Acuff also moved to block the cameras trying to immortalize the fight. "Michael, cool your jets. Calm down!" He leaned in close, holding Michael's eyes with a calm determination. "We don't bring our fights to Valhalla, right? I said, right?"
With his challenger gone, Michael slowly got himself under control. It wasn't easy. He was angry at Acuff's interference. The man was an enemy, a future opponent.
"Right," Michael said finally. He shrugged Acuff away, pulled rudely away from Karl, and rubbed a hand over his face to wipe away the excess cocktail. Not quite the way he'd imagined making his entrance into Valhalla tonight. The story wouldn't play badly to the press, but it wouldn't do much for his prestige among other 'Warriors. Well, that he could make back in the arena.
Larry Acuff rejoined his own party, returning the empty glass to his date. "We'll refill that inside, Meta," he said. "After you."
Looking completely unruffled, Roger was already back at the door, holding it open for Acuff's party and then Michael's. "A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Searcy," the doorman said, only a hint of displeasure in his voice. Michael smiled back thinly. It was the closest Roger would get to an apology, but he owned the doorman something.
"Enjoy your stay in the Hall of the Dead," Roger added as the group went past him.
"Hall of the Dead?" Garrett asked as the three of them moved through a darkened stretch of the bar toward a curtained door set off to one side. The Smoke Jaguar trueborn sneered in contempt at a couple drugging themselves into bliss at one table. The touch of flame to an opium pipe added its flowery perfume to the already smoke-filled atmosphere. "That was a joke, quiaff?"
"It can be," Michael said. "It all depends on your point of view." Karl held the curtain back, allowing Michael and Garrett to pass through first. They ascended a ramp that doubled back over the main door to the Shieldhall. There a new door of dark glass waited, with a security agent to one side in a booth protected by bulletproof glass.
Michael still hadn't figured out why the Clanner had asked to come along tonight. The way Garrett kept studying him, asking questions, it was obvious there was something he wanted. It left Michael wondering if this was another of Hasek-Davion's games.
Still, there was no harm in talking. "Valhalla is the legendary place from Scandinavian mythos to which kings and outstanding warriors were escorted after death. Their reward."
"So it is a place of honor, then," Garrett said.
Michael shrugged and repeated, "Depends on your point of view. If you're in Valhalla, you died. So it's also a place of the vanquished."
Garrett was still trying to work his way through the contradiction as the door of reflective glass finally slid open. "Is nothing ever simple on this world?" he asked, though it was more like he was talking to himself.
Michael answered him anyway, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of conversations that spilled out of the cavernous room beyond. "Not usually," he said. "Only in the arenas."
* * *
Valhalla.
No matter how often he'd been here with Michael, the place always left Karl Edward slightly in awe. The long, wide hall made him think of older, more heroic, times. Rougher times, too, the days when warriors created and toppled kingdoms.
Central pillars constructed from genuine and rare woods still showed the axe marks that had felled the trees and knocked off their branches. Animal hides from a dozen or more different worlds were stretched over any open wall space. A large holographic bonfire crackled at the center of the hall, and holographic torches threw flickering light into the furthest recesses of the room. Huge tables and matching benches marched down the length of the hall, breaking only at the bonfire. Each had been handcrafted from rough, thick planks.
At the far end of the hall another table and an assortment of high-backed chairs sat on a dais. The one in the middle, at the hall's place of honor, belonged in a throne room and was currently empty. Theodore Gross sat at the right hand of the throne, his rightful place as defender of the Championship. Thomas DeLon was also seated among Gross' party, which presided over the Hall of the Slain. Other warriors crowded the open floor space, mingling with comrades or coming and going from the many alcoves that lined both sides of the hall. Heraldic banners and shields identified the owners of the alcoves.
