The scarlet lance from his single large laser stabbed back at the Banshee, accompanied by a trio of smaller emerald knives. They stabbed in against the BattleMech's left side, two of the medium lasers barely missing while the rest slagged away more armor from the arm and torso. Michael continued to circle right, distancing himself from the spotlight.
Blackness. The twin spots cut out at the same time, the darkness caving in over the two 'Warriors and forcing them to sensor targeting only. Michael accepted a partial targeting lock, then cut loose with another flurry of laserfire. It missed completely as the Banshee used jump jets to reverse its previous path but hold onto its full-front facing. Michael cut back inside, ready to turn the next salvo against his armor. He guessed that Vandergriff would continue to rely on his autocannon and lasers to relieve some of the heat created by PPC discharges combined with the reactor shielding damage.
He guessed wrong.
Vandergriff selected for his autocannon, yes. Also his lasers, missiles, and his PPC. The desperate all-out attack washed the darkened arena in a temporary iridescent light show that illuminated the space between the two battling machines. The flash of light revealed the Pillager being scoured by a PPC hit and the grinding sparks of fragmentation rounds against armor. The autocannon opened up the Pillager's right side, slicing free the last of its armor protection. That left the interior vulnerable to the AC's cluster submunitions, which chipped and gouged at the 'Mech's skeletal structure, myomer, and the internal casing on one of the gauss rifles.
The only thing not pictured in that flash of energy was the single missile that also hammered in behind the savage assault, its detonation cracking the weapon casing and bursting through the highly charged gauss coils. The energy stored in those coils, enough to launch the heavy nickel-ferrous slugs with such devastating force, spent itself all at once in a secondary explosion that tore the weapon apart and destroyed a large piece of the Pillager's reactor shielding. It also fed an immense feedback surge into the 'Mech's neurocircuitry system—the system that plugged a Mech Warrior's sense of equilibrium into the massive gyroscopic stabilizer.
The feedback slammed into Michael's brain with stunning force. Shaken, disoriented, and now fighting to hold onto consciousness as well as fighting the pull of gravity, he again reacted from pure instinct. He turned the Pillager to take the fall face-forward, using his arms to cushion the impact and prevent further injury to himself. Still, the fall did throw him around, testing the strength of his safety harness and nearly knocking him unconscious.
In the dim light of the cockpit, Michael almost thought he'd blacked out when suddenly the full arena lights came up with glaring intensity.
"Not ... yet . . ." His voice was shaky, but the sound helped him focus. "Can't win . . ." His grip on the Pillager's control sticks tightened. "Can't lose."
Pushing out with both of the Pillager's arms, he raised its head enough to let him see across the arena's expanse, where the Banshee was lurching forward on unsteady legs. Wispy gray-black smoke trailed up from rents in its armor, from its joints, and from the ragged wound Michael's gauss slug had earlier torn into the Pillager's side. A glance with thermal imaging showed the Banshee glowing brightly from heat buildup, a fiery red-orange blossom at its heart and spreading out to still-dangerous yellow in the head and limbs.
And as Michael watched, twin streaks of manmade lightning arced out from the Banshee's PPCs—and heat be damned—to flail again at the downed Pillager. There was no more doubt that . . .
* * *
"Victor Vandergriff means this to be their final moment. Searcy is moving, but slow to recover from that crippling attack. One PPC misses high, but the other slashes and burns away more armor on the Pillager's right leg. Nearly the last of it, by all appearances. The temperature inside the Banshee's cockpit must be unbearable! I tell you, I can nearly feel the heat from here."
Though the balcony control room was still cold from disuse, Julian Nero had actually broken out into a hot sweat watching—and reporting—Michael's fall to the rest of the world. This wasn't the way he'd imagined the fight would go. Not even the way he wanted it to go, his Lyran prejudice notwithstanding. He'd made a decision to support Searcy's initiative to end to the violence, end the insanity plaguing Solaris City. And the Great Nero couldn't be wrong.
He was the man in the know!
