LE5790 - Illusions Of Victory

by Loren L. Coleman

  Now he had to make up for it. He killed his targeting computer, falling back on straight sensor feed and his own skill in acquiring target lock. This time he saw the reticle burn gold before easing into a shot, lancing out with his PPCs and the sapphire darts of his large pulse lasers.

  Karl fired at exactly the same moment, a second salvo almost as effective as the first, minus one of his large lasers. The Warhawk shook under the onslaught, giving up more of its armor as destruction walked across the chest and also cut deep into the left leg this time. The cockpit heat spiked hard and brutal as the Cestus's laserfire cut away a good portion of the physical shielding around the Warhawk's fusion engine. Coupled with the heat spike created by demand of Garrett's energy weapons, his cockpit temperature shot straight through the yellow band and well into the red.

  Garrett gasped for breath, the scorching air burning in his lungs as he overrode the automatic shutdown safeguard. The Clan-designed Warhawk, usually so responsive to his touch, performed sluggishly now, the heat interfering with its internal systems. Why had he wasted time talking and grandstanding for the spectators cowering in the nearby hotel and the cameramen he'd noticed set up in the shadow of the elevated monorail tracks? Sweat streaked his face and burned at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision. He blinked them clear and looked out his canopy onto a restorative sight.

  The Cestus was leaning drunkenly against a wall, having nearly fallen, one arm neatly amputated just below the shoulder.

  Garret's second set of PPCs had not failed him this time, their lethal discharge combining to melt away armor and sever the titanium bones underneath. In a single salvo, he'd robbed the Cestus of half its laser power. It reminded Garrett once again of how lethal was the machine he piloted. This was no ordinary 'Mech. It was Clan. It was his.

  Still, the wire-frame schematic displayed on an auxiliary monitor might have been enough to unnerve many another Mech Warrior, those without the experience of a hundred arena duels or the genetic superiority of being trueborn among the Clans. His armor was ravaged and breached over his right side, while the heat flooding his Omni was creating massive system failures. Worst of all, the fusion engine was borderline critical.

  None of that mattered. Garrett would never give up; he was made of sterner stuff. He was a Clan and always would be. Swallowing some moisture back into his parched throat, he trailed his reticle back toward the Cestus even as the other machine straightened up to resume the battle.

  The Warhawk responded too slowly, the efficiency of its myomer musculature devastated by the internal temperatures, allowing the Cestus to throttle up and move out from under the cross hairs. Garrett stabbed at his triggers, his twin PPCs pouring out streams of hellish fire in hopes of another solid hit. That's all it was: hope. The coruscating energy lanced over the Cestus's right shoulder, burning harmlessly into the air over several buildings before finally dissipating. The single gauss slug Karl returned smashed more armor from the Warhawk's left side, opening up a breach there as well.

  Karl Edward cut inside Garrett's firing arc then, racing his machine forward in a curling pattern that boiled the fight down to a race. He would surely go for one of the Warhawk's critically wounded flanks, betting against the heat-addled turning speed of the OmniMech. Garrett wrenched on his controls, fighting to wrestle more performance out of his 'Mech than it had ever been designed to give under such circumstances. Pushing the machine into an awkward turn, he twisted the torso to its limits and then reached to the side with the 'Mech's right arm.

  It gave him just enough range of motion to thrust forward the two pulse lasers directly into the chest of his opponent. Sapphire darts hammered into the Cestus's chest, chewing into the Durallex armor. A gray mist of flashed metal covered his torso, the cloud spitting out small molten gobbets in sizzling arcs. Enough to wound the other machine gravely, though not enough to stop it. Karl Edward had built up too much momentum in his charging attack. Too late, Garrett realized that the other Mech Warrior meant to smash into him.

  He shoved the throttle forward so violently that it broke one of its mechanical stops, wrenching the stick. The Warhawk managed one half-step—not nearly far enough—before the Cestus slammed into its weakened right side.

