Lil Slugger slid to the right, just enough to poke the autocannon in Carson’s direction. The weapon spat fire. Spent cartridges, smoking hot, hit the far wall and ignited two paintings. More importantly, however, the stream of slugs ripped into the Vindicator’s left hip. Shattered armor rained down in glittering fragments. The projectiles then lanced up into the hip socket and gnawed away at the ferro-titanium support structures and joint assembly.
The Vindicator continued all the way across the opening to find cover on the far side. Walter’s impression of the jerky movements led him to believe the ’Mech’s left leg wasn’t in very good shape, and might have frozen entirely. That gives us an edge, but we still have to get to him. He won’t need to maneuver at all when we come through that opening, so it’s not much of a gift.
“Wallace, do you see her?”
“Negative.” If she’s going to be reckless… “I’m moving up. Give me cover, then cross to this side. Watch north.”
“Roger. Go!”
Walter sent his Blackjack north as fast as he could. He kept his autocannons aimed toward the hall’s far end. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the Vindicator and fired. He hit with both bursts, grinding off armor on the Vindicator’s right flank and leg.
The damage did nothing to slow the Vindicator’s attacks. The PPC’s particle beam peeled away all but the thinnest layer of armor on the Blackjack’s left arm. Three missiles that hit home blew the last of that off. One even exploded deep inside the shoulder, fraying myomer muscle. The sudden loss of armor unbalanced the Blackjack, but Walter’s struggles at the controls won the battle with gravity.
Maisie’s covering autocannon shot struck the Vindicator in the head, scouring off the last of the armor. The sensor pod exploded, and the medium laser mounted there whirled off deeper into the rotunda. More importantly, the shot staggered the ’Mech. The previous damage to the left leg further hampered the pilot’s ability to control the ’Mech. Like a boxer who had taken an uppercut on the point of the chin, the Vindicator pitched over onto its back and disappeared from sight.
“Wallace, behind you!”
He brought the Blackjack around just as Koyota’s Firestarter entered the fray. The humanoid ’Mech, jump jets blazing with silver light, landed at the lower end of the ramp. The ’Mech’s arms came up, and Koyota lit off every weapon at her disposal, all centered on Lil Slugger. The flamethrowers in each arm and the center of the chest vomited thick streams of flaming liquid. Fluid fire drenched the right side of Maisie’s ’Mech. Then the Firestarter’s twin medium lasers slashed through armor over the smaller ’Mech’s heart and along its burning right arm. Lastly, the two machine guns mounted in the Firestarter’s flanks stippled holes in Lil Slugger’s right flank.
Koyota’s attack made for a spectacular entrance. In infrared, her ’Mech glowed gold as the heat sinks struggled to purge the thermal energy generated by her assault. On the battlefield, what she’d done would have been considered suicidally foolish. But here, it’s show business.
Screw you, Traeger. Walter smiled to himself. It’s time the fat lady sang.
Koyota had launched her attack on Lil Slugger likely because Maisie’s ’Mech was the worst equipped for a short-range fight. However, the Firestarter’s entrance had placed her between her two foes. Maisie’s small laser stabbed a beam of coherent light into the Firestarter’s right thigh, causing the armor to bubble into a black crust.
The Firestarter returned fire. The medium lasers carved away the last of the armor on Lil Slugger’s right flank and most of what was left over the ’Mech’s heart. A heat sink burst in the right side of the UrbanMech’s chest. The two machine guns chipped armor from the left leg and ripped away armor on Lil Slugger’s head. The two flamethrowers poured their molten fuel onto the ’Mech’s chest, incinerating the last armor wafer. The burning fluid gushed over the smaller ’Mech’s machinery. A jump jet exploded, splashing burning silver against the gallery wall and cremating a mural. Lil Slugger staggered when a gyro burned out, and heat spiked as the engine’s magnetic shielding fluctuated.
Time to beat the odds. Walter’s Blackjack pivoted to the right, then opened up with its quartet of medium lasers. The beams passed over the edge of the ramp and struck the Firestarter square in the back. The rear armor simply evaporated beneath the assault, sloughing off in fluid sheets. The angry red beams impaled both gyros. They shut down, and the Firestarter, which had started turning left to face the Blackjack, continued on through an uncontrollable pirouette. It stumbled another ten meters, then collided with one of the pillars. The stone crumbled, and the Firestarter fell. It was quickly entombed beneath an avalanche of the pillar’s shattered remains.
Lil Slugger had sagged to the right, leaning heavily against the gallery wall. “I’m operational, but barely.”
“You do look a little crispy, but as long as you’re still standing, it’s a good fight.”
“True enough.” Maisie’s laughter chased her remark. “Need to talk to your Spurs, though. If that was Rich Carson starting slowly…”
“We’re just lucky you started at full speed.” Walter started his Blackjack back toward their entrance. “As they say, better to be lucky than good, and it’s fantastic when we’re both.”
Chapter Seven
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The Gallery, BattlePark City
Solaris VII (The Game World)
Rahneshire, Lyran Commonwealth
10 November 3001
Walter met Maisie in the foyer outside the combatant dressing rooms. “You fought a great fight. Sure you won’t join Spurs and me for a drink?”