"Another pair of PPC attacks. And both miss! The Banshee's targeting system quite literally may have been burned out. Certainly those heat levels are affecting Vandergriff's equipment as well as his judgment. In fact, that last set seems to have-gone a step too far. The Banshee is seizing up, barely able to move for the heat-stroke." Julian willed Michael Searcy back to his feet as the Pillager finally began to rise, but slowly.
"Will Vandergriff back off? Will he risk his own destruction?" Another pair of cerulean streams streaked out with lethal intent. "He's attacking still! Believe it, Solaris. Victor Vandergriff is making his play for . . ."
* * *
All or nothing.
No mistake. Neither eagerness nor impatience. Desperation drove Victor Vandergriff forward against the limitations of his 'Mech, forcing yet one more step out of the heat-addled machine. He slapped repeatedly at the shutdown override even as each new attack drove his heat scale further into the red. The scorched air constricted and scratched at his throat and felt as if it were blistering his lungs.
The all-out strike was a desperate maneuver, classic Vandergriff. Right then, in the darkness and with the Pillager opting for a non-evasive pattern, Victor had known that Searcy would be open to a surprise assault. Fortune had been on his side, but only so far. He'd been able to deal the Pillager solid hits, critically damaging the 'Mech and toppling the mighty Davion favorite. That must have been humbling, but it wasn't lethal. Wasn't enough to win the fight.
Then the commline crackled and he heard Searcy murmur, "Can't win. Can't lose."
Victor doubted the other man realized he'd actually transmitted those words. He could tell from Searcy's voice that he was shaken up from the gauss rifle's discharge and the fall. But he also heard his enemy's determination. Like himself, Michael Searcy would let nothing short of death stop him from rising again, no matter all that talk about ending the fighting. He provided the pronouns himself. Searcy saying that he—Victor—couldn't win. That I—Michael—can't lose.
His next salvo scored the Pillager's right leg, a solid but non-crippling strike. And again, the Banshee's heat levels spiked so high that the myomer musculature failed to respond. The 'Mech was barely able to stand and totally unable to take another step. The sweat poured from Victor's brow and dried to a salty crust before it could so much as drip onto his cooling suit. The suit that held his body temperature down to a livable state was being taxed to its maximum effort. The shutdown warning sounded, and again he slapped the override to silence the alarm and abort the safety precaution.
The Pillager had gotten one leg underneath itself to stand as Victor's next pair of energy cannon discharges blazed outward. One scarred the Coliseum wall far back of the assault 'Mech, but the second one seared into the Pillager's left arm, cutting past the final shards of armor to sever titanium bone and laser barrels. Though the arm was still attached, it hung limply against the BattleMech's side, the lasers ruined and shoulder actuator slagged beyond use.
Searcy fired back with his remaining gauss rifle, which spat out a silvery blur. It came so close and so fast that it registered in Victor's mind only after the slug had slammed into his left arm, crushing the protective plates with a sickening squeal of tortured metal and bursting the innards from two arm actuators. Then the Pillager's right-arm laser sliced into the Banshee's left side to slice through armor and breach the autocannon casing beneath. The weapon flashed a red indicator light on Victor's panel display. Ruined.
Hauling around impotent ammo was never a good idea, especially in an overheating 'Mech, but Victor couldn't worry about dumping the autocannon ammo right now. Once more he had t
o override the automatic shutdown and try to force some life back into his controls to reset his intermittent cross hairs. And here came the Pillager, now on its feet and throttled into a slow walk directly for the Banshee.
Victor triggered off a hastily aimed pair of PPCs, but missed again. What followed was another routine of riding out Searcy's answering strike, then overriding the shutdown and stabbing out yet another barrage.
This time both weapons miraculously hit their target. Or perhaps not such a miracle, considering that the Pillager had walked directly into point-blank range. What armor was left to the 'Mech's centerline soaked up the energy discharges, and the little that bled inside found no critical components. Cursing, Victor pounded one fist into an auxiliary monitor, taking some satisfaction in the smashed display and even the sharp pain of a cut hand.
