LE5790 - Illusions Of Victory

by Loren L. Coleman

  Before she left, Megan stooped back down to check her handiwork, which looked like a small, irregular bump on the exhaust. The bomb's trigger would be easy enough to find if someone knew where to look. Otherwise, only a careful sweep of the car would give it away. That would take time.

  If Hasek-Davion's deadline was any indication, time was the one thing Jerry Stroud would not have.

  A sense of dread shadowed Megan as she walked around to the front of the mansion, leaving the live bomb behind her. It was all part of the job, she kept telling herself. Another day at the office. Yeah, sure.

  Just like she'd told herself that Hasek-Davion and Stroud played their games of dominance far over her head. It didn't matter who came out on top, so long as she could keep making a living with a mostly clear conscience. Heading back to the street, briefcase swinging lightly at her side, Megan knew she'd crossed the line, that she'd sold another piece of herself here at Jerry Stroud's mansion.

  And that another debt would be called due. Soon.

  * * *

  "Got a Rakshasa to the west and a Dragon Fire to the east. They're tearing me apart here!"

  "Someone back up Blue Five before . . ." Silence. "Blake's blood! Never mind. Pull in. Close that hole."

  Victor Vandergriff stared out his canopy at the lush grounds of the Black Hills' Running Fox Country Club, clenching his teeth so hard his jaws hurt. The voices on the commline were coming from the battle being fought back in Silesia. The signals were faint, interspersed with static from bouncing up into the Black Hills, but it sounded like the Thirty-second Guard was being hammered by a strike staged from the Black Hills that aimed to roll right over Skye Tiger Estate. The Guard was trying to evacuate Jerry Stroud, though in the confusion no one knew if he was already hell-bent for the more secure Skye Tiger Mall or was still trapped inside his walled estate.

  "Watch it, sir!" Some overlapping chatter bled together into a cacophony of noise and a few recognized words, then, "The lieutenant's out. Clean ejection."

  "Tiger One to Vandergriff." Tiger One was the lead element of the lance that had escorted Victor to the southern edge of the Black Hills. "They're getting slaughtered. Do we return?"

  "We do not," Victor said with authority.

  This was more important.

  Leaving his escort behind and well out of sight, Victor had gone alone into the country club. He would share this moment with no one. Cutting his Banshee across five fairways of the eighteen-hole golf course, he now stood on the first green within sight of the opulent clubhouse. News teams began arriving almost at once, setting up in the shadow of the clubhouse.

  He saw no sign of Michad Searcy, but here he would wait. If anyone was going to save the Thirty-second, it would have to be reinforcements out of the Coliseum or maybe Skye Tiger Mall. Even if Victor and his escort left the Black Hills at a full run, they could never hope to get back to Silesia in time to turn the tide of battle. For now, he listened and waited.

  Nervous sweat trickled off his brow. Soon heat buildup in the Banshee's cockpit would have him sweating rivers, but he was counting on his new cooling suit to do its job. This was it—the fight he'd been denied six days prior. The one that would settle the question of Champion or vanquished. Vandergriff or Searcy. Steiner or Davion. Victor already knew the answer, but he still had to prove it to the rest of Solaris—and by remote video feed to the rest of the Inner Sphere. Through his canopy he could see camera crews setting up on the far side of the first tee. Searcy could not be far behind.

  "Blue Seven. I've jumped into the estate courtyard. It's a mess—the Sworders have been here already. We've got a downed Enfield with Skye Tiger colors. I can see what looks like it used to be a garage with the burning remains of one . . . two cars. People are running from the mansion toward the back of the estate, waving at me and pointing back at the house. What the—they're diving out of windows now, even from the second floor."

  Victor reached for his communications panel, ready to switch his transmitter over from the private channel he shared with his escort to that of the Lyran Guard frequency. He knew what was about to happen in that fight, even if the green 'Warrior did not. But before he could warn Blue Seven, Victor's own sensors suddenly warned him of a threat approaching on the left flank.