She shook her head, but smiled while doing so. “Rain check. I’m meeting friends, but we’ll celebrate the next time we win together. Which, I expect, will be sooner rather than later.”
“And, hopefully, in Solaris City.” Walter gave her a hug. “If you get free early, we’ll be at the Lethal Locust.”
“I know where that is. Enjoy.”
As she left, Walter pulled on a brown leather bomber jacket that was utterly devoid of patches or insignia related to his team, his occupation, or anything else. Being new on the circuit, he hadn’t built up enough of a following to have an ocean of fans waiting for him outside the dressing rooms. On the other hand, Maisie had and was working her way down a line, signing autographs and posing for holos with avid fans.
Walter watched for a moment, admitting to himself he felt a bit of envy. The fans’ ecstatic expressions were something he could only imagine on the faces of those in the throes of a religious experience. That scared him a bit, but they appeared harmless.
“Wally Richards!” someone shrieked, and a tiny knot of people flowed toward him. “Can I have a holo with you?”
Before he could reply, a comely young woman tucked herself beneath his right arm and smiled toward the rest of the group. A strobe flashed, half blinding Walter. Then another fan took her place, and more strobes went off. Again and again it happened as people shifted around. Some planted kisses on his cheeks, and others just hugged him tightly.
Then someone shouted, “Maisie, over here!” and the scrum abandoned him. He wasn’t sure whether he should be upset or relieved. He decided on the latter and quickly escaped to the Gallery’s loading dock. That was just… Hell, the whole night has been a bit surreal.
He emerged onto the street and cut north for a couple of blocks before reaching the Lethal Locust. The neon-limned sign above the door showed a Locust BattleMech crashing onto the head of an Atlas, crushing the cockpit flat. He couldn’t help but smile. On every planet, at every posting, someone always told the story about the uncle or aunt or father or mother of a friend’s friend who managed, with a light ’Mech, to destroy an assault ’Mech with that “Death from Above” technique. He’d never heard of anyone verifying the stories, but when a grizzled old veteran told the tale, it usually
earned them a drink or two, and a smile from most who heard it.
Dear God, I hope that won’t be me some day. Walter shook his head. You should live so long.
The Lethal Locust’s interior design could best be described as salvage and shrapnel—and it wasn’t easy to tell which predominated. Most everything had been part of a ’Mech at some point. Chunks of myomer fiber made for close-to-comfortable chair padding. Tables, benches, stools, and chairs consisted of flash-welded ferro-titanium splinters and ’Mech bones that had broken into bits so small that even a genius like Ray Angelis couldn’t find a use for them in ’Mech reconstruction. Most of the mugs were reworked from shell casings, food got served on chipped armor scales, and old secondary monitors were built into the tables to allow patrons to place and track orders.
Spurs already had a booth in the middle of the wall opposite the long bar, which had been formed from a ’Mech’s thigh. He was studying his tablet. He had a Timbiqui Dark waiting in a mug for Walter, but he appeared to be drinking tonic water.
Walter slid into the booth. “No Aniki?”
“She’ll be along later, maybe.”
“Problems?”
Spurs looked up and blinked. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Good.” Walter took a long pull on the beer. More sweet than sour, and decently substantial, it went down easily. “I know the fact that she’s fighting in the Quarry while we’re here at the Gallery hasn’t been easy.”
“We get to talk every night. She’s committed to training for the Platinum Crown Tournament, which will get her and Snorri to Solaris City. That’s her dream, so I’m good with it.” Spurs glanced down at the tablet again. “I’m just looking at odds and numbers on the other folks on the mixed doubles side there.”
“Great.”
Spurs laid the tablet down. “You weren’t… My sister didn’t put you up to, you know, talking about feelings, did she?”
Walter sat back and laughed. “Spurs, if she had done that, I’d tell you straight up. But I am curious because we are friends and I care about what’s going on in your life. Face it, after all we’ve been through, here you find a woman who is…”
“Out of my league?”
“Nope. She’s beloved by hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, but is smart enough to see who you are—and she likes you for it.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “Has it ever occurred to you that you might settle down with her, maybe never see Maldive again?”
Spurs nodded almost imperceptibly. “I can’t say it hasn’t.”
“You wouldn’t be human if it hadn’t.”
“It’s not just that I am thinking of me, either. Sophia, back home, had her research, but she was pretty much going to be a means to strengthen an alliance between families. At home, we never had to worry about anything because of our family situation. But you look at her here, turning the Vulture’s Egg from a warship into a luxury hotel that’s making good money, and she’s thriving. Before, she always seemed to be waiting to have things taken away from her, but here there’s no hint of that fear.”
“I’d noticed the change in her, but until you just said that, I hadn’t identified what it was.”
Spurs arched an eyebrow. “What about you? Could you settle down here?”
Could I? Walter scratched at the back of his neck. “My comments about not being human aside, I hadn’t thought about it. I mean, I’m pretty much of a mission-oriented person. That’s my life, and doing something for me has never really figured much into the equation. And here, well, it’s been planning for fights, figuring out how to hack the system, and, well, furthering our larger mission.”