This place honored the Mech Warriors of Solaris above all else, the gladiators who fought each other in the arenas. Outside the walls of Valhalla, money and titles and national loyalties meant nearly everything. Here none of that mattered, or at least mattered far less. This was a place for the best of the Game World to meet on equal footing. It was reserved for the elite—the top fifteen percent of all Mech Warriors on Solaris VII—and their guests. Karl would have been refused entry into Valhalla if not in the company of Michael or another of the chosen few. Such selectivity only reinforced the hard path ahead of him—the numbers Karl faced if he was ever reach the upper echelon. If the warriors from all the various stables and cooperatives and independents were brought together, they would add up to over ten regiments of BattleMechs—more than a thousand warriors and their machines.
Roger alone managed whatever complex formula decided who was allowed in at any given moment, which gave him a very tangible power. Karl had been sure to tip Roger generously once the near-fight broke up at the door, guarding his friend's back at a time when Michael wasn't even aware of his own discourtesy. The doorman also assigned the alcoves, reserving them for retired Champions and other impressive warriors or those few nobles and merchants powerful enough to warrant access to Valhalla and wealthy enough to pay for it. Still, these latter were not allowed to overshadow the warriors, and were arrogated to the foot of the table or those alcoves furthest from the dais.
"Full house for certain," Michael said, nodding toward the packed tables and crowded floor.
Karl brought up the rear as Michael led the way, trading cautious greetings and occasionally a word or two with his peers. Garrett was careful to keep abreast of the Federated Suns favorite rather than accept an inferior trailing position, but Karl didn't mind hanging back. It gave him the chance to observe the scene, to sample the mood of the room.
Tensions were high, which was to be expected. The quarterfinals began tomorrow, with only eight contenders left. Valhalla was usually a place where fighters could relax and temporarily drop their rivalries. Not this night. It was almost as if the squabble between Michael and Victor Vandergriff had infected the atmosphere. Bad blood seemed to be tainting everyone.
The Combine warriors and their guests played at being masters of the Hall, with Gross in the place of honor, joined by three others still in the tournament. Stables associated with House Marik tried for a superior detachment, as if the rivalries meant nothing to them, but no one bought that. And even they slipped on occasion, bristling anytime one of them came near a Capellan. Kelley Metz simply snubbed Michael, one of the better reactions he got from the Liao-affiliated warriors. But if they were cold to the Davionist faction, the static buzzing between the various Cathay stables was decidedly lethal, and Karl was glad it wasn't directed their way.
As for the Federated Suns and the Lyran Alliance, the rival sides had practically divided the room between them, treating any other faction with pure disdain while reserving a real hatred for their one-time allies. And if Karl was too far down the ladder to draw much of the Lyrans' hostility, Michael was not. His friend's face darkened with every malevolent glance, the undercurrent of hostility that permeated Valhalla a very palpable presence. Several other Federated Suns fighters gravitated toward Michael, like clouds circling the deceptively calm eye of a storm.
"Stormin' Michael Searcy," a nearby voice commented dryly, as if reading Karl's mind.
Then someone reached out a hand and took him by the elbow, pulling Karl to one side and away from his friend.
* * *
In Valhalla, all warriors are equal. Some are just more equal than others.
The old saying haunted Victor Vandergriff, who mo
ved through the Hall of the Dead feeling like a true ghost among the living. He nursed a stiff drink along with his anger and the sting of humiliation. He was a quarterfinalist in the Grand Tournament, a serious contender for the Championship for the first time ever, yet few Silesian 'Warriors acknowledged him and fewer still seemed proud of his accomplishment. They could throw his name in the face of their Federated Sun rivals, but beyond antagonizing the FedRats, his compatriots treated him as someone to be tolerated, not respected. And that bled over into the judgment of other factions present in the hall, most of whom considered him an oddity.
His past trailed him like a dark and heavy cloud, despite his recent successes. When the others looked at him, they saw the epitome of a long but relatively undistinguished career. A Mech Warrior could be many things on the Game Word, but undistinguished was not one of them. Victor was a Top Twenty warrior cast out of his old stable as a poor bet and now the struggling star of the desperate Lynch Stables. That shame still weighed on him, stooping his shoulders and slowing his step. What would it take to cast off that cloak of humiliation? The Lyran media had been painting him in an idealistic light since the death of Stephen Neils, and the people cheered for him once again, but Victor knew how fleeting their favor could be.
