But if Michael couldn't afford to win, he certainly couldn't afford to lose either. Leaving Vandergriff victorious and at the head of a large Lyran force wasn't much of an option. So Michael had fought a delaying battle until now, leaving his primary weapons powered down and stalling for time. As another cerulean lash flayed away protection from over his left arm, he knew he couldn't go on stalling much longer. Not as the Banshee and Pillager slowly worked through each other's armor. The fight would be measured in minutes.
If that. A medium laser hit the side of the Pillager's head, costing Michael more armor and shaking him again like a leaf caught in a tempest. Time was running out. Michael selected his gauss rifles, tying them into one of his main triggers. He would have to wait for just the right moment to try and disable Vandergriff. He had to keep their battle private. It was the only way to keep the arrayed forces sidelined and prevent the fight from escalating into all-out fighting again.
Then the idea hit him. What if the conflict could be settled between two 'Warriors, as in the arenas? After all, everyone knew . . .
* * *
It was how things were done on the Game World.
Julian Nero recognized Searcy's problem after he backed off Karl Edwards. Searcy was trying to prevent a blood bath while eliminating the one factor—Vandergriff—that stood in the way of a cease-fire. To do that the fight had to remain between the two of them. Searcy could not accept help.
Of course, Victor Vandergriff might command it from his force, but Julian doubted that would happen while Vandergriff was so intent on defeating his enemy. Julian shook his head in wonderment. There Vandergriff was, with enough backup to destroy the Black Hills expedition to the last man and possibly claim the mantle of Solaris Champion by right of conquest, and instead he played the game being called by his opponent.
Julian had always known Vandergriff to be a poor bet.
"It's a brutal slugfest taking place in the shadow of the Coliseum," he reported, watching as the two assault machines continued to spar almost exclusively with energy weapons. "Though Michael Searcy has apparently foresworn his gauss rifles, weapons that would shift the odds radically in his favor, he has still managed to force Vandergriff back until the Banshee looks like it's standing in line waiting for admission into the Steiner Arena. Back where the two of them started their rivalry on Day Five of the Grand Tournament. A match never finished, until today."
It wasn't much, but the continued soft-sell of Searcy's part in this battle was the best Julian Nero could do. The best he would do, at any rate. He would stick his own reputation out only so far, and that he did so at all for a gladiator of the Federated Suns surprised even him. Especially after his own part in Hasek-Davion's plans, which had contributed to fueling the violence.
He knew it had to end, even though the war had thrust him into greater prominence than ever. Hasek-Davion himself had reminded Julian of how much the media had done to whip the situation into a civil war. The fighting of the last week had become a media sensation, an event that had sold many cars and boxes of soap and entertainment discs.
Now it was time to sell the audience on a return to sanity.
"Not one other 'Warrior has so much as fired a shot or moved to interfere in this most spectacular of duels." Refocus, he told himself. Maybe reinforce their neutrality if any of the military down below were tuned in to his reports. "This is no invasion. What we have here is the most intense grudge match the Game World has ever seen. A war, yes, but personal, and private.
"No call to arms in the service of Archon Katrina Steiner or Victor Davion, but a duel between two champions, contenders for the Game World throne."
And if he could sell that to his audience, the Great Nero would have accomplished something important. And he would still be the man in the know. Mister Infallible. Because to him . . .
* * *
Everything was now very . clear. The stakes riding on this battle. What it would take to win them.
Victor Vandergriff had listened as Julian Nero turned against him. His communication scanner pulled in the vidcaster's reports among the few warnings and cheers his battalion offered. He heard the subtle digs aimed his way, no doubt influencing his Lyran listeners against Victor. The implication was that the only reason for so close a match was that Michael Searcy must be holding back. That Searcy had still managed to push Victor back, despite a hold on the Pillager's main weapons.
