Catastrophe Unlimited

by Michael Stackpole

  Spurs raised his eyebrows. “But in the fights I’ve seen from here, pilots die. Gray Noton killed a guy in his second fight.”

  Aniki harvested a bit more cotton candy. “Those are the seriously heavyweight fights. There you’re talking ’Mechs at military spec, often with full battle loads. Lots of money makes that possible. Down here, it’s smoke and mirrors. We make the fights look good, we give the people drama. We don’t kill anyone, and we don’t get killed, so we can come back tomorrow or next year.”

  Walter returned the armor scale to the table. “Myomer fibers and ferro-titanium bones aren’t cheap, so I assume the weaponry doesn’t do much damage to them.”

  “Scratch, dent, and nibble, mostly.” She pointed to a nearby Locust; techs were riveting new armor scales on its leg. “Sensors throughout assess the likely result of damage, and apply it through a control unit. If a laser would have cooked a gyro, the computer kicks the gyros out of phase, or pulls them offline completely. The engines won’t melt down, but there’s a very cool smoke effect from behind the cockpits that signals your ’Mech is out. And the joints are formed from a heat-sensitive alloy, so a good hit can melt them without seriously damaging the integrity of the structural members. You recap the ends to rebuild the joints, add a new wire harness, and it’s good.”

  Walter tossed the rubber shot from one hand to the other. “And people pay to watch smoke and mirrors?”

  “We’re here, aren’t we?”

  “I think, Wallace, what Aniki is saying is that they’re paying for the entertainment value. I mean, people watch holovids all the time, and they know they’re not real, but they are still thrilling. And they pay to watch their favorite fighters in the battles, right?”

  Aniki nodded, and Walter frowned. “I got that, Spurs, from what Traeger said. I understand.”

  Aniki pressed her hand over Walter’s heart. “It’s not a think thing, Walter, it’s a feel. You know, you mentioned crowds outside this tent. Did you manage to look at the crowds in any of the outbuildings?”

  “No.”

  She smiled, her eyes growing distant. “Those buildings, they house lots of exhibits and host lots of contests. By noon today, for example, we’ll learn if Mrs. Adratha will have succeeded in winning the best mince pie contest for an unprecedented ninth year in a row, or if young Andy Thompson—who should have won last year—will dethrone her. And one building over, you have three dozen kids showing off cows they’ve raised. And don’t get me started on the whole ‘largest pumpkin raised’ controversy.”

  “There’s a lot going on here. I get that.”

  Spurs shook his head. “If I might, Aniki…”

  “Please.”

  “Wallace, I’ve known you for a while. You’re smart and really good at what you do, but the life you’ve led—it isn’t normal by any stretch of the imagination. Remember the farmer who gave us breakfast in exchange for chopping wood and shoveling out his barn?”

  Walter nodded.

  “They were like the folks here. I recall you noting that the farmer and his family could have survived pretty much anything where they were, because they were self-sufficient and worked hard. Same goes for these folks here. And this fair, it’s the highlight of their year. Kids work raising those cows hoping for a blue ribbon. Andy Thompson has probably made several hundred mince pies trying to work out how to win this year. Now, from your perspective, with your background, these concerns might seem a bit quaint, but for them it’s life and death. Coming to see a fight here, that’s thrilling. I’m fairly sure that there will be folks out there on first dates. Someone will get engaged. Parents are bringing kids to see a fight for the very first time, and others are getting together with friends as part of an annual ritual.”

  Aniki gave Spurs a big smile. “And add this fact to everything he’s said: some of the folks here have spent the better part of a year outfitting an old AgroMech or a tree-cutter or a mining rig so it can go toe to toe with a professional fighter. There’s even a special fight. We call it the Grind. One man, one ’Mech, against all comers in sequence. Last one standing wins.”

  Walter frowned. “That’s not battling, that’s winning because you drew a late start.”

  “But it is entertaining as hell, and lots of money gets bet back and forth.”

  “Am I sensing that I’m going to be the guy in the Grind today?”

