LE5790 - Illusions Of Victory

by Loren L. Coleman

"Voicepoint confirmed. Please initiate security check."

  Victor's breath caught in his throat, something of his security phrase key worrying the back of his mind. He shook away the discomfort. "Battuero ergo sum-, I fight, therefore I am."

  His personal lance waited for him outside in the courtyard, already powered and holding a perimeter about the grounds. Though Searcy's raid of the day before had all but destroyed Stroud's estate, the main 'Mech bay still stood. And it was stocked with some of the best equipment money could buy. Victor had moved his headquarters here from Skye Tiger Mall for its access to central Silesia. The Mall, situated on the eastern edge of the city, was too far away for rapid deployment. It was from here he'd organized the strikes into the Black Hills and would now venture forth to meet Searcy's counter assault.

  A full company of medium and heavy-class BattleMechs stood a silent vigil on Inverness Avenue, just outside the estate's toppled walls. MechWarriors from the various Steiner-affiliated stables had banded together. Some came from Lion City and others from independent cooperatives now contracted to Lynch Stables. Leading his lance through the broken walls, Victor took the head of a column formation and paraded his force along the short stretch to the Coliseum. An additional two companies surrounded the Steiner arena, the few remaining members of the Thirty-second Lyran Guard mixed in with stabled 'Warriors. They pulled in on his arrival, forming up across the vast parking grounds. Only a few vehicles remained, ones crushed or abandoned that first night when the Grand Tournament had spilled into the streets outside the Coliseum.

  Victor dropped his jaw to engage his neurohelmet transmitter. "Who's got them? Where are they?"

  A Lion City Penetrator stepped forward. "It'll be easy enough to follow from here." A metal-clad arm pointed west. "Just watch their escorts."

  Victor saw copters, four of them, swarming over the border between Silesia and Cathay. They might have been closer, but he wasn't used to judging distances against the sky. Those would be the news teams, out to cover the battle wherever it took place, tracking in above the force advancing from the Black Hills. Like carrion birds circling their prey, Victor thought.

  One of the aircraft was larger than the others; an armored VTOL, military-issue. At least one of the newscasters had some common sense about flying into a potential combat zone. Victor centered on it as his telltale. At roughly a half-klick he pulled everyone back into the Coliseum's shadow or sent them to the flanks along the cross avenues. They formed three sides of a large box, leaving room for maneuvering in the open parking area, an island of gray ferrocrete that he alone commanded. That was how he wanted to be seen. Recorded. Remembered.

  The Davionists came down Luisen, the triple-wide street that fed several arterials into the Coliseum's main parking area. They came two abreast, one long double-column. The ground shook under the footfalls of fifteen-hundred tons of war machines on the move. At the front, Searcy's Pillager marched alongside a damaged Cestus. The large sword-and-sunburst crest covering the Pillager's chest looked freshly painted.

  Victor drifted his targeting reticle over that insignia, the gold-burning cross hairs properly overlaid against the sunburst. He knew that at least half his assembled force had the Pillager covered, and the alarms ringing in Searcy's ears must be near deafening. The Pillager ignored the Lyrans, however, and continued on at the head of the line across the Coliseum's front drive. The assault machine and its crippled companion finally came to a halt in front of Victor's Banshee, but the Pillager's arms were not in firing position. The rest of the Davion force continued to move on by until they were spread out along the length of Luisen. The Black Hills' short battalion capped the open square framed by Victor's forces, now encompassing the entire parking grounds.

  Why hadn't anyone fired?

  For that matter, why hadn't he!

  Victor suddenly realized that he, too, had been caught up in the drama of watching the media's favorite march in like royalty while Victor's own force seemed to wait like subjects to receive them. That made him angrier than ever. Here they should be equals. MechWarrior champions. Blackstar and Lynch. Black Hills and Silesia.

  Davion and Steiner.

  Victor selected an open frequency, wanting the moment immortalized. He took a deep breath and pitched his tone hard and cold. "Ready to finish what we started?"

  "You sound so proud of yourself, Victor. Do you honestly approve of what's happened to the city?"

  Victor glanced skyward at the hovering eyes of their audience. Searcy was playing with words, angling for the sympathy of the viewing public. He was a master at such games.

