the wound amid myomer fibers and pulverized structural components. Worse, as the autocannon shells ate into the Awesome like cancer, they consumed the fusion engine’s shielding.
The Awesome’s head burst open. The pilot vaulted out in his command chair seconds before a geyser of silver-gold fire ripped up through the cockpit. Freed of all constraints, the captive sun that had powered the ’Mech now turned on its charge. Superheated plasma boiled up and out from the Awesome’s belly. It grew and grew into a roiling cloud of golden energy, then exploded free of the big ’Mech’s shell.
The scattered bits of armor and weaponry peppered the forces gathered around the Awesome. The ’Mech’s right arm spun off in the light of the artificial sun and snapped a Shadow Hawk off at the knees. Whirling armor fragments and the explosion’s force toppled some of the lighter Kurita ’Mechs, while Dan fought to control his Valkyrie against the armor shards peppering it.
The Awesome’s spectacular death broke the truce on the battlefield, but it also shattered the Kuritans’ spirit. As resistance evaporated, the Draconian assault withered. Delirious over the battle’s outcome, but not foolish enough to pursue the enemy back inside the protective umbrella of the DropShip’s weapons, the Kell Hounds allowed the Kuritans to withdraw.
Patrick Kell wiped beer foam from his upper lip and nodded at Dan Allard. “Your lance came out all right?”
Dan settled back against the couch in Kell’s office. Next to him sat Salome Ward. Beyond her, Cat Wilson had perched on the couch’s arm. Kell was behind his desk while Redburn, Sortek, and General Joss had seated themselves at the poker table. Positioned beside the door stood Major Seamus Fitzpatrick and Major Richard O’Cieran.
Dan nodded in response to Kell’s question. “We beat those two Panthers pretty bad. I’m the only one who took any damage, though. A couple of SRMs to the chest as the Panthers retreated. We’d moved inside their PPCs’ effective range, which gave the Panther pilots a couple of targets that they just couldn’t hit.” He shrugged easily, and everyone understood that the damage was insignificant.
Kell turned back to Major Fitzpatrick. “Seamus, what did your flyboys find?”
Fitzpatrick, a red-haired pilot slender almost to the point of cadaverousness, smiled like a fox in a henhouse. “We had one company of Panthers, who must have been very green because they waved when we made our first pass.” Fitzpatrick noticed the frown on General Joss’s face and quickly explained. “We’re flying aerofighters that we captured from the Kuritans a long time ago. With advance word on this attack, we decorated the underside of our craft with appropriate decals.” Fitzpatrick’s smile and easy posture admitted that the ploy might not be fair, but his company was attacking dirt-pigs, and everyone knew that MechWarriors would fall for anything.
General Joss narrowed her eyes. “I hope the tactic worked.”
Fitzpatrick nodded enthusiastically. “Bagged an even dozen and came away without a scratch.” The major turned to Kell. “Rob Kirk got his sixth ’Mech in this operation. We’ll need to set a date for his award.”
Kell nodded and scribbled a note to himself. “So, Richard, did your men encounter any trouble?”
Major O’Cieran pushed a hand back through steel-gray hair. This short and barrel-chested man looked more like a master sergeant than a major, but his talent for tactics and organization far exceeded anything an NCO might grasp. “No difficulties. As you directed, we rounded people up for questioning, but confiscated no broadcasting equipment.”
General Joss frowned. “Isn’t that irregular, Colonel Kell?”
Kell looked at his boots for a moment before answering. “That it is, General, but right now, we know who the spies are, and we are able to monitor their communications. They gave us the information about two of the three landing sites, and that’s how we were able to plan our ambush. If we take the spies and their equipment, Kurita will just put more in and we’ll have to find them all over again.”
“What happened with the third landing site?” Ardan Sortek interjected.
Kell reached down and took a yellow sheet of paper from his desk. “The DropShip came down in Branson’s Swamp. That’s a bog about a hundred klicks north of here. It looks like the ship got mired and finally fought its way free.”