Then the Pillager's answering laserfire hit the Banshee's head, cutting across the brow and splashing scarlet fire across the ferroglass canopy.
Shaken against the limit of his harness, Victor nearly laughed aloud that Searcy's shot had found the only perfect armor he had left. A dangerous sense of glee, since so little remained of the armor protecting the Mech Warrior himself. All or nothing, though. That had been his decision. To win, no matter the cost.
His skin burned anywhere the cooling suit did not cover, and his oxygen-starved lungs forced several painful gasps of the scalding air. Blinking away the ghostly afterimages left by his enemy's laserfire, Victor speared the Pillager on his flashing reticle even as he listened to the wail of the shutdown warning. One hand left the throttle to hit the override, the hand that had smashed the monitor screen, and it came back to the controls with bloody and heat-blistered knuckles.
His other hand squeezed into his next assault, loosing his final pair of PPC blasts.
The cascade of energy scourged the Pillager's right side, burning through the arm and shoulder and carving deeply into the body of the assault machine, while alarms began to scream inside the Banshee's cockpit. Shutdown warnings. Equipment malfunction. Cooling system failure. Intense heat radiated throughout the core of the Banshee, scorching myomer and bursting heat sinks taxed beyond their capacity. It was a cascading effect that drove the heat beyond the limit of the computer's scale to measure. Beyond all design limits.
Beyond correction.
The remains of his autocannon ammunition cooked off first, staccato detonations that shook the Banshee even as the blast gutted the 'Mech's left side and poured further destruction into the centerline equipment. Then his SRM missile ammo erupted, a few in sympathetic detonation with the autocannon munitions but quickly turning into a devastating inferno on its own as the warheads combined into a consuming force. Neurosystem feedback from the near-simultaneous ammo detonations flooded Victor's mind, searing pain deep into his brain and lighting up his spine with electricity. Still, he remained mercilessly aware of the destruction he'd visited on himself even as the Banshee tore itself apart. Explosions ripped limbs away and collapsed the magnetic containment that normally held the fusion reactor in check. Golden fire spread through the ruins of the BattleMech. It ate quickly through the weak areas between engine and cockpit, turning the Mech Warrior's small command center into a ready-made crematorium.
But even when the pain from the fire forced one final scream from him, Victor saw through the Banshee's shattered canopy the Pillager falling as well. And nothing else mattered if Victor could pull his enemy down with him into death. Clenching his 'Mech's unresponsive triggers, he fought for consciousness, wrestling against the pain and refusing to submit.
These were the final seconds of Victor Vandergriff.
It was all he had left.
All-ee All-ee All in free . . .
25
Solaris Spaceport, International Zone
Solaris City, Solaris VII
Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance
25 August 3062
"I still say you should paste Hasek-Davion to a wall," Karl said. He gave Michael a grim smile. "Preferably with a gauss rifle."
Michael glanced quickly around the spaceport waiting area, checking to be sure no one could overhear—even by accident—their conversation. For the first time in his years on Solaris he wanted no audience. That was proving much easier than he'd have thought, especially in this crowd.
The third-class level of Solaris Spaceport teamed with travelers, the human flood heavier than ever. Most of them were newly arrived on DropShips, here to experience for themselves the dark adventure promised in the holovids, touring agencies, and especially the recent newscasts. Some looked annoyed at having to deal with the minor irritations of long-distance travel. On the faces of others, though, Michael saw a star-struck expression he understood so well. Eyes bright, these visitors cast around for the nearest betting terminal or hoping to spot a famous gladiator. Repeatedly their gazes swept up and then right past Michael without ever recognizing him.
But then who would, with his blond hair buzzed close and the stubble of a beard darkening his features? It was the best he could do on short notice, but the disguise seemed to be working just fine. He also wore yellow-tinted glasses, the ones known as "shooter's glasses" in law enforcement and military circles. And the capper: the former Federated Suns favorite was traveling in the simple uniform of the Solaris Constabulary—a Lyran police force. Just one more beat cop, heading out for a vacation away from the most popular tourist trap in the Inner Sphere. The disguise had been Karl's idea, and the black humor was not lost on Michael.