  Searcy was still talking, not even waiting for Victor to answer his question. "We didn't start this, Victor. It was started for us." Searcy sounded weary. "We only helped escalate the situation out of control."

  Victor struck back with the first thing that came to mind. "Ducking your responsibilities, just like you ducked out of our fight at the Running Fox? Like you abandoned Blackstar? FedRats are so good at running away and then pointing a finger, casting blame onto others."

  "Oh, the blame is mine as much as it is yours, Victor. And it also belongs to the stable owners, the fight promoters, and the bookies. And to the politicians and the media. To everyone who helped prime that explosion. If you and I hadn't lit the fuse, it would have been someone else. The whole thing was a powder keg just waiting to go off."

  What was Searcy saying now? That he wanted to put the lid back on? No, that couldn't be. Michael Searcy had to want this fight as much as he did. Unless he thought he didn't need it—not like Victor did. Why wouldn't he try to seize the crown, though? Unless . . .

  Searcy was afraid! Now Victor smiled. There could be no other answer. Victor had the advantage of three to two in numbers, not to mention the possibility that Overlord Stables might revert to the Lyran side when the shooting began. And maybe Searcy thought he couldn't win a straight-up fight against Victor. Maybe he believed he'd have lost their Grand Tournament match if it had proceeded along normal lines. Belief was a powerful tool. Now that Victor had it back within his grasp, he intended to wield it powerfully.

  "This isn't 'MechTalk,' Searcy. You can't argue your way out of this." Victor tightened on his triggers, riding the edge of their pull. "No friendly reporter can spin this for you. You've paraded into Silesia with a Davion-backed force, a fact that's being caught on multiple camera angles as we speak. Do you expect anyone to believe that line you fed the media earlier, about stopping the fight? 'Anyway you can,' is it? Well, there's one way, and we both know what that is."

  "I will not be the first one to fire, Victor."

  There was a simple solution to that. Victor triggered his weapons, and twin scars of lethal energy raced across the short distance between the two 'Mechs, the PPC discharge gouging deeply into the Pillager's body. A stream of autocannon slugs ripped in behind them, smashing more of Searcy's protection into useless fragments. As the Pillager stumbled under the assault, bleeding molten armor onto the gray ferrocrete, Victor Vandergriff throttled his Banshee forward.

  "That," he said, "should no longer prove to be a problem."

  23

  The Coliseum, Silesia

  Solaris City, Solaris VII

  Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance

  22 August 3062

  The VTOL's rotors thumped heavily overhead. Its quick passage over the Steiner Arena's parking area rushed air past the craft's open side door with a sharp whistling sound, tugging at the clothing of those belted into its seats. The wind's touch was chill and clammy against Julian Nero's exposed skin and carried the smell of smoke and ash, a scent that had hung over the whole city this last week. His face tingled with the cold, but his ears were warm, protected by a pair of headphones that let him listen in on any 'Warrior chatter passing over unprotected frequencies.

  Over the competing noise and muffling effect of the headphones, Julian picked out the crackling scream of the Banshee's twin PPC blasts. Or at least he thought he did. Either way, the dire
ctional microphones employed by his video crew would grab the sound well enough for his audience.

  "A devastating assault by Victor Vandergriff, who is obviously refusing any attempt at reconciliation," Julian said into his mike. "Michael Searcy gets credit for trying, but it's cost him plenty. The Pillager's armor is literally melting off onto the ground."

  The customized Banshee moved forward in an oblique line of attack, its torso-mounted autocannon spewing a burst of cluster rounds. "And now Vandergriff is following up with the LB-X autocannon he swapped in for the Banshee's standard gauss rifle. Most of the shrapnel seems to have missed the stumbling Pillager, instead hitting Boi Yardii's Italian restaurant behind Searcy and across Luisen Street."

  Julian spot-checked the cloud of debris raining down along the side of the building, but it looked like the damage hadn't penetrated into the dining area, so he didn't mention it further. He had enough to do craning his neck to keep the battling machines in view as the VTOL rolled off its original line. He elbowed the pilot and made a circling motion in the air. Covering the microphone wire that extended down from his headset to keep his voice from going out over the air, he nodded back toward his right. "You bank around tight and keep those 'Mechs in our camera range." His voice brooked no refusal. The pilot was a studio employee, and Nero had spoken.