  Aniki shook her head. “My brother’s doing that. Come on, watch and see how he does it.”

  A stocky woman of Asian descent, wearing a severe and ill-fitting suit, approached them. “Wallace Richards? Is now a good time to talk?”

  “I was going to watch…”

  “This won’t take long.” She flashed an identification card. “Agent Alexandra Fujitaka of the ’Mech Battle Commission.”

  Aniki nodded at Walter. “Talk to her, then meet us in the yellow seats. Come on, Spurs.”

  Ivan, grinning foolishly, dropped into lockstep with Aniki as she led the way through a passage beneath the stands and to a staircase warded by security officers.

  “How can I help you, Agent Fujitaka?”

  The dark-eyed woman glanced at the tablet nestled in the crook of her arm. “You’ve been granted a provo license to fight for Windfall Warriors Unlimited. You’ll meet with me a minimum of once every three months. You are subject to random drug testing. By accepting this license, you agree to conduct yourself in a manner befitting the privileged status you’ve been given. Whiff of a scandal, and you’re out.”

  “Simon Traeger has already cautioned me.”

  The agent arched an eyebrow. “Yes, well, I’m holding you to a higher standard than Mr. Traeger would, understand? If he gives you any orders that you believe are the result of illegal dealings, you refuse and reach out to me, understand?”

  “I do.”

  Her eyes tightened. “I need a bit more than lip service here, Mr. Richards. Frankly, I opposed granting you a license. Your lack of a background is disturbing. If you’re running from anything, you’re vulnerable; and I’m not going to have you cheating on my watch. Is that clear?”

  Walter held his hands up in surrender. “Crystal.”

  “I will be watching you, Mr. Richards. Very closely.” She flipped the tablet around. “Left thumb in the glowing box. Thank you. You’ll get a copy of this record, along with my contact information, in case you need it.”

  “Thank you.”

  She looked him up and down, then shook her head. “People would kill for this privilege, you know. Plenty die for it. Don’t make me take it away from you.”

  The agent’s visit left Walter feeling as if he were a half step out of sync with the world, but he also knew that was only part of his unease. He wanted to attribute most of it to dealing with the peculiarity of people treating war as entertainment. While that was a piece of it, too, this only partially explained his emotions. The human fascination with war and death began long before recorded history. The Romans had built amphitheaters to house their martial entertainments. While combat for sport often was considered barbaric by critics, even Walter had sat with the rest of the mercenary company to watch fights piped in from Solaris. To feign outrage now really couldn’t be defended.

  It occurred to him, as he went up a flight of bleacher steps, that what truly bothered him was how easily Spurs had perceived what Walter hadn’t in regard to the audience. There was a time when Walter would have seen what Spurs had seen. When and where he lost that ability eluded him, but in retrospect it seemed as if it had vanished long before he went to Maldive. Casualty of the lifestyle, I guess.

  The county fair arena had only two spectator levels, and Walter emerged from the stairwell at the upper level’s lower edge. Aniki and Spurs were seated in a box of ten seats all painted yellow, in the first row at the railing. The oval arena stretched off to the north, so their seats at the southern end gave them a great vantage point.

  Just below them, Snorri was entering the arena.
He was piloting a Commando with the same build-out Walter had used in his audition. The ’Mech had been painted white, with red stripes running from shoulder to wrist and hip to ankle. Snorri raised the ’Mech’s right arm and triggered a plume of fire from the flamer. The heat of the blast reached Walter, and the bright light had him narrowing his eyes.

  The crowd rose to its feet, booing vociferously and screaming epithets and taunts. Snorri slowly brought the ’Mech around in a little circle, triggering more fire, the ’Mech’s arms held wide. He paced the ’Mech back and forth at the arena’s south end, a predator awaiting prey. His every move brought renewed jeers, and the ’Mech’s posture spoke to arrogance and disdain for the crowd.