  It was a BattleMech, and he was sure it couldn't be anyone but Searcy at the controls. He had no solid reading on it yet, but by turning the Banshee's head, he could see something large pushing its way through a thick stand of trees in the bend of the fourth fairway. One tall pine fell over, crashing down as other boles stripped away its branches with rifle-shot cracks. In the gap Victor saw a flash of gray armor. It still wasn't enough for his computer to identify, but to his practiced eye it looked like a small 'Mech, one smaller than a Pillager.

  He wrote that off to a trick of the terrain, the tall pines dwarfing Searcy's big 'Mech.

  "By the Archon!" It was the voice of Blue Seven again, but Victor had no time to warn him of the 'Mech coming at him through the mansion. The one the running and pointing people had also tried to warn him about.

  "A Blackstar Pillager just gutted the mansion." The Lyran Guard 'Warrior's voice bordered on panic. "Taking damage. I'm trying—ejecting!"

  Victor had been turning his Banshee to face the approaching 'Mech, about to switch off the chatter from the battle in Silesia. He nearly wrenched his neck muscles twisting about to look at the comm panel. A Pillager! Blackstar owned only one of those.

  It belonged to the stable's premier 'Warrior.

  "Searcy!" he shouted, alone in his cockpit. "Impossible! You can't be in Silesia. You're out here!" How else could Victor explain that 'Mech hiding just within the dense stand of trees. Refusing to believe the report, he throttled into a walk, moving against the gunshy enemy.

  Shy no longer. A forty-ton Watchman, one of the lightest of medium-class BattleMechs, it took to the air on its jump jets, rocketing up and right to keep its distance from Victor's Banshee. At the apex of its jump, its large laser tore a molten scar across the Banshee's chest. Though not more than a scratch, the hit stung Victor's pride.

  Now he understood. This was all a set-up. Searcy hadn't been sent to guard Hasek-Davion's estate today! Stroud had intercepted the wireless call, but not because he wanted to arrange a rematch between the Davion favorite and Victor. If anything, it was a way to pull Victor out of Silesia so that Searcy could attack Stroud's estate. A way to humiliate Victor by sending an inferior 'Mech to play games with him while his enemy remained solidly out of reach.

  Rage warred with chagrin. Did they expect him to chase the faster Watchman around the golf course, looking every bit the frustrated Lyran? Or did they hope he'd ignore the FedRat 'Mech and make for Silesia?

  Either way it was a losing proposition, with the local media on hand to record him waiting here like a stooge while Searcy grabbed more headlines.

  Not that Victor could let the Watchman off without at least an attempt at returning fire. Dropping his targeting reticle over the stand of trees where he'd seen the Fed-Rat land, Victor tightened up on his two main triggers. Azure whips of manmade lightning streaked out from the Banshee toward the wood. One energy discharge buried itself in the underbrush, setting it on fire. The other might have scored, but the Watchman's 'Warrior obviously had no intention of committing suicide by tangling with an assault machine like the Banshee. The other 'Mech faded back through the woods, coming out the other side in a run that quickly separated the two BattleMechs.

  His fury far from spent, Victor slid his cross hairs down into the trees and among the denser brush. Two more PPC discharges flared, bursting boles and scarring the ground as it touched off scattered fires. He walked down the length of the first fairway, the Banshee's enormous metal feet ripping up the manicured lawns as its energy weapons ate again and again into the surrounding stands of trees. Sweat beaded and ran freely down his face, soaking into his cooling suit as the temperature in the cockpit spiked upward. Victor slapped at the shutdown overri
de every few seconds to keep the fusion reactor online and pouring more energy through his PPCs at the terrain around him. Soon a dozen fires raged over the Running Fox course, darkening the skies as they consumed a healthy part of the grounds.

  By the time Victor reached the clubhouse, the video crews were scrambling for the parking lot, though several cameramen were still shooting as they ran. Victor didn't care. He ignored them just as he ignored his Banshee's protesting systems. He simply hit the override again and hoped the crews had a good camera angle as he slowly blasted the clubhouse to a pile of smoking debris. From there he could work over any remaining vehicles in the parking lot. And then it was on to Green Mansion before a Federated Suns patrol offered any serious threat.