  "Searcy is holding to his feet, though it looked like touch and go there for a few seconds. The Pillager is no easy mark to cave in so early into a battle and Michael Searcy no rookie 'Warrior. We're looking for a hardhitting return, and there! Laserfire from the Pillager spitting into the gap between Searcy and Vandergriff. But no gauss rifles! Michael Searcy is holding back on his most devastating weapons."

  And Julian couldn't figure out why. Vandergriff was already recovering from Searcy's blistering laser attack, tracking the Banshee back to its right in order to keep it under his guns. Without the gauss rifles, the match was far more even than Julian would have liked. The infallible Nero had softened his approach to Michael Searcy—damn that unreliable Davionist—wanting to keep his options open should the fight go in Searcy's favor. He had to be ready to come down on the side of a peace initiative, strange as it was coming from a Solaris gladiator. Maybe things weren't what they seemed and Searcy hadn't come here prepared to back up his peace resolve with combat.

  Whatever Searcy's game, Julian had to figure it out quickly. Because without some sign . . .

  * * *

  It all came down to instinct.

  Alarms already triggered by the multiple targeting locks could not warn Michael of the impending attack. And most of the Banshee's primary weapons had already been trained on the Pillager, with no telltale shifting of an arm to betray the assault. Nor had Vandergriff spoken at the moment of attack, giving away his intent.

  Yet Michael had sensed it coming. Maybe he realized that his words about not firing first could be misconstrued as a challenge. A dare, even. Maybe it was that sixth sense most arena warriors experienced from time to time. Whatever it was, something had warned him. Not in time to escape the ambush or even to fire a preemptive strike, but enough to prepare for the onslaught. His quick reactions saved the Pillager from toppling under the hard-hitting blows, the fractional turn lessening his targeting profile. Because of it Vandergriff's follow-up autocannon fire only skipped a few cluster fragments off the Pillager's armor, and the bulk of the attack hit the buildings behind him.

  Bracing back on the 'Mech's left leg, Michael recovered full control, selecting and firing weapons more by reflex than thought. The temperature in his cockpit soared momentarily as the energy draw of so many lasers spiked the power output of his fusion engine. Fresh sweat broke out on his brow. But it wasn't until his sensors reported the damage effects, or lack of them, on the wire-frame schematic display that he truly recognized his mistake in not using the paired gauss rifles. He still wasn't sure why he hadn't.

  The Banshee came in right-oblique, crossing his line of sight and then Karl's. Vandergriff was probably intending to take out the already-damaged Cestus, claim a kill, and reduce his understrength enemy by one sixty-five-ton machine. Michael recognized the intent, saw his window of opportunity in that fraction of a second, and activated the Pillager's HildCo jump jets. A one-hundred-ton assault 'Mech rocketing thirty meters into the air on vented plasma would draw anyone's attention, especially a nearby enemy. It might choose to land near you. Worse, it might choose to land on you—a maneuver MechWarriors called "death from above"—a hundred tons of BattleMech dropping directly onto the head of another.

  Michael landed the Pillager hard in Vandergriff's right rear quarter, knees bending to absorb the shock. The Banshee twisted about violently trying to bring its weapons back to bear. But with Michael so far past the limit of its turret-style waist, only the short-range missile pack on the Banshee's right arm would extend back far enough. The exchange was fairly one-sided, with three missiles arcing out from the Banshee's SRM launcher answered by another blistering laser blast from the Pillager. The energy barrage splashed away more armor from the Banshee's right side. In return, Michael took two missiles against the chest and the third against the Pillager's armored brow. The impact threw Michael violently forward against his restraining harness and then back against his seat. He tasted blood from a bitten tongue and felt a tearing pain in his neck muscles.

  His vision swam, but not so much that he failed to see Karl's Cestus stepping forward with its one remaining arm thrusting out toward Vandergriff's Banshee.

  "Karl, hold!"

