"We've held our own," Vandergriff's deep voice came from off-camera. "And with elements of the Thirty-second to aid us, we can hope to restore order and take the fight back to the Black Hills where it belongs."
Not where it started, Michael noted, but where it belongs. The camera opened up to show Victor's freshly armored Banshee standing over the salvage field of wrecked machines, his 'Mech showing the crests of Lynch Stables and the Skye Tigers and now also a small emblem of Eichenberry Stables as well. The shot blurred and swung right for a close-up of Victor Vandergriff. He wore a light blue—a Steiner blue—cooling uniform similar to Michael's own. Gone was the combat cooling vest, though Michael noticed that he cradled his bulky neuro-helmet in the crook of one arm. The suit did not have a neurosensor cowl, then. Still the old stuff for poor Victor, though by the looks of it he was coming up in the world.
"I plan to make the Davionists in the Black Hills pay for those two lives and for all the others this conflict has cost us. Michael Searcy will answer for his actions, that I promise."
Julian Nero reclaimed the screen, looking pleased with himself. "Now a word from our sponsor, Earcandy Music and Entertainment, bringing you the unbiased reports of the Solaris conflict."
The mute feature silenced the high-pressure sales pitch while Michael shook his head at the news. Of course, no one mentioned the swath of destruction the Thirty-second had cut through civilian neighborhoods of the Black Hills in their efforts to cross the city. And nothing about the Lyran-affiliated Overlord Stables becoming part of the opposition to the Thirty-second. Or about any fighting but that between Silesia and the Black Hills. Always, came back to Steiner versus Davion. Victor versus Michael.
"Lies," Michael said softly, answering all at once Vandergriffs bluff, Nero's dedication to unbiased reporting, and Hasek-Davion's earlier accusation that Karl had meant to betray him. "All lies."
Drew Hasek-Davion did not sound pleased with the assertion, catching the implied insult. "Really? Then why hasn't your friend"—his sneer turned the word itself into an accusation—"Karl Edward contacted you? As of this afternoon, the battered Starlight-Overlord force controlled the Solaris 'Mech bays at the spaceport. And the warehouses. That's been your goal over the last several days, hasn't it?"
Michael straightened up angrily. "You mean your goal. You are very well informed, Drew. So you tell me, how did the Thirty-second know to skirt my defenses and hit the incoming Starlight-Overlord force? Karl apparently wasn't the only person who knew they were inbound."
Drew had been caught off guard, but he seemed to coil back into himself, a serpent readying to strike. "Going against that battalion would have accomplished nothing we couldn't gain by diverting its attention elsewhere. And as inexperienced as they are, you still might have been killed. I can't have you dying in a meaningless battle. No, Michael, that wouldn't play well at all."
"I'm a MechWarrior," Michael said hotly. "That's the risk I take every time I fight for you." He took a breath trying to calm himself down. "Or at least it was. I'm through with this conflict." ., ,
Drew barked one quick laugh, brutal and mirthless.
"You don't understand—never truly have. You don't have to do anything." He shrugged. "Maybe I'll have another warrior parade around in your Pillager, just to keep up appearances. But do you honestly think you can just walk away? Disappear? I've made you the Federated Suns favorite. A Davionist hero, though not necessarily a Davion supporter. You're an icon, Michael. The people will not forget." He jabbed his walking stick in the direction of the wall screen. " They won't let the people forget.
"Not," he said with quiet menace, "unless they have something better to push in front of the masses."
Drew's eyes narrowed slightly. "You are no simple MechWarrior. Those 'Warriors are out in the streets, walking patrols or fighting our enemies. You are hiding in a dark room, my boy. What was the charge against you on New Canton? Pusillanimous conduct? If you thought your commander betrayed you with his testimony, what do you think the press would do if such a story broke here and now?"
Michael felt as though the world was slipping away under his feet. Since coming to Solaris he had done everything possible to bury his past, but apparently not enough. If the vidcasters ever got hold of that story, any appearance of impropriety would quickly substitute for reality. It would be all over at that point. Michael would never be the Champion. Not even a contender after that. But . . .