O’Cieran spoke up. “A group of my recon boys scouted the area. Looks like a Union-class ship. We found no tracks to indicate that anything got offloaded. Furthermore, our ground ops people reported that the ship’s performance and acceleration profile said it came and left with the same mass.”
Kell frowned. “How long was it down?”
O’Cieran’s nod showed that he shared his commander’s concern. “Two hours.”
Redburn leaned his chair back. “Excuse me, sir, but we’ve got peat bogs on my homeworld of Firgrove. If the Kuritans used pumps to load water into their DropShip, wouldn’t it have the same mass, regardless of what they dropped off?”
Kell chuckled in a low voice. “On target, Leftenant, as you were earlier this evening.” He looked over at Fitzpatrick. “Did the Panthers jet out of the DropShip?”
The major nodded. “Hung there like balloons.”
Kell bit his lower lip, then drained the last of the stout from his mug. “We’ll tighten things up around here. We have to assume that a full company of Panthers—at the very least—is operational and waiting on Pacifica. I’ll have the computer section calculate the DropShip mass versus any configuration of jump jet-equipped ’Mechs to see what’s the most horrible thing we can come up with.”
The staff nodded their understanding, and Kell smiled. “Pending that report, this meeting is formally dismissed.” Kell nodded to Ardan Sortek. “I now convene the first annual Ardan-Sortek-saved-our-asses party!”
Ardan Sortek and Andrew Redburn found Daniel Allard down in the ’Mech bay watching the techs swarm over the Victor. Arc torches bonded new armor plates to those partially melted by the Awesome’s assault. One astech crawled into the Victor’s chest through the hole that a PPC had drilled into it. His long, low whistle echoed through the whole ’Mech, and set the three MechWarriors to laughing.
Ardan Sortek extended his hand to Dan. “It was good seeing you again, Dan. I look forward to our next meeting.”
Dan chuckled. “Just see if you can talk Prince Davion into giving us a better contract than the one we’ve got with Katrina Steiner, OK? I don’t mind working for Kell’s kin, but she never gives us exciting duty.”
Sortek raised an eyebrow and studied his ’Mech again. “Are you sure you mean that?”
Dan laughed. “Touché.” He jerked a thumb at the Victor. “Jackson, our best tech, tells me they’re going to rebuild a gyro housing from some pieces of the Awesome. We’ll fix this baby up and repaint it for you. You’ll get it back as good as new.” Dan shot a covert glance at some of the astechs. “But don’t be surprised if your company insignia changes to the Kell Hounds.”
Sortek nodded, then caught sight of Colonel Kell and General Joss out of the corner of his eye. “I’d best catch up with them. I’ll give your best to Quintus and your mother when next I see them.”
Dan nodded. “Just don’t tell them that I got hit in battle.”
Sortek nodded and walked away. Leftenant Redburn looked after him, then hesitated. “Sir?”
Daniel Allard smiled. “Please call me Dan. You know we’re informal here. What is it, Andrew?”
“Andy—that’s what your brother called me.” Redburn saw pain lance through Dan’s eyes and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, sir. I know Colonel Sortek gave you a holodisc from your father, and I know he spoke to you about the trial.” Redburn stopped and waited.
Daniel Allard
nodded, and the Capellan March leftenant continued. “I don’t know what they told you, Captain, but I was there… at the battle and at the trial. I know your brother didn’t abandon us. I know he wasn’t a spy. I don’t care what the court found.”
Dan reached out and rested his hands on Redburn’s shoulders. “Andy, I appreciate what you’ve told me.” He swallowed past the lump choking him. “You knew Justin, as I did. He’s my brother, and I’ll never believe he’s a traitor until he proves it to me.”
Redburn smiled. “That’s the way I feel, Dan.” Redburn stepped back and saluted.
Daniel Allard returned the salute smartly. Please God, Justin, don’t betray our faith in you.
Chapter 22
SOLARIS VII
RAHNESHIRE
LYRAN COMMONWEALTH
20 MARCH 3027
Fuh Teng gave Justin Xiang the thumbs-up sign from his perch on the scaffolding. Seconds later, Tung Yuan appeared from inside the tall ’Mech’s right arm, removed his welding goggles, and snapped the armored panel into place. Reading the smile on Teng’s face, and seeing it reflected on Justin’s down below, he laughed aloud.