  Then, at the far end, a rusty four-legged, two-armed ’Mech scuttled through the entrance. Walter couldn’t even begin to catalog the various parts, though the arms with big blades on either side of the dome-shaped turret looked to be from a forestry ’Mech. As color went, rust predominated. Signs had been painted on, big and little, running from commercial advertisements to one small one that read, “Stephanie, prom?”

  Walter glanced over at Aniki. “That’s… that pilot doesn’t think he can win, does he?”

  “He wins by being first out of the gate.” She chuckled. “Order was determined by lot, with fifth to seventh place considered prime. I’m sure he drew somewhere north of four, so he traded down into first place for some sizable consideration. Couple that with the money from the adverts, and he’s already profitable. Oh, and it looks like he sold someone the right to pilot that thing for him, so there’s even more money.”

  Below, the crowd started cheering for the challenger, or laughing at him, or both.

  Walter’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve seen this routine before?”

  “On the fair circuit, you’ll see that very ’Mech at least once per quarter. Toby Gant, the guy who owns that monster and usually pilots it, fights at half the fairs. The rest of the time he just brings Mabel—that’s what he calls it—and folks pay to take pictures with it. And that advertisement there, the one with the tree? That’s for his landscaping, hauling, and tree doctor services.”

  The Commando approached Mabel with the same circumspection as a man approaching a scorpion. Both ’Mechs began to move counterclockwise, feinting to force the other back. Boos accompanied Snorri’s moves, while Mabel’s heroics wrung cheers from the audience. Mabel would sink lower and scuttle sideways. The Commando would dart in to cut the odd-looking ’Mech off.

  But that makes no sense. In the simulator, Walter had piloted that same ’Mech. While Walter was pretty certain that Mabel couldn’t do any real damage to the Commando, by closing Snorri played to Mabel’s strengths. All Snorri had to do to defeat Mabel was to unload twin salvos of short-range missiles and then use his laser and flamer to finish her off.

  Instead, Snorri used his weakest weapon, the flamer. He streamed fire over Mabel, hitting her on the left foreleg and along that flank. The prom sign burst into flame. Other little fires guttered here and there along the ’Mech’s side. A few scales melted, smoking ceramics leaving a black trail on the arena floor.

  And the crowd roared—some in fear, some in delight. Money changed hands. The monitors around the arena showed two teenagers kissing, leading Walter to assume one of them was Stephanie and that the prom was on.

  Snorri backed the Commando off and began pacing again. He sprayed more fire into the air and even turned his back on Mabel. The squat ’Mech dashed forward, the broad, circular blades on the logging arms slashing at the Commando. The crowd roared approval, then snarled as one when the Commando nimbly danced away from the danger and painted Mabel with fire once more.

  Walter started to ask a question, but the words hung in his throat. Because of the way a ’Mech’s holographic sensor package worked, ’Mechs didn’t have a blind side. Even though Snorri had turned his back to Mabel, he could see the ’Mech the entire time. The attack at his back hadn’t surprised him. He’d seen it coming and let it appear as if the attack would work, but he’d never been in danger. And his riposte with the flamer looked great, but did almost no damage to his enemy.

  As those words ran through his head—“looked great, but”—he suddenly understood. With more ease than most would imagine possible, Snorri could have shot out ten such ’Mechs in quick succession, but that wasn’t what people had come to see. Snorri knew he’d lose—in that sort of contest, barring an unequal distribution of luck on each side, the chances of Snorri being the last man standing were incredibly tiny. So, if winning wasn’t likely, or even the point, providing entertainment was. Let each contestant have their time in the arena. Give them each a chance to do something that they could brag about for the rest of their lives. The locals weren’t really going to be beating Snorri as much as outlasting their friends and neighbors.

  Walter sat back in his chair and studied Snorri. Aniki’s brother was an artist, playing the crowd and playing to the crowd. He gave his opponents time to do enough to build the crowd’s hope. Then he’d battle back and finally put the local champion down. He’d preen more between opponents, but as the fights dragged on, he gave signs that his ’Mech was wearing down. Then the drama shifted. Would the next challenger succeed, or would Snorri heroically survive to face yet another opponent?