"That would be cutting your own throat as well."
The innocent expression appeared out of place on Drew's face. "How often have you heard my name mentioned in vids over the last few days?"
Not very, Michael thought. And now he saw Drew's hand in the way the press had become preoccupied with Stormin' Michael Searcy. It was a way for him to distance himself. Not enough to rob Hasek-Davion or Blackstar of a share in any victory, but carefully applied insurance against tragedy. Michael took Drew's meaning all too well this time. In the blink of an eye, his stable master could sever all his ties with Michael and leave him to sink on his own.
Smiling, Drew reached down to pat Michael on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Michael. All a MechWarrior can do out there is win, lose, or die. Remember when you asked me if I wanted a pet 'Warrior? Well, now you know I don't. What I want is a Champion!"
Again he pointed at the wall screen with his walking stick. "The Champion will be named by the media, and it will be you. No one will be able to challenge that, so long as we—you and I—work together.
"And when you kill Victor Vandergriff, who will be left to challenge?"
18
Skye Tiger Mall, Silesia
Solaris City, Solaris VII
Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance
21 August 3062
Try as he might, Victor Vandergriff couldn't deny it. The Banshee looked a thing of beauty, especially compared to its ignoble origins. Gone was the Frankenstein quality of the mix-and-match weapons systems, where weapon casings and armor did not exactly blend together. Gone were the hastily installed armor panels to patch holes where weapons had been yanked out to save weight for the Luxor jump jets. Gone was the coat of dark paint slapped over the 'Mech to make it presentable enough to go before the cameras.
The Skye Tiger techs had worked on his 'Mech to make it deserving of the Lyran favorite. The ill-fitting paneling had been cut away and molded armor fitted into its place, streamlining the Banshee's blocky torso. They'd adjusted the LBX-class autocannon so that it no longer looked like it had been grafted on as an afterthought. They'd moved one of the PPCs into the left arm, giving the Banshee an extended left-side range of motion with its weapons. And then they'd painted the whole machine metallic blue with gold highlights. The ferroglass canopy was backlit with a subdued blue lighting, as were the inside of both PPC barrels. The missile ports of the SRM four-pack riding the right shoulder, however, shone with a harsh red illumination. It would be worthless once battle began and missile exhaust covered the ports in soot, but until then it gave the Banshee a lethal appearance.
From the ground Victor studied the 'Mech with a critical eye. Jerry Stroud waited nearby with Maria Utley, the Skye Tigers' chief tech who'd overseen the work on the Banshee. A small part of Victor still detested the BattleMech for its antique design. Although customized and beautified, the machine was still not the same cutting-edge caliber generally assigned to top contenders. But it was his, and one of the best machines he'd ever owned in his long if undistinguished career.
"It's perfect," he said to Maria. "Don't change a thing."
She nodded and smiled. That was what she wanted to hear, not for the praise but because she could now turn to other work still waiting to be done. After a quick handshake, she went off quickly to supervise another project.
"You'll like this even more," Stroud said, coming up alongside Victor. "Today, Victor. You'll fight him today." There was no need to identify the "him."
"Searcy?" The name came out a curse. "He's coming to Silesia?"
Four frustrating days Victor had waited for the chance, damning the necessity that kept him chained to the Lyran sector while Michael Searcy concentrated on the International Zone. He'd watched the trivid and studied the newsfaxes as his enemy continued to dominate the reports and claim the headlines. The media darling, still. Even in Silesia it was Searcy's actions that were the top news, leaving Victor the role of struggling opponent in his own brief interviews.
"You'll go to him," Stroud went on. "Now that the Thirty-second Lyran Guard is here, we can hold our own if Cathay or Montenegro pushes at us. There are reports that Overlord Stables may be cooperating with Starlight, but I'm not sure that's been well-received by the Black Hills types. The hard-line FedRats don't trust Overlord and are holding their western border against their approach."