Push him back! Victor had spat dryly at that idea. Nero might be good at secondhand observations, but knew nothing about being a warrior. Victor had traded ground for maneuverability, making himself a harder target in case the treacherous Davionist decided to bring his mankillers into play. He'd used the Banshee's mobility to counter the Pillager's heavier armor load and superior weapons, his one advantage—and damn Julian Nero if he couldn't see that. In the long minutes so far, Victor estimated he'd hit with at least twenty percent greater accuracy than Searcy. On a few salvos, Searcy failed to reach him at all! And according to the wire-frame schematics his battle computer painted of both 'Mechs, Victor was within a ton of eliminating the Pillager's advantage in armor. Not that his Banshee looked any better, but at least it put him within striking distance of victory.
Of vindication.
With that thought, Victor brought both of the Banshee's arms up to level his secondary weapons at Searcy. His heat scale edged deep into the yellow, making his cockpit a sauna. The heat also threatened to rob him of the 'Mech's precious mobility as its myomer musculature turned sluggish in the high temperatures that plagued the Banshee design. He selected for the autocannon as well, spending more of his limited cluster ammunition; only four salvos left there.
Searcy caught the movement and, judging correctly that Victor would rely on his smaller weaponry, jumped back ninety meters to create targeting difficulties. A successful gamble, though it threw off his own aim. Victor's missiles arced wide of target, and both left arm-mounted lasers burned impotently into the parking ground's ferrocrete surface, bubbling the paving material. The fragmenting rounds of his autocannon threw a wide enough spread to reach the Pillager, however, sanding away more of its thinning armor protection.
Only one medium laser struck the Banshee in return as Victor sidestepped out of Searcy's direct line of fire, retreating further toward the Coliseum and turning the BattleMech's still decently armored left side into the blow. He caught the intense, scarlet light against his arm, shielding his savaged torso. He throttled into a backward walk, ready to trade his longer-reaching weapons against the Pillager's lasers, retreating between two giant Romanesque pillars that framed the arena's northern entrance.
Mobility, the first precept of professionally waged warfare.
But if Nero couldn't quite recognize the tactics—the artistry!—he at least put his finger on the prize. He'd called it the throne of Solaris. And that was so much more than the high seat in Valhalla. It meant respect. Acclaim. It would be the crowning event of his professional career. Exoneration, ten years of fighting—the last six years of sneers and condescension from fans and fellow warriors alike. That elusive prize.
To be Champion.
Spitting the advancing Pillager on his cross hairs, Victor released another energy barrage of PPC and laser fire. He caught Searcy at the point of a right turn, hoping to carve through the critically weak armor remaining on the 'Mech's left side. Except the FedRat had held a trick or two in reserve. He threw his Pillager's one-hundred-ton weight into a harder pivot that turned its back to the Banshee's weapons.
And old but tried and true maneuver. Though a 'Mech's rear armor as the weakest, in an assault 'Mech it was still enough to turn one hard-hitting barrage. The azure PPC discharges burned twin molten furrows starting just inside the left shoulder and then down to its center waist. Large red-orange gobbets spat from the wounds, like blood spurting from an open vein, but nothing more critical than armor-composite melted under the cascade of burning energies. Certainly not enough damage to truly wound the assault "
Mech and buying the insufferable Sworder time to close again.
Victor railed at the cruel turn, knowing what his attack might have accomplished against the already ravaged armor along the Pillager's front. The shot had spiked his heat scale into the red from the energy demand to his fusion engine. A wave of heat washed through the cockpit, shortening his breath in the stifling air and flash-drying sweat into a salty residue that burned on his lips and in the corners of his eyes.
The Pillager completed a full turn, arms thrusting forward in a widespread reach. Victor had no more room to maneuver behind him. Unless he wanted to smash his way through the Coliseum's glass and steel entryway, his choice was between jump jets or taking the assault. As the Pillager had just done, Victor pirouetted into his own turn that would bring his Banshee's unblemished rear armor into line with Searcy's lasers. The Banshee was better armored across the back than the Pillager. It would be the first time Victor enjoyed an obvious edge in protection, and he was already planning his next salvo when silvery blurs streaked out from the Pillager's torso-mounted gauss rifles to smash with crippling force into the back of the Banshee.