  He'd give that treacherous Davion-dog something to come home to.

  19

  Boreal Reach, Black Hills

  Solaris City, Solaris VII

  Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance

  22 August 3062

  The activity level under Boreal Reach had stepped up several notches toward frantic -since the previous evening's raid against Silesia. The large bays smelled of acrid hot metalwork and the sweat of technicians working around the clock to keep machines fit for combat. Any MechWarriors present were either sleeping, eating, or suiting up for a new excursion. Not an hour went by that BattleMechs weren't on the move, their footfalls shaking the walls as they patrolled the tunnels or engaged the enemy in battle on to the streets above.

  They didn't have far to go this morning. A few patrols guarded the western border, the Black Hills combined militia still uncertain of the Starlight-Overlord force that held the spaceport and remained under communications blackout. Most 'Mechs were shifted to the nearby eastern edge of the sector, where Silesia pressed hard in a series of attacks being led by Victor Vandergriff. The fighting there was savage. Reinforced by the Thirty-second Lyran Guard, the Silesians were demonstrating a fanatical drive after learning of the destruction of Skye Tiger Estate and that Jerry Stroud was missing, presumed dead. Cathay was no longer much of an obstacle between the two sectors. The Capellans were busy with their own internal fighting and ignored the Lyran and Federated Sun forces passing through so long as their battles occurred outside Cathay's borders.

  So far the flood of forces was fairly one-sided, and the slums hugging the northeast border of the Black Hills looked like the ruins of an old battle-torn city. Silesian 'Warriors had crossed in staggered waves during the night, fighting to clear a free-fire zone from the Solaris River down to the Danning Street greenbelt—a swath of destruction half a kilometer deep and over two kilometers in length. The rubble and ruins now choked the largest arena ever seen in Solaris VII, one under the watchful (remote) cameras of ever major media concern on the Game World. The battles raged violently for a time, no-holds-barred brawling that wasted machines and MechWarriors, until both sides were forced to retreat for repairs and whatever further reinforcements might be scraped together.

  Michael had spent a difficult night, experiencing the helplessness of being dispossessed for the first time in three years. Drew had made good on that much of his threat; he'd given Michael's Pillager to Aubry Larsen for its appearance the evening prior against Skye Tigers Estate. Michael had already resolved to take action, no matter what it cost to him, but was forced to wait anxiously for technicians to repair his 'Mech. From all reports, the fighting was sporadic but savage.

  The feeling of helplessness made him begin to wonder exactly when he'd begun to buy in to the illusion spun by Drew Hasek-Davion. When had he begun to believe that he and the media creation of Stormin' Michael Searcy were one and the same? When had he begun to believe that he was in control of his life and could seize an imagined destiny from the cockpit of his 'Mech? Michael had wanted so desperately to reclaim his honor after New Canton that he'd persuaded himself that all he needed do was prove his talent. Illusions of victory enticed him forward, but it was all a mirage of his own creation.

  Karl's departure and Drew Hasek-Davion's blatant manipulations had shattered those illusions. Now Michael's eyes were wide open, perhaps for the first time since setting foot on the Game World. Now he'd changed course, deciding that from now on he would turn his talent to ending the terrible violence that gripped Solaris City instead of his own best interests. It had nothing to do with fighting in the games, nothing to do with achieving his own ends. He just wanted to help put a stop to the madness.

  The underground hangar Michael had entered held four BattleMechs racked in separate maintenance bays. One was being rendered down for parts, and technicians were swarming over two others in anticipation of the next battle. Only Michael's Pillager stood ready for combat, eleven meters of lethal design freshly armored and ready to walk. Even under the stress of the last twelve hours, someone had found time to touch up the paint and add a few Federated Suns crest. The sword-in-sunburst design covered the entire torso, the blade extending up to the 'Mech's head and reaching its point in the titan's armored brow. Nice work for a machine that was supposed to remain out of combat except for a few special appearances.

  Too bad Michael intended to ruin that paint job today.