"That's where Searcy will be," Victor said, "facing off with the International Zone. Even if I have no problem crossing Cathay, I'll have to fight to get through the Black Hills. That's hostile territory all the way." Not that Victor was unwilling to make it happen. Already he was planning the mission into enemy territory. "If we can use the flooded tunnels beneath Cathay—"
"No need," Stroud interrupted. "Searcy will be at the southern edge of the Black Hills, easily accessible. You can skirt south of Cathay, through the Brahma Slums. Then you'll find him on the grounds of the Running Fox Country Club."
Victor was stunned. "You arranged this?"
"Not exactly. Searcy will be heading out to Green Mansion today to guard Hasek-Davion's estate, and the news crews will shoot some footage of him in the Pillager. You'll enter the Davion sector by the way of the country club, which is only minutes from Green Mansion. Searcy will be the closest 'Mech. He'll have to respond, with news crews in tow." Stroud nodded in satisfaction. "My people intercepted a wireless call from Hasek-Davion to his estate. Because of the location of the call, it bounced off a hilltop repeater controlled by Alliance patriots."
"Convenient."
"Not convenient. Planned. Hasek-Davion knew I'd intercept that call. That's why he made it where he did. He wants you two in a rematch. It's as simple as that."
"And Trevor approves." It was not meant to be a question. Trevor Lynch, safe outside the city, was doing little more than echo Jerry Stroud and other Lyran stable leaders who were holding the line in Silesia.
"Actually, he doesn't," Stroud admitted. "Lynch heard through the Lyran Guard that more troops are on the way. Direct orders from Nondi Steiner herself. He suggested we button up tight and wait for the military, let them shut down any resistance to the Alliance government and take control of Silesia."
No! That wasn't the way this would end. Victor had come too far, through five days of the Grand Tournament and now six more of open warfare in the streets of Solaris City, to sit back while some wet-behind-the-ears army unit claimed headlines that were rightfully his. Or to let some officer use martial law to take control of the Game World—to make himself Champion. Victor would let nothing keep him away from Searcy.
"You said Trevor suggested we wait."
"That's right, should. We agreed to let you decide." Stroud's grin was humorless, almost predatory. "You got us where we are today, after all."
"We go after Searcy," Victor said.
"That's what I thought you'd say. I'll give you a lance of Sky Tigers as an escort to the Black Hills. They can field any friends Searcy may have in tow." Stroud stared at Victor levelly. "Then it's up to you."
Victor nodded. No arena walls to hem the battle in or judges to save his enemy. Today he and Stormin' Michael Searcy would meet again.
And this time Stormin' Michael Searcy would die.
* * *
With determined stride, Megan Church headed straight for the main entrance of Jerry Stroud's mansion. She'd tailed him here from Skye Tiger Mall, which his stable was using as a base of operations separate from the one in the Coliseum. It had been slow getting here because of the need to avoid areas of the Lyran sector still deemed unsafe. She also had to go easy with the tail, not race ahead in anticipation. Cautious, she had to be cautious. Even when time didn't allow for it.
Especially then.
She'd parked her stolen truck a block over on Inverness Avenue and changed into the black and gold paramilitary uniform of Hollis Security. Like most Silesian stables and other large businesses, Stroud had hired a few detachments of Hollis guards to supplement his own security at the Mall and to act as couriers running face-to-face errands across the sector. An observer might assume that the metal briefcase handcuffed to her wrist contained important documents—reports on the stable's military readiness or on the latest assault by the Black Hills.
In truth, however, it contained the tools and explosives for the afternoon's work.
Megan didn't like it. Not one bit. For one thing, it was all happening on too short notice. In the early hours of the morning she'd been called to an emergency meeting in a deserted office building near Boreal Reach. To get there from the relative safety of Silesia, she'd had to cross Cathay and then make her way through the Black Hills, no routine commute. When she arrived, it was just the two of them, Megan and the demon of the Black Hills. No guards or surveillance—none that she could detect anyway. Some things were better kept between the two of them, he'd said. The set-up was almost too good to be true. If only she'd had some advance notice . . .