  The impact rattled Garrett hard against his restraining harness, digging deep bruises into his chest and shoulders. The grinding sound of crushed armor roared in his ears. The Warhawk's right hip took a glancing blow from the Cestus's knee, and the Omni's arm, already bent awkwardly back, wrenched at the shoulder joint. Then the smaller 'Mech's shoulder dug into the ruined right torso, smashing the bulky flank shielding the Warhawk's fusion engine back into the main body, where it impacted against the gyroscopic stabilizer and reactor.

  There was no saving the Warhawk as it stumbled back, caught in gravity's embrace. Even if it could have held to its feet, the fusion reactor had taken too much damage and nothing could bring it back under control. Already its dampening system was failing, golden fire leaking out the caved right side and bursting through both hip joints. What little armor was left protecting the chest melted, sagged, and fell inward. Black smoke belched from the seams surrounding the head.

  Garrett smelled the scent of molten metal in the split second before the loosed inferno ate its way up through the floor of his cockpit. Then he felt the searing heat as it consumed metal and flesh and filled the space around him with a glorious blaze. But buried down deep, in a place his screams of pain could not reach, was one final spark of pride, of satisfaction. His Clan was dead. He had died with it, in fact, though he'd refused to acknowledge it. And now there would finally be a peace of sorts.

  Peace that he would not outlive this disgrace.

  * * *

  "I always knew you had it in you."

  Michael walked his Pillager forward, careful of the still-smoking ruin that had been Garrett's Masakari—a machine the Clanner had insisted on calling a Warhawk. The explosion of the fusion engine hadn't left much recognizable, just blackened and twisted metal. A few larger pieces were scattered about the street, having blown clear of the inferno. Among them one arm had gone smashing through the wall of the Imperial Hotel, bringing the fight closer to some spectators than they would have liked. Most of the hotel's windows had shattered under the explosive force. The people moved about over there as if in a daze, slow and aimless, but at least they were alive. Most of them.

  No answer from Karl. The Cestus lay on its side, unmoving. Unable to hold to its feet after the impact of its charging attack and the violent destruction of the Masakari, it had fallen into the ruins of the monorail station. Michael was worried. Caught against the force of such an explosion, slammed down against an unyielding street with only one 'Mech arm to break the fall, Karl might be hurt. Hurt bad.

  Michael crouched the Pillager down beside the fallen Cestus to get a better look. A prickling sensation crawled over his scalp, the same touch of dread he'd felt walking through the devastation of the Star League Park.

  In the other cockpit, something moved.

  "Had what in me?" Karl finally asked.

  Michael smiled in relief. His friend was alive. "The showmanship," he said. "That last attack was a true showstopper. Grandstanding for the audience."

  Silence for a long moment, as if Karl wasn't certain whether this was some new game. Finally, he said simply, "It hurt."

  "I'll bet it did. No one said fame was easy, pal."

  "That's not why I did it." The Cestus stirred, rolling over onto its front and working its one arm beneath it.

  Michael straightened up his Pillager and waited for the Cestus to rise on its own. "That's not why I did it, either, not at first anyway. But fame follows victory on Solaris VII as sure as newsmen can smell a story." He turned the Pillager's head just far enough to indicate a direction. "Over there, in the shadow of the elevated rail. I counted at least three different crews. Like it or not, my friend, they'll already have you cast as the Jaguar-slayer. You'll be very popular in Kobe, I'd think." M
ichael knew he was playing hard on the "pals" and "friends," and wondered briefly who he was trying to convince, Karl or himself. Maybe both, he finally decided.

  Karl wasn't giving him much to work with. "Why are you here, Michael?"

  "I came looking for you, Karl. You, Starlight, Overlord. Though I didn't think to find you so easily. Or so involved."

  "I was waiting for you when Garrett decided to settle an old score." A pause. "It's settled."

  "How did you know I was coming?"

  "A little bird whispered it in my ear."

  Michael frowned, not catching the reference. "A little bird?"

  "Okay. Would you believe a fat vulture squawked on the wrong channel?"

  So Karl had heard the earlier conversation between Michael and Hasek-Davion. And he'd come out alone to gauge Michael's attitude. All right, then. "I need your help," he said.

  "Stormin' Michael Searcy never needed anyone," Karl retorted.