  Wearing coveralls like those of the techs and astechs working in the bay, he went unnoticed until he stepped onto the gantry lift that would take him up to the cockpit. He was six meters above the floor when someone called out to him. It was an engineer looking up with a quizzical expression.

  "Take about four minutes, sir," Michael yelled back as if answering a question. The man was still watching when Michael slipped through the hatch and dogged it shut behind him.

  He moved quickly, knowing he was on a timer. No telling if Drew Hasek-Davion had someone watching the Pillager or looking for Michael. Regardless, the news would eventually break. Michael stripped down to the cooling suit he'd worn under the coveralls. Pulling up the cowl on his suit, he settled the neuroreceptors firmly against his forehead, temples, and at the base of his skull. Then he climbed into the command couch, strapped into the five-point safety harness, and plugged his coolant and command lines into the appropriate sockets built into his combat suit. The last thing was to strap on the light-impact helmet for protection.

  The power-up sequence proceeded with the speed of familiarity. Michael shivered when the coolant instantly began to lower his body temperature, though he would be glad of that soon enough. As the Vlar fusion power plant thrummed to life in the Pillager's chest, he sped through the checks of weapons and subsystems. Finally, he initialized the computer to accept piloting commands and to process the signals the neuroreceptors would feed into the gyroscopic stabilizer.

  He had personally reinstalled his old security system during the night, careful to stay out of sight of anyone who might report back to Hasek-Davion. So when he identified himself as "Michael Searcy," the computer accepted his voice print.

  "Initiate cross check," it prompted for the secret code phrase known only to him.

  The security code caught in his throat, the words reminding him of too many past events all at once. The media circus of a trial that had followed New Canton. His 'Mech Talk interview opposite Jarman Bauer and the later press conference on Viewpoint. His last conversation with Drew Hasek-Davion.

  "It's not whether you win or lose, it's who reports the game," he said softly, hating the truth in those words. Because no matter that his motives might be selfless this time, his plans still necessitated use of the media. On Solaris VII, one always had to count them into the order of battle.

  Except there was never any telling on which side the media would enter.

  * * *

  "Again. We have unconfirmed reports that Michael Searcy has terminated his contract with Blackstar Stables, citing irreconcilable differences with management. Discreet sources claim that Searcy has taken to the streets of Solaris City in his Pillager. Stable owner Drew Hasek-Davion has been unavailable for comment. At this time we can only wonder—"

  In the offices he had commandeered near Boreal Re
ach, Drew snapped off the holovid, erasing Adam Kristof's visage from the screen and terminating the infuriating report. What game did Searcy think he was playing? It was one hell of a way for his star Mech Warrior to give his notice. And now he was capitalizing on the supposed strained relations Drew had already hinted at in the media. Hints Drew had set in place in case he found it expedient to sever ties with Michael—not the other way around!

  Michael counted on his celebrity status giving him free rein in the Black Hills, protecting him from any attempt to use the combined militia against the wayward 'Warrior until further plans could be made public. And there would be more news in the making, of that Drew had no doubt.

  Drew only briefly debated calling in to Boreal Reach before deciding not to waste the effort. There was no reason to doubt the rest of Kristof's report. Michael was already gone, taking the Pillager as he set about his own plans. He had probably called in the news of his leave-taking, preempting any attempt by Drew to turn the defection to his own advantage. Now Drew had to play catch-up. It was not a position he relished, and he vowed to make Michael pay for it with interest.

  "I should have had him killed yesterday," he complained aloud, snatching up his wireless and speed-dialing the communications room of Green Mansion. Killed him and dumped the body among the ruins of Skye Tigers Estate. A hero's death would read better than a defection any day.

  When his communications controller answered, Drew ordered that his call be patched through the equipment. The station could reach anywhere in Solaris City and, in fact, over most of the continent of Grayland. Searcy couldn't hide. All he could do was refuse to answer. Drew delivered the frequency he knew Michael Searcy and Karl Edward used to reserve for their private use. It might be enough to catch Michael's attention and perhaps give Drew a chance to further poison the friendship between him and Karl. Always thinking two steps ahead, that was the way Drew did things.