Someone stepped into his path, but Victor brushed past, lost in thought.
"Trees that brace the sky so tall do not see dark clouds at all."
He recognized that voice. The line of verse was as out of place in Valhalla as the person who spoke it, and the voice belonged to someone who had not deigned to speak with Victor in several years. He turned back toward the man who'd spoken.
"Your vision seems a bit clouded, Victor," said Jerry Stroud, nodding a greeting to his former gladiator. "You should be celebrating. You've fought well this week." The owner of Skye Tigers wore his hair cut military-style, an odd contrast to his expensive suit. A gold and silver tie clip showing the traditional Steiner crest of a gauntlet against a square field winked back the hall's flickering holographic torchlight.
Victor nodded slowly, not sure what Stroud was up to. "Quarterfinals. Best I've ever done." And then, he couldn't help himself. "Sorry none of your fighters made it this far," he added. His caustic tone belied his words.
Stroud came back with a careful smile. "Not this year, no. But they've done well enough. They usually do."
That was true. Stroud had traded away his two best warriors in '57 when he took control of the Skye Tigers, wanting to disassociate himself from its previous ownership. Then he built a 'Mech stable of strong comers and now possessed an excellent feeder system with contenders in every arena class. None of his fighters had yet broken the Top Twenty, but his stable was one of the strongest in the city. Victor would never admit it openly, but he'd have liked to be part of that new beginning. It was hard to envy and hate this man at the same time, but then nothing ever came easy for Victor.
"I haven't seen Erin Hoffman yet," Victor said coolly, naming Stroud's highest-ranked warrior. "Is she here?"
Stroud's smile faded to a grim line. "Actually, she's in the Riverside Hospital. She barely survived an attack tonight at Skye Tiger Estates. I lost a shipment of 'Mech actuators and armor as well. Hijacked."
Victor raised his eyebrows. "Too bad. I wonder who dislikes you so much?" Besides Victor, that was.
Nodding toward the other side of the hall, Stroud said easily, "Perhaps the master of the man who has threatened to kill you?"
Victor followed the gesture, though he knew who Stroud was talking about. Michael Searcy, of course, and Blackstar Stables. Victor hadn't been able to help watching Searcy out the corner of his eye the whole time he'd been in the hall. He'd seen how Searcy attracted a retinue of warriors, while Victor's only company was a man he would call an enemy any other time. Would, in fact, call an enemy right now except that they were united in their hatred of the Federated Suns and of Blackstar Stables, in particular. In the entire room, had anyone else shown Victor any measure of civility? At least Stroud had implied that they were, in a way, equals.
Catching Searcy's eye for a moment. Victor gave him a mocking bow. In their mutual enmity, the two warriors were equal as well.
* * *
While Michael moved on ahead through the crowd, Karl lagged behind. For the moment, Michael seemed to have forgotten him completely.
Tran Ky Bo, owner of Starlight Stables and Karl's patron, still held onto Karl's arm, forcing him to keep a more sedate pace. "Off on another rampage," Tran Ky Bo said, voice neutral. Then added, "Stormin' Michael Searcy."
"That's not who he really is," Karl said, instantly ready to defend Michael. But even he was starting to wonder. That cocky warrior might not be who Michael was, but in the last two years his friend had certainly grown into the role. Especially in the last few weeks.
Tran Ky Bo smiled slightly. His Asian features seemed ageless, but just then he looked even older than his considerable years. "He's your friend. I know that," Tran said. "He is also a young Federated Suns firebrand with a burn against anything Lyran."
He studied Karl's face. "But you are not, though it would be easy to emulate your friend, who has had more success on the Game World. I'm wondering why that is."