“We will show Capet’s protégé no mercy, Justin Xiang.”
When the tech suddenly frowned as though seeing something he did not like, Justin whirled sharply, prepared to rebuke any visitors. His anger evaporated just as quickly as it had come. Contessa Kym Sorenson, clad in a blue leather jumpsuit cinched at the waist by a silver belt, smiled at him. She slipped into Justin’s outstretched arms and kissed him.
“I want you to come home in one piece, lover,” she whispered.
Justin hugged her and breathed deeply the musky perfume she wore. “I can think of no place I would rather be, my love,” he murmured. Through the blond veil of her hair, he could see Gray Noton studying the ’Mech towering over all of them. Justin let his right arm slip around Kym’s waist, then turned to face Noton. “What do you think, Gray?”
Noton squinted and raked his gaze up and down the ’Mech. “A Centurion is not held in very high esteem here on Solaris. I hope you got it cheap.”
Justin snorted. “Cheap enough.” He smiled at Kym. “It’s only a loan, you realize.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I hope you don’t think I just give money to the men I live with. I do expect some repayment…”
Noton pointed at the Centurion’s right arm. “I see you’ve added some armor to the right arm, but it looks like you stripped it from the left. You’ve got to realize that the LRMs the Centurion packs in its left breast are not going to be much use here in the Factory.”
Justin nodded. The Marik arena had been built on the site of an abandoned factory where ’Mechs had once served to move parts. The structure was built to ’Mech scale, just as any normal building would be built to human scale. Marik interests from the Montenegran area of Solaris City had bought the factory and sowed it with thousands of remote cameras. With the audience ensconced safely in another building, warring ’Mechs could wander through the derelict structure to ambush one another in a dangerous multilevel game of hide-and-seek.
Noton looked Justin in the eyes. “I’ve heard that the fight’s been fixed.”
Justin nodded solemnly. “It seems that I cost a number of people big money a month ago when I took Fuh Teng’s place and won. Certain interests have made it known to me that I’m to lose to Peter Armstrong this evening. I take it that Armstrong is Capet’s best fighter in the Medium Class?”
Noton shrugged. “Probably, though Wolfson will be better as he gets more experience. You refused the fix?”
Justin brandished his steel hand, saying, “Never, absolutely never, will I kowtow to anyone who swears allegiance to Hanse Davion or the Federated Suns!” Kym shivered slightly, and Justin hugged her a bit tighter.
Noton smiled. “So, you will never accept a fix?”
Justin’s eyes all but closed as he shook his head. “Never bet against me, Gray. No matter what your sources tell you, I will always win.”
Kym turned Justin’s face toward her with one hand. She kissed him long and deeply, encircling his neck with her arms and pressing her body against his. “Win for me, Justin.”
“My pleasure.”
Kym pulled away from Justin and slipped her arm through the crook in Noton’s arm. “After you win, Gray and I have a surprise for you.”
Justin smiled. “Yes?”
Noton laughed. “Win and I’ll introduce you to Valhalla…”
Justin signaled his readiness to the arena controller. The huge elevator doors opened like jaws and Justin felt the camera focusing in on his Centurion. The announcer’s voice burrowed into his brain.
“And here, ladies and gentlemen, is the challenger. Justin Xiang in his Centurion, Yen-Lo-Wang. It’s named after the Chinese god of the dead, the King of the Nine Hells. That’s quite appropriate, too, because Xiang has been hell on the three foes he’s faced in his month here on Solaris Seven. This is his first fight outside the Vindicator owned by his partner, Fuh Teng. Peter Armstrong and his Griffin, the Ares, will have their work cut out for them. Welcome to ‘Night at the Fights’ for March twentieth, brought to you by…”
Justin punched a button and shut off the sound. Sweat began to trickle down his temples as he waited. Once the green light had flashed to life on his control console, he could wander out into the Factory’s shadowed interior. He smiled because he knew the “live” fight would actually begin ten minutes before the broadcast over the local pay-for-play holovision systems in Solaris City. The lag-time would be used to build up spare tape, allowing the producers to cut boring footage or add in advertisements without losing any of the action.