  "Yes, he did," Michael answered wearily. "He needed the media. The media and Drew Hasek-Davion made his reputation. But it was a reputation built on hype and happenstance, though for a while he even believed it himself." For a long while—too long, in fact. "That's over."

  When Karl spoke again, his tone had softened somewhat. Not that all was forgiven, but Michael could at least hear some definite hope in there. "So who are you now?" Karl asked.

  That was the question Michael kept coming back to. If not Champion, then what? "I don't know yet. But whoever Michael Searcy is now, he belongs out here trying to set things right—if that can be done." He ran his gaze over the ruins around them, and he knew that further east, between the Black Hills and Silesia, the battleground looked even worse. "What have you got left here?"

  "The battle with the Lyran Guard hurt us, but between Starlight and Overlord Stables and a few odd hangers-on we've attracted, we can field two disjointed battalions. That's enough to hold the International Zone, or at least the spaceport, to keep either sector from acquiring the stockpiles stored there." Karl paused, then admitted, "But it can't stop the fighting. The Black Hills alone can field a regiment or more, and that belongs to Drew Hasek-Davion, your defection notwithstanding. Silesia is even stronger with the Thirty-second's arrival. Neither side is about to back us for a peaceful solution."

  Michael frowned, considering, then nodded to himself. "One side might," he said haltingly, "if it's done correctly. What's missing is someone on point, to clear a path."

  "Always out in front, eh?"

  Michael heard the edge in his friend's voice, but wasn't sure if it was sarcasm or dry humor.

  "One more time, Karl." He could hear the weariness in his own voice. "Stormin' Michael Searcy still has one final appearance to make."

  21

  Hazelwood Heights, Black Hills

  Solaris City, Solaris VII

  Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance

  22 August 3062

  Michael Searcy watched as a lance of four 'Mechs shook out into a ragged line halfway down the slope, claiming a small park along Regency Street. The Black Hills' main police station crowned the hill, a monolithic structure overlooking Hazelwood Heights and, much further down, the residential slums settled into the lowlands that eventually gave way to Cathay. Though it had the capacity for a thousand policemen, the station never garrisoned more than a light BattleMech lance here for riot duty. Times had changed, though, with the FSPD upgrade in recent months.

  These were no light 'Mechs. A new Enforcer III and a JagerMech III stood slightly forward of a pair of Centurions, the lance of a height with the stands of birch trees from which the area took its name. The armor on all four was a bit worse for wear, Michael noted. But all proudly displayed the insignia Of the Federated Suns Police Force—the sword-and-sunburst set over a golden shield.' '

  He halted his Pillager a quarter-kilometer away, his cockpit seat giving him a good view over the rooftops. His computer identified the lance as a security patrol, tagging their icons on the heads-up display in neutral blue. That was all well and good for the computer, but Michael wouldn't be satisfied unless he was sure these 'Mechs weren't under the direct control of Hasek-Davion. Until then they were hostiles.

  Michael was bound for Boreal Reach, there to face the self-proclaimed Black Hills Militia, and then on to Silesia. Already he'd met three pickets on his way through the Davion sector, but here, in the shadow of the main precinct, the stakes were higher. He could have swung wide of the area, but that would have meant conceding authority to Drew Hasek-Davion. Stormin' Michael Searcy never shied from a challenge, but in this game, if he resorted to firing a single shot he would have already lost.

  Selecting the Black Hills' frequency, always monitored by police forces, he dropped his jaw long enough to engage his transmitter. "State your business."

  "It's the other way around, Searcy," came the immediate response. The JagerMech shifted slightly on its feet to indicate who led the police lance. "This is Lieutenant Rand of the FSPD. That's my line, and I want to know what you think you're doing here."

  "I'm passing through. You can move aside or be moved."

  A nervous laugh. "You and what army?"

  Michael knew that Rand didn't want this fight any more than he did. The police lance had the numbers, so far, but Michael commanded a far superior machine and owned three years in the arenas. It helped balance the odds. "Karl, show them," Michael said.