  Again, Michael reacted from sheer instinct. The split-second decision was like so many made in the heat of battle, where time was often measured in fractions of a second.

  Turned from its original purpose, Vandergriff now came after Michael with a dedication worthy of an arena champion. The two assault machines circled out into the parking area, gaining some distance from each other as their weapons continued to probe for critical weaknesses. Vandergriff had to worry over heat-buildup in the Banshee more than did Michael in the cool-running Pillager. He could tell-by the way the other 'Warrior routinely switched out one of his PPCs for the autocannon or a pair of medium lasers in an effort to control his heat curve. Michael kept to lasers only, straining even the Pillager's known ability to dissipate heat as he worked to push Vandergriff back toward the Coliseum and away from any Mech Warrior affiliated with the Federated Suns.

  As Michael and Vandergriff traded weapons fire over the open territory, relying on the heavy armor reserves of their assault 'Mechs, Michael gained a few precious seconds to make some sense of how he'd gotten himself into this. By coming to Silesia he'd hoped—expected, even—that Victor Vandergriff might join him in a call for peace on Solaris VII. Being confronted by the ugly truths of the last week had been enough to break through Michael's own delusions. The truth had let him see that the real enemy was Drew Hasek-Davion. The Lyran MechWarriors were fellow competitors, not mortal foes. Solaris VII was not New Canton, and Michael was not—should not be—at war.

  Michael had been shamed into seeing that his obsession with proving himself had turned him into the kind of person he'd loathed before coming to Solaris. Someone who thought only of himself. Someone like his Lyran commander on New Canton, who'd ended Michael's military career with a lie to save his own hide. Or maybe not a lie. Just a slanted way of viewing the situation. Appearance was, indeed, a powerful argument.

  But where Michael had only three years on Solaris, Victor Vandergriff had lived with the ups and downs of the Game World for much longer. It would be that much harder for him to throw off his illusions. And who, in the last week, had made any attempt to break through the fantasies ingrained into every Mech Warrior on the planet? Michael, the man Victor believed to be his worst enemy—the Davion favorite come to destroy what little respect he'd managed to win in this last week.

  Michael saw how easily he might have ended up the same way. He'd been on that path, no doubt about it. And except for the overreaching ambition of Hasek-
Davion and the friendship of Karl Edward, he might still be lost along that road.

  A PPC from the Banshee struck him square in the chest, finding a flaw in his armor and stabbing into the internal works of the Pillager. It melted the barrel of his one medium laser, ruining the weapon that could still perform as additional centerline armor that prevented the PPC from gouging deeper into his gyro or engine shielding. As if summoned by the threatening blow and Michael's thoughts of him seconds before, his friend's voice whispered through on a quick burst of static. "Michael, what's the problem? Finish Vandergriff before he wears you down. Is there something wrong with your gauss rifles?" Without waiting for an answer, he offered, "Let me help!"

  "No. Stay out of this, Karl."

  Karl's transmission had drawn Michael's attention to the fact that no one—not Federated Sun or Lyran—had fired a shot while he and Vandergriff continued to hammer away at each other under the watchful eyes recording the fight from helicopters and VTOL above. It was as if the two sides, drawn up for battle, were now content to allow their leaders to settle the question. Davion and Steiner stood their places in a giant square, their followers framing the Coliseum's parking grounds and forming a giant arena for the two gladiators. Even when a stray laser struck one of the spectator 'Warriors, no one retaliated.

  But then a laser couldn't decapitate a 'Mech with one shot. Couldn't crush a cockpit inward so fast that the 'Warrior inside had no chance to escape with his life. And now Michael realized why he'd refrained from using his gauss rifles until now. Those were headhunter weapons, among the most dangerous ever mounted on a BattleMech. With the gauss rifles in play, Michael could end this fight with Vandergriff prematurely, and permanently. That would send the assembled Lyran battalion into a murderous rage, and no telling what kind of spin it would receive from the several news teams hovering over the parking grounds. Enough to spark another murderous assault against the Black Hills? Even a win that left Vandergriff alive was no guarantee against military reprisal. Not when it would take just one Lyran MechWarrior, feeling he had nothing left to lose and hoping to stave off the possibility of total defeat, to incite a full-scale battle.