One of the nickel-ferrous slugs, launched at incredible velocity, impacted directly centerline, smashing aside nearly every ounce of armor but failing to penetrate to the vulnerable skeleton beneath. The second slug hit the Banshee against the right hip, cracking the armor case protecting its side and pushing support struts through the bulky shielding of the 'Mech's extralight fusion engine. Following up the devastation, the Pillager's lasers stabbed at the Banshee's back as well. The larger laser missed wide, spending itself against the arena, but both medium-class weapons bit into the ruined rear armor, probing for critical equipment.
Treacher! Davion dog! Victor had caught the telltale flash of the gauss coils on a rear-facing auxiliary monitor, knew even as the brutal shove from behind pushed his command couch hard against his spine that he had played right in Searcy's hands. He fought his controls, fighting a losing battle to hold ninety-five tons of upright metal against the pull of gravity. The Banshee toppled forward, its head and shoulders smashing through the entryway that—until last week—had allowed thousands of fans to pass through routinely for the nightly Silesian duels.
Victor caught his fall by quickly thrusting out his arms, but the move cost him nearly a ton of armor scraped off his arms and a ruined hand actuator as the Banshee's right hand overextended and partially crushed the 'Mech's wrist. Then the shielding breach made itself known as cockpit temperatures again spiked, making his vision swim and stabbing fiery pokers into his lungs with each gasping breath. He sagged down against his restraining harness, shaking his head clear of the fall and heat stroke, then quickly levered himself back to unsteady legs. Julian Nero was shouting excitedly in his ear. Victor cut him off with a quick stab at his communications panel.
As the Banshee's internal temperatures hit critical levels, the Pillager closed with weapons cycling for its next salvo. Victor did the only thing he could. He retreated into the grand halls that surrounded the Coliseum arena. Every step brought him new pangs of loss that once again he was running from Michael Searcy. He had to or be destroyed. But he wouldn't run far or for long. It was only a change of venue. He was not about to concede this match.
Victor wouldn't back down this time. He would not lose—he could not lose! He tightened his grip on the Banshee's control sticks until his muscles ached and his fingers were numb with exertion.
This was all that he had left.
24
The Coliseum, Silesia
Solaris City, Solaris VII
Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance
22 August 3062
Julian Nero winced, expecting a mid-air collision as the VTOL pilot crowded another copter away from the Coliseum rooftop landing pad. He nearly snapped out a rebuke, then thought better of it and sat back with eyes closed for the rest of the descent. The pilot was an employee of Donegal Broadcasting and a professional doing his job, just as Julian was doing his.
Protecting the studio's interests.
Julian was out of the VTOL and heading for the rooftop access door the moment the skids touched the circular pad. He used his master key card while the video crew hurriedly unloaded their gear. The heavy thump of the rotors whipped a storm of sound and dust over the roof, and then the large machine lifted skyward and set up station to protect the Julian Nero exclusive. None of the other lighter-weight news copters would risk playing a deadly game of brinksmanship with the pilot of an armored, military-grade VTOL. He was almost guaranteed to survive a crash.
Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the stairwell as Julian led the way down several flights to the arena's control rooms. Red emergency lighting brightened the way, offering some relief from the cold, dead feel of the deserted space. The silence was eerie. No dull buzz of a thousand conversations, muted by the near-soundproofed window. No trembling of the floor from BattleMechs on the move. No sounds of combat, and that Julian found strangest of all.
He went over to the main window looking down on the arena, a spot he'd often occupied in his years of covering the Silesian duels. His people worked to bring the banks of monitors to life while Julian stood gazing down through the black ferroglass at the ghostly arena illuminated only by the red-lit emergency signs.
One of those signs moved!