  “Your brother is very good, Aniki. I don’t know that I’ll be able to provide as much drama as he is.”

  “The Grind is the perfect performance to learn how to be very dramatic. But you’re not going to have to worry about that.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Grind is just one special sort of fight we put on. You’re scheduled to do another real popular one.”

  Walter’s expression darkened. “I’m not sure I like how that sounds. What does it entail?”

  “I don’t want to spoil it for you, Wallace.” She stole more cotton candy from Spurs. “But in that fight, you’ll be called ‘The Rabbit.’ And don’t worry. It’ll be over fast.”

  Chapter Four

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  Greater Harrison Regional Exposition

  Solaris VII (The Game World)

  Rahneshire, Lyran Commonwealth

  7 September 3001

  A small laser fired by the MuttMech on Walter’s left scored the armor on the LCT-1S Locust’s left weapon pod. The other two small lasers from the gunnery canister mounted on the Mutt’s shoulder flashed behind Walter’s ’Mech, and slashed two glowing lines in the armor of another Mutt. Without waiting to see whether those two pilots would start shooting at each other, Walter planted the Locust’s left foot and darted right, sliding past another ’Mech that had hoped to put its chain saw to good use.

  The Locust’s left pod swung wide. Two short-range missiles jetted out, slamming into the chain saw ’Mech as it swept past. Being more flash than power, all four missiles detonated in a fantastic light show. Red and blue explosions shattered armor on the target ’Mech’s left flank, opening a hole and exposing metal ribs.

  Walter fought the instinct to whirl his Locust and pour fire into that breach. In combat he would have done that without thinking, because his job was to destroy his enemies’ ability to fight. But, as the Rabbit, all he was supposed to do was survive long enough.

  As Simon Traeger put it, “No one cares who wins a demolition derby. They just come to watch people lose spectacularly.”

  Spurs’s voice sounded in his ear. “Betting odds have shifted. Heavy favorite is the green Iron Man. Acknowledge.”

  “Roger that, Spurs.” Walter shivered. Hope Agent Fujitaka isn’t listening in.

  The Rabbit Run had begun with a dozen ’Mechs all out after Walter’s Rabbit—twice the number of hunters than he usually faced. While the exposition had a formal arena for featured matches and Grinds, for the Rabbit Run they utilized an adjacent landfill. Stray laser shots could ignite mounds of disposable diapers�
��an apparent crowd-pleaser—and a missile or two could explode old refrigerators, which usually won approval. The uneven mounds and twisting pathways carved by bulldozers meant the course changed every day. The landfill’s security cameras provided the audience with a decent view of the action, while a flock of drone cameras nipped in and out for more exciting shots.

  Walter spun the Locust on its right foot, tracked his target, and tightened his trigger finger. A scintillating red beam shot out from the medium laser underslung on the Locust’s torso and turned the armor over the green Iron Man’s chest to slag. A steaming torrent of liquid ceramics splashed down, bursting into flames as it hit the ground. A heartbeat later, something buried beneath the burning puddle exploded, toppling the target ’Mech backward.

  “Some idiot buried methane canisters out here again!” Walter flipped his sensor array over to magnetic resonance. The holographic display before him lit up with so many hits on metal debris that he might as well have been looking at a carpet sewn with sequins. He flipped it over to infrared, but heat from all the garbage breaking down below hid everything in the general glow.

  A Mutt that had been cobbled together from a combine harvester and a couple of machine guns opened fire on the Locust. One stream of bullets hit, cratering the armor on Walter’s left flank. The computers assessing damage to the light ’Mech decided the damage was of no consequence, but a couple more shots like that would cause trouble.

  Walter launched two SRM salvos, with all four missiles finding their target. Explosions shattered armor across the Mutt’s chest and blew one of the machine gun pods off the ’Mech’s right hip. The Mutt staggered to the left, but the pilot regained control before his ’Mech went down.

  Walter accelerated the Locust, starting it around to the left. He tightened his turn and drove straight through the middle of the battlefield—halfway into what would be a figure-eight pattern. This will drive the crowd wild.