This was how Michael Searcy would depart Solaris VII, the Game World. Three years older and just maybe a bit wiser. But once again dispossessed.
"Drew Hasek-Davion knows how to quit when he's ahead," Michael said. The other few passengers also awaiting the outbound call seemed singularly uninterested in him or Karl. They looked gloomy and self-absorbed. Perhaps they hadn't found what they'd come to Solaris for. Or had they found a bit too much of it?
"He's had years to learn how to manipulate the whole Solaris propaganda machine." Michael gave a small sigh, his voice running almost bitter. "I can do the song and dance, but he's still a master choreographer."
Karl nodded reluctant agreement. "Having Aubry Larsen broker a cease-fire with the arriving elements of the Seventeenth Arcturan covered his six. And I suppose the Archon's reluctant appreciation of his assistance means that she won't take punitive action against him either." He shook his head sadly. "Yeah, he burst your heat sinks all right."
Michael shuddered. The old MechWarrior expression was too close to Victor Vandergriff's final moments. Surrendering the Pillager to gravity, he'd seen the golden fire consuming the cockpit of the Banshee. Couldn't win. Couldn't lose.
"But the cease-fire is only a temporary solution," Michael said, "and we all know it. Relations between the sectors are still strained, especially between the Davion and Steiner loyalists. If I were to show up now, alive and well after Julian Nero played up mine and Victor's mutual annihilation, it could easily set off a violent Lyran backlash and a new surge of pro-FedSun sentiment. So we leave it at a draw."
He smiled at his friend's sudden display of curiosity. Karl had been unable to resist asking about the battle's final seconds. Had the Pillager been mortally wounded by Victor's last salvo or had Michael's fall crushed the 'Mech's gyro. Had Stormin' Michael Searcy thrown away the victory to salvage a draw?
All Michael would say was that Stormin' Michael Searcy would never have done such a thing. It wasn't important for anyone else to know what happened in those moments.
"Better I remain dead to them. I'll travel under this identity long enough to get resettled someplace where Michael Searcy can start again."
"And you trust 'the man in the know' to keep that secret?"
Michael shrugged. "Do I have much choice? Besides, Nero is a Silesian. He has no burning desire to help create a Black Hills hero."
"Maybe," Karl admitted. "But it still isn't right that Hasek-Davion just walks away unscathed."
/> "Is that you speaking or Tran Ky Bo?"
A slight frown darkened Karl's features. "I speak for myself, Michael. I always have."
Michael winced and was sorry. "I know, Karl," he said gently. It was he who had so often spoken with another's voice. He who'd acted as a puppet for Hasek-Davion while believing he pursued his own ends in the character of Stormin' Michael Searcy. And appearance had almost become a reality for him, in both cases.
Deciding that train of thought had nowhere good to go, he decided to redirect the conversation. "Is Tran Ky Bo still holding against Drew's call for a new Grand Tournament?"
Karl brightened visibly. "He and Thom DeLon were losing ground with the other stable owners until some of the Game World's top fighters got behind them. Those from the Top Twenty who are still officially alive, that is. Larry Acuff, Kelly Metz. And Srin Odessa made it through, though Odessa's going to need a prosthetic leg. It's shaping up into the Top Twelve for now, and most of those refused to participate." He tried not to look too proud of his fellow gladiators, then sobered. "I think Acuff said it best. 'This time we all lose.' "
"This time we all lose," Michael repeated, knowing it was true.
The overhead speaker called his flight for boarding, and he stood abruptly, pulling Karl along in his wake as he moved toward the gate.
"Don't worry about Hasek-Davion," he said. "Too many people out there have his number now, and they'll watch him closely. Sooner or later he'll slip, and the fall will be a long one. That's the problem when you build an empire on appearances. You start believing in your own illusions, and sooner or later you overreach yourself grasping for one." Thinking about it, he walked on for few steps. "And there's no greater illusion than victory without a price to pay."
LE5790 - Illusions Of Victory Page 25