There, at the west end of the arena, directly opposite the BattleMech entrance. The blue glow outlining the Banshee's cockpit had been subdued by the harsh red backlighting of the missile launcher. But now Julian had it fixed in his mind. He could just pick out the box-shaped "cheeks" of the Banshee's head down in that darkness and the soft blue spotlights that illuminated the ends of its PPC barrels.
It was Victor Vandergriff, back in the arena where it had all begun, waiting for his opponent.
"We have limited access to lights and sound, Mr. Nero," said one of the crew. "I'm sorry, but we're stuck with our own cameras."
Why be sorry? Julian had covered the opening battle of this last week on mere soundcast. If they didn't have full video capabilities right now, he would just make do. "Get a spot onto that Banshee." His orders were delivered softly, almost reverently. He nodded out into the darkness. "Stand by with another on the 'Mech entrance. And be ready! It's ..."
* * *
"Not much longer now." Michael whispered the words to himself repeatedly, a calming mantra, having just found the hole Vandergriff had smashed through to the arena's access tunnel.
To his left the titanic archway sloped down into the holding center and repair bays, where it would link up with the city's underground tunnel system. To his right was the path into the arena proper. A good ambush stratagem on Vandergriff's part would have been to retreat back down into the tunnels just out of sensor detection to surprise Michael from behind as he made for the formal combat area. Had it been any other opponent on any day before this, Michael might have been concerned about that choice. Not now. Not after their duel began on the parking grounds. He was sure Victor waited for him in the arena.
It was where their fight belonged, whether or not Vandergriff realized it for himself.
Walking the Pillager into the tunnel, Michael was momentarily blinded when a bright light flashed out over the arena and settled over Vandergriff's 'Mech. It made the Banshee an easy target for visual tracking, illuminated in every bit of detail. Some cosmetic work had been done to the other 'Mech, but it hadn't lost its ungainly lines. Its torso resting on turret-style waist, the square-cast legs and the awkward barrels that protruded like an afterthought. How different from his Pillager's design perfection, its molded armor and weapons. The Banshee didn't look much better on Michael's sensors. Its armor had huge rents for Michael to further exploit, and his thermal scan showed the right chest bleeding heat from the damaged reactor shielding.
Easing his fingers off the Pillager's triggers, Michael opened the frequency he and Victor had shared during their tournament match. It was a channel designated for taunts and
insults and for accepting capitulation, but now the only possible means of having a private conversation. The odds were long that Vandergriff would listen to him—assuming he'd even kept the channel stored into his communications system—but Michael had to try.
"It isn't too late, Victor," he said, halting the Pillager at the entryway into the arena. "We can both walk out of here under our own power."
Of course Vandergriff had kept the frequency set into his scanner. They'd never finished their duel. "An easy offer, Davion, when you send your media friends in first to catch my surrender on camera." There was no mistaking the hatred in his voice.
Media in one of the gallery control rooms? Michael could guess whom. That explained the spotlight on the Banshee. And on him as well, as a new spot stabbed down into the darkness to frame the entry and his Pillager. Two small islands of light, pinpointing the combatants in an ocean of black.
"Not a surrender. A draw. No one loses."
"I lose for not winning!" Vandergriff's voice was close to breaking. Not even the normal deadening of transmission could mute the fury and loathing and self-pity all boiling to the surface. "You've never understood what that's like. But you will!"
A mistake, transmitting right up to the point of his attack. This time Michael knew what was coming, that Vandergriff would stab down on his triggers with his last word. He maneuvered quickly away from the door and temporarily out of the spotlight. Twin streams of cascading energy washed by him, lancing back through the entry to be lost in the tunnel.
The Banshee moved forward, also abandoning the spotlight in favor of the darkness' meager protection. Enough, though, that Michael would not risk his gauss rifles. He was still under the same limitations as before. He couldn't afford to win, especially if it meant the price was Vandergriff's life. He couldn't afford to lose, either. The fact that cameras were recording this battle complicated any possible solution. Damn Nero anyway!
LE5790 - Illusions Of Victory Page 24