“But if the circumstances were right, like if you found the right girl or something?”
“Like Sophia?”
Spurs nodded. “She didn’t ask me to ask you that or anything. In fact, aside from inquiring how you’re doing, she really hasn’t said anything. But I’ve seen her around you, and I’ve seen you around her. There’s something there, isn’t there?”
Walter sat back again. “Spurs, I think I know Sophia well enough to know she’d not use you to gauge my feelings. The fact is, I think very highly of your sister. I do enjoy the time I get to spend with her. I look forward to seeing her.”
“Then why don’t you tell her how you feel?”
“Mission orientation, remember?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Okay, here’s the breakdown. Either you or a male heir—your son or possibly nephew—will be the one to win back your family holdings. You or your child would have the pedigree to demand support. Sure, it might help if you found a woman from your world to bear your children, but that’s not going to be that important because of how primogeniture works in your culture. But I don’t have any pedigree. Heck, I have a negative one, since I’ve failed in my primary duty. Your sister, while we all hate the reality of it, is a valuable commodity. Let’s say she gets herself married off to Ian Davion or his little brother, Hanse. That’s a powerful ally to have, and if her son benefits from that sort of family background, he’s a strong candidate to liberate your home. Any kid of mine, well… An alliance with me would completely devalue her.”
“That’s rubbish, and you know it.”
“Do I?”
Spurs opened his arms wide. “It’s the first lesson we learned here from Traeger. Reality doesn’t matter, it’s the story. Sure, would some folks back home like it better if I married Katrina Steiner and if my son by her liberated the planet? No question, but our traditions are entirely built up of story. The Ordeal is entirely based on anecdotes about an ancestor. We’ve been raised to believe in the strength of that tradition. Do you think—whether it’s you and me returning as Chairman and Companion, or my son and your son, cousins, returning in that same set of roles—folks won’t cheer our living up to the tradition? Of course they will, because what we’ll be doing is the right and proper thing—the antithesis of the Collective. We would craft the better story, the reality of it be damned. As long as it’s good, people will believe it, because they want to believe it.
“And that’s what we’re doing here, Walter—we’re building up a story to excite people. We get it to work on Solaris, we get it to work back home, and we will achieve our goal. So, your mission orientation might just have to accommodate some other plans.”
Just for a moment Walter allowed himself to imagine what life with Sophia would be like, on Solaris, using the money their enterprises produced to create the sort of fund that would let them return to Maldive and power. He could see Sophia being wonderful with their children. And, as long as I’m dreaming, what the hell… He saw the kids playing with their cousins—Spurs and Aniki would make some beautiful kids. Somewhere inside him, the anchor holding his spirits down came free, and he smiled. He imagined growing old with Sophia, watching their children grow up, seeing their grandchildren playing in the gardens back on Maldive.
Then the anchor sank into the bottom and dug in deeply. Walter’s expression soured. That’s not the mission, Walter.
Spurs’s eyes narrowed. “What? What is it? Why won’t you let yourself be happy?”
“I don’t have a complete answer to that question, Spurs…”
“Then maybe you two morons have an answer to mine.” Traeger slid into the booth beside Walter. “What the hell did you think you were doing in that fight?”
“Winning?”
“No, that’s not it, not at all.” Traeger twisted around to face Walter, poking him sharply with his right index finger. His left hand, with the stub of a cigar stuck between his fingers, he extended toward Spurs. “You, shut up. You, mystery mercenary, again, what the hell were you doing?”
Walter’s chin came up. “I think my answer stands.”
“Really?” Traeger stabbed the cigar toward Spurs. “So, did the little genius here not relay my comment about Irina, or did you just decide to ignore it because of, I dunno, terminal stupidit
y?”
Spurs picked up his tablet again. “There’s something you ought to know…”
“Quiet, adults are talking. Well, one adult, anyway: me.” Traeger’s lip curled. “I thought you understood that this business was give and take. You take instructions from me, I give you your share of the winnings. And there are times when I need you to do things, you know, to cover overhead. My operation runs really close to the bone. Now, I had an agreement with some people about this last fight. They wanted to see Irina do okay, so she could progress. Just like you thought you were going to.”
Walter raised an eyebrow. “‘Going to?’”
“Yeah, past tense. You, you’re fired. Gone. Done. I’m going to tell everybody you were unstable, unruly, un-frigging-everything, got it?”
Spurs made text scroll up on the tablet. “You can’t fire him like that. It’s in the contract.”
“Contract schmontract. It’s done. It’s like we were never in business together. I never filed the contract with the MBC anyway, so it doesn’t exist. But you still owe me, big time. These guys, they’re very serious. I told them it was all your fault.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I did. By e-mail, or I will once I’m done here.”
Ice filled Spurs’s voice. “Are you finished?”
Suspicion tightened Traeger’s expression. “I told you to shut up. You’re fired, too.”
“You were never paying me.”
“It’s the only smart thing I’ve done in all this mess. And you’re still fired, just as a matter of principle.” Traeger looked back at Walter. “You’re done here. No one will ever hire you on this rock.”
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