  On his HUD, icons painted the gold of allies moved out of the sensor shadows cast by some of the taller buildings. From behind Mirabilis House, one of the landmark mansions that existed side by side with the eyesore slums, Karl Edward appeared at the head of a double lance of Starlight MechWarriors. Then a company from Overlord emerged from around the Davion Arms Condominiums to the direct south. Further back, another combined-stables company came from between some of the larger buildings that flanked the Black Hills' mercantile district. In that last group were the three police pickets Michael had already recruited to his side while traveling here from the International sector. Two of them displayed the same sun-sword-and-shield crest as these new officers.

  Karl remained on point in his Cestus as the battalion moved up, his 'Mech damaged from the fight with Garrett but still ready for more. "Did we interrupt something?" Karl asked over the open frequency. His threatening tone was a scripted part of Michael's bluff. Then, over the closed channel, he added, "I hope you know what you're doing, Searcy."

  Michael hoped so too. As the battalion positioned itself in a wide arc three hundred meters back of his Pillager, he said, "That answer your question, Lieutenant?"

  Rand's next transmission was more subdued. "I count at least fifteen Lyrans in that force."

  "And you'll notice that I've trusted them at my back. No one's shot at me yet."

  A lengthy pause followed, which Michael figured was either a conference between Rand and his lancemates or with someone higher up the chain of authority. It wasn't too hard to guess who that later might be. Michael had his own ace to play, but he hoped to save it for later in the game. He took several more menacing steps forward, halting the Pillager again only when his sensors warned of multiple target locks.

  "Fire or stand aside, Lieutenant Rand. I don't have time for discussion."

  "Yes sir. I mean, no, of course not. But—we were advised that you had abandoned us for the Lyrans." The words came out in a rush. "For her."

  So, Hasek-Davion's propaganda machine was already hard at work accusing Michael of defecting to Katrina. A smart move, but this time Drew was also going to have to fight the persona of Stormin' Michael Searcy— a persona he'd helped create. The lieutenant obviously didn't want to believe Michael was a traitor. Appearance and reality—this time Michael had both on his side.

  "If you truly believe I could turn merchant," he said, using the common slang for a Lyran citizen, "that I would turn my back on the Federated Suns, then you should fire." He throttled into a slow walk, letting the Pillager's arms swinging normally for balance
rather than held in position for an attack. He wasn't about to fire on these men.

  The Pillager ate up the distance in six-meter strides. Michael's sensors continued to complain of target locks, and he tensed for an assault. Nervous sweat trickled down the sides of his face. His first half-dozen steps past the four police 'Warriors seemed to stretch on forever— enough time for them to hit him from behind at point-blank range. That would ravage both Michael and the Pillager beyond any hope of salvage or survival.

  And then one after another, the cautionary alarms of multiple target locks faded away.

  Karl's voice was a brief whisper in his ear. "Well played, Michael."

  The police JagerMech fell in behind the Pillager, quickly followed by its three companions as the lance now accompanied Michael's forces down from the hills and into the tenement area. It was a victory, but Michael knew his troubles weren't over. They were only beginning.

  It seemed he had come full circle. The Davion favorite and one of the most celebrated gladiators on Solaris VII, at this moment he was as nervous as the first day he'd walked a battered Blackjack into one of the Game World's minor arenas. Heart pounding, throat dry, fear warring with adrenaline.

  He even had an audience again as he walked his 'Mech through the tenements. They were refugees, displaced by the savage Lyran assault against the Black Hills. Their tenements were threatened or already destroyed as the free-fire zone expanded on the eastern border that separated the Davion sector from Cathay. Hundreds of people trailed along the walks as Michael and his men moved deeper into the sector. Many simply stood and watched, awed by the leviathan machines that a week before had commanded the arenas and now ruled the streets of the Game World. A few threw rocks or bottles plucked from the garbage littering the streets, but the protestors were quickly put down by the greater numbers who cheered and waved, recognizing what was certainly the most celebrated 'Mech in the Black Hills. Along every street some few dozen would jog along for a few seconds, thinking to match the pace set by the Pillager. The 'Mech was slow compared to some others, but no one on foot could hope to match its thirty-two-kilometer per hour speed.