Karl shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"Perhaps I'm simply concerned that you will not play to the fans as most of the fighters do, in which case I should think about trading you to Thomas DeLon." He gave a short laugh at Karl's obvious shock. "Actually, you've spoken out for Prince Victor—and against Katrina Steiner-Davion—enough that I know you don't mind using the warrior's platform to voice politics. But you don't seem to let it get personal."
Karl gave a slight shrug. "Maybe it's because I was born and raised here on Solaris VII. I grew up watching the rivalries and feuds, which cured me of ever wanting to get mixed up in them. I transferred my citizenship to the Federated Suns because I grew up admiring Prince Victor, and I think Katrina was wrong to seize the throne. That makes Lyran Alliance warriors my opponents in the arena, but the Lyran people are not my enemy because of it."
"Well spoken, but not convincing. You don't believe others can share such a viewpoint?"
"On Solaris VII, you can change citizenship like some people change auto clubs. At most, you move across the city to a new sector. What other Inner Sphere world allows such freedom? But you may have to be born to it to appreciate it. Most warriors show up here with a strong prejudice toward their own nationality."
He looked around the room. Another Starlight warrior shouldered roughly past Isaak Kremms, the Steiner fighter who had gained a bye in the tournament due to Sarah Wilder's disqualification. At another nearby table three stabled MechWarriors were harassing Gerald Knight, a warrior with the independent Renegades cooperative who had finally been knocked out of the tournament only tonight. Yes, there was a lot of bad blood this evening. And not just between the Federated Suns and Lyran Alliance. Karl mentioned all this to Tran Ky Bo, as well as his thoughts that Michael's near-fight outside Valhalla had seemed to heighten the existing tensions. If that was possible.
Tran Ky Bo nodded. "Remember, nothing is impossible on Solaris Vil."
"You just have to find a new bookie who will cover the odds," Karl said, finishing the old joke. Only it didn't seem so funny anymore. If someone was to give him odds against Valhalla making it through the night without a brawl, he might have covered it himself.
And won, when not ten seconds later two MechWarriors dove for each other over one of the tables, scattering glasses and a few meals over their former owners. Curses flew as well as fists, but Trevor Lynch and a few others quickly moved in to separate them.
It was Michael Searcy and Victor Vandergriff.
Again.
"Those two are going to kill each other," Karl said, partly in resignation over his friend's behavior and partly in a dark jest. Right now, too many people in the room would have been on the same side as Karl on that wager.
But who in the room would have dared cover it?
Karl Edward sighed. On the game world there were battles, and then there were simply struggles.
See, see Oh playmates Come out and play with me. . . .
8
The Coliseum, Silesia
Solaris City, Solaris VII
Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance
15 August 3062
A line of security guards decked out in riot gear held the mob back from the Coliseum. Most of them wore the black and gold uniforms of Hollis Security, Silesia's largest private security firm, contracted for the duration of the Grand Tournament. Visored helmets and thick plastic shields protected them from the occasional bottle or chunk of paving material thrown in their direction. No guide chains tonight. No polite signs to mark a boundary. The mere implied threat of hands resting on the grip of holstered weapons was enough to hold the riotous crowd at bay.
Still, to Megan Church that security line seemed dangerously thin next to the thousands of fans already massed outside the Coliseum. These were ticket-holders for the evening set, ignoring the intermittent rains and waiting for the afternoon matches to conclude so they could flood the arena stands and take the places of those watching the current fight. Many had brought radios, cranking the volume up so everyone could enjoy the soundcasts of the Grand Tournament bout already in progress.
It was the Searcy and Vandergriff match, possibly the hottest ticket set for Day Five and, from the sound of it, being viciously fought. People crowded nearer those with radios, and it was within these islands of spirited fans that the fights first began. Julian Nero's commentary fanned their passions until tempers flared and arguments quickly turned to insults and jostling. Just as quickly, these became shoving matches, with drinks thrown and radios smashed. Then followed a few wild punches, until full-blown brawls broke out in several places among the crowd. And they were spreading.
LE5790 - Illusions Of Victory Page 8