The green light ignited. Justin lumbered his humanoid Centurion forward and did exactly what he knew his foe was doing. As he punched several buttons on his command console, a schematic of a Griffin drew itself in shades of red and gold. Know your enemy as yourself.
Justin studied the display and reviewed his foe’s strengths and weaknesses. Armstrong’s Griffin sported LRMs fired from a launch pod on the ’Mech’s right shoulder. That PPC in its right hand could mean trouble. The Griffin, Justin read, also carried more armor than the Centurion. That accounted, in part, for its five-ton weight advantage over the Centurion. Highly regarded as a distance hitter on the battlefield, the Griffin was a formidable foe.
Justin switched his ’Mech’s main scanner mode from magnetic anomaly detection to infrared because of all the scrap metal strewn throughout the Factory. In heat-detection mode, the scanner displayed all cool blues and greens, except for the area he’d just marched his Centurion through. There, the latent traces of heat glowed red and yellow, but they dissipated fast.
How will Armstrong evaluate the Centurion? Justin narrowed his eyes and stepped over a barricade of twisted girders and fire-blackened ferrocrete. He’ll recall that the Luxor autocannon in the right arm often jams. He won’t try to sneak up on me because one of my two medium lasers covers my rear arc. He knows we both pack LRMs, so he’ll probably expect a long-range duel.
Justin smiled to himself. In fact, we’ll probably spar at range, and he’ll hope my Luxor autocannon jams…
Justin picked the Centurion’s path through metal debris like a child working his way through a rusty junkyard. Through the cable hanging from his left wrist, he guided the ’Mech’s huge left hand. Closing its fingers on small chunks of ferrocrete, he moved them out of the way. Unmindful of the arena cameras, he cleared himself a little space and hunkered down in his Centurion.
Justin watched for the director’s green light on his dash. He remembered his pregame production briefing. If both combatants had settled in to ambush one other, which would make for a boring fight, the producer would flicker the light three times. That meant both MechWarriors had to get moving or else the production company would withhold the combatant’s portion of royalties for the fight. Justin waited, but the light never ignited.
I did not think Armstrong would dare attempt
an ambush. Aren’t I the treacherous Capellan traitor who has defeated Wolfson and killed two other Federated Suns expatriates? Already the media mentions how Philip Capet and I have met before, and they suggest that none of the Federats here on Solaris will be able to stop me except for Capet himself. Justin shook his head, then shut his eyes against the burning sting of sweat. Fools. Utter fools.
He licked his lips and tasted the salty sweat, marveling at how the Tharkad Broadcasting Company controlled the fights and their presentation. As a TBC representative had told him, three or four TBC JumpShips were getting the broadcast beamed out to them a minute or two before the public saw it. They would jump out to begin the distribution of the game tapes throughout most of the Inner Sphere. TBC had production studios built right into its DropShips so that they could add editing and extra commentary before the tapes were beamed down to a world’s local broadcasting company.
Within a month, the TBC man had said, the fight will have played on every Steiner world and half the worlds of Davion, Marik, and Liao. Justin laughed to himself as he recalled the man assuring him that they’d crack the Kurita market soon. Sure, he thought, and Takashi Kurita sleeps with a teddy bear!
Justin looked up and adjusted his scanner, which showed faint blue rectangles sinking down through the ferrocrete above him. The sound and vibration baffles built between floors hide the sound of him, but they don’t trap the heat. Justin looked over to his right, back where the ramp from the upper level fed out onto his floor. He saw nothing but a momentary flicker of yellow.
I can imagine the announcer. Martial music in the background rises slowly to heighten tension. “Will our champion, Pete Armstrong—Philip Capet’s handpicked fighter in the Medium Class—fall prey to the Capellan ambush?”
Warrior: En Garde (The Warrior Trilogy, Book One): BattleTech Legends, #57 Page 18