But she hadn't. And no time to improvise either. Her orders were simple. "The situation has changed in the last forty-eight hours, with the arrival of the Lyran Guard battalion on Solaris," he told her. "There's also some doubt about Michael Searcy's willingness to cooperate. The plans have to go forward more quickly than anticipated." Then came that smug smile that spoke of confidence in Megan's abilities but also the knowledge that she was forced to obey him. "I want you to take a more direct hand in events."
Damn him! It wasn't that she minded getting dirty on an assignment, not since she was sixteen and working as a courier between the Triads. Money helped wash the filth off afterward, she'd discovered. But this was a bit extreme. Any other time and she would have refused, but the pressures mounting on her left her no choice.
Her nerves stretched taut, she approached the guard and flashed the Hollis Security identification. "I'm expected," she said tersely, and was waved through a side gate that the guard buzzed open. If someone were watching, that would have seemed way too easy, she thought. She should have been questioned, at least briefly. And shouldn't the guard have called up to the mansion and sent Megan there with an escort?
She could have come over the wall, but that would have meant a night-time penetration, and Hasek-Davion had been firm that it had to be today. This very afternoon. And she had to be off the grounds by sixteen-hundred hours. She had only forty minutes till then, having lost time in the trip from Skye Tiger Mall to Stroud's estate. A daytime intrusion risked giving her away, and the rushed nature of the job risked a mistake that could cost a life, her own included. But if she was under observation, not to follow through meant also risking the fragile relationship she'd built with Hasek-Davion. Which she'd finally gotten so close to where she wanted it.
He had even promised to get her off Solaris after this. "The world won't be safe for me," she told him, hoping to beg off the job. "Even for someone who knows when to cheer for Katrina or Prince Victor. Jerry Stroud is too important, too well-connected."
"He's also vulnerable, my dear. Now more than ever." Hasek-Davion would brook no argument. "You said it could be done."
"It can be. But then what do I do? Solaris VII is all I've ever known."
If one thing was certain about Drew Hasek-Davion, it was that he took care of his own—and the further you slipped under his control, the more valuable a possession you became. "I promise you that will not be a problem. When we're done here, I can find work for you on New Syrtis, Robinson, even New Avalon."
Megan recognized all three as March capitals, especially the last, which was the seat of power for the entire Federated Suns. She cou
ldn't help but wonder if it was a coincidence that the one he'd named first was the capital of the Capellan March, long-time political bastion of the Haseks?
"I'd rather stay in Lyran space."
"I told you before, my dear. Don't let it get personal."
She wouldn't.
Stroud's Deuceman Blitz-Zweisitzer, a big car with a powerful engine more suited to a race track than city streets, was parked in a carport to the rear of the mansion. No fancy chauffeured hovercar for Jerry Stroud. He wanted control of his own fate, even when driving.
Megan was just glad the vehicle's engine was internal combustion; messing with a fusion engine was a lot more dicey. She snapped off the handcuffs with a fast-release catch and opened the briefcase. This part of the operation was actually the easiest, provided no one walked in on her.
She slid under the rear end of the car, and in a matter of seconds planted a small brick of petraglycerine into a space between the lightly armored fuel tank and the driver's-side frame. Then she pushed a detonator into the soft material, careful that the wire ends were still wrapped in their protective caps.
This wasn't some holovid-adventure method of wiring an explosive to the ignition system—start the car and boom. That would have required her to get under the hood or inside the car. Even a simple space sensor would be hard to defeat once her body mass broke the plane of the hood or got past the car doors.
She used a small but powerful drill with a carbide tip to make a small hole in the left-side exhaust pipe. Then she glued a sensor about the size of a big bottle cap over the hole with Bond-it (a thousand and one uses). A few more adjustments and everything was ready. A single spark would trip a contact when the pressure in the exhaust system indicated a running engine. The contact would fire one heavy spark, and that would be enough. Megan carefully stripped the wire ends of their caps and attached them to the sensor's small terminals. Her work done, she slid out from under the rear of the car, got to her feet and dusted off her uniform.
LE5790 - Illusions Of Victory Page 18