SIXTEEN
Note: Dedicated to VirginaTech victims.
Ishiyama Arena, Kobe,
Solaris City, Solaris VII,
Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance,
August 9, 3064
The fact that I still roamed Solaris arena did not excite me at the very least.
I put my Argus in reverse, wincing as the Timber Wolf's missiles stripped my front armor, already glowing in red. The shockwave pushed me forward against the harness, inches away from the gauges blinking in rage. The Argus regained balance in a rough jerk, pushing me slamming against the command couch. Alarm raged in my ears, stuffing me with damage reports that bode to rupture my eardrums.
The Timber Wolf, or Mad Cat as Inner Sphere called it, was the epitome of Clan's superiority over the Inner Sphere. A fine blend of strength, speed, and dexterity, nothing had and nothing would ever match its grace on the battlefield. It was the greatest battlemech ever came out of mech factory, Clan or Inner Sphere, in any weight class. Albeit the pilot shied away from using its full potential, he managed to demolish a Penetrator, another fine-tuned machine, leaning entirely on the Wolf's superiority over its Inner Sphere counterpart.
I could have passed by it. I could have opted to engage softer mechs, like the aging Ostsol on my right. I could have a quick, easy kill since the Ostsol would not stand a chance against the 15-year-younger Argus. I could have waited until the Timber Wolf accumulated more damage. Yes, I could have done more reasonable things than going straight head-to-head with the 75-ton omnimech. The problem was: I did not want to.
I did not want to be here, today, inside Kobe's finest arena, fighting for a spot at heavyweight championship. I did not deserve it. Well, I did deserve it, but I let myself be controlled by parties that controlled the course of the games at Solaris. I compensated my mistakes with even bigger mistakes, and the last one wiped out the remaining self-esteem that I still store at the back of my head.
Passing through the Timber Wolf's line of fire, I twisted right and slugged it with my RAC. The repeated thumps of the gatling gun made my ears numb. Pieces of ferro-fibrous armor arced in the air like a fountain, but the wide angle of contact increases the chance of impact. The Timber Wolf rattled, but quickly shrugged it off. I switched off my RAC and fired my missiles. They struck dead center, jolting the big mech and shredding the right armor, weakened by the Penetrator in a nasty duel five minutes ago.
The omnimech rocked back, then corrected its stance, flashing bolts of laser at my position. Two strands burnt a heap of armor on my right arm, turning a ton of it into dripping smelter. The vapor stabbed my nose. I turned to face it, just as the launchers flared, spitting missiles at my direction. Tongues of fire enveloped the canopy as the warheads struck my chest. The heat gauge spiked to one half maximum, and shards of metal with razor-sharp edges rained down over a wide area.
Why did La Cosa Nostra not swarm me the way Grey Wolves did? It would be easier if they came to me, all guns blazing. Instead they punished me by humiliating me by taking my license. I wondered if their plan was to watch me spiral down out of control, and when I could not go any lower, then they moved in to kill me. And I wondered what they thought about me getting back on business, fighting at one of Solaris most prestige arenas.
Should I have the last laugh? Perhaps. Escaping the death plan of the largest crime syndicate at Solaris was an accomplishment in its own realm. Perhaps I should not feel mortified about the way I rebounded from La Cosa Nostra's ploy. What did I do, exactly? I just slept with the wife of the secretary of Solaris Gaming Commission. I harmed nobody.
Except my dignity.
The Timber Wolf's lasers singed me again, this time on my left torso. The sudden loss of armor tipped my Argus ten degrees to its left leg. I let it swing, then returned fire with my medium lasers. The ruby flashes did not seem to bother the Wolf's pilot. He brought his mech to a half loop into my blind spot, firing its lasers and machine guns at my rear armor. My armor gauge turned orange, signaling that I had less than half armor left.
I reversed my torso twist, now fully tilted to the left, catching the Wolf from the other side. I maxed out the throttle and pumped my RAC. Again the murderous rounds drummed on its center torso, peeling the last bit of armor that covered its delicate circuitry. I doubled up my assault with my missiles, pushing the Wolf on its heel. Sparks and shards blended into a ball of fire that razed the Wolf's midst. Remarkably, this mech was still standing.
Once Evee taught me that the sexual bond of a man and a woman was twofold: as a means of preserving our species and a tool of affection. It was always the latter for me, because I looked down on natural birth. It grew into a deep bond between Evee and me, the bond that took my heart and soul to break.
But here at Solaris, people use sex as a catapult to sling their careers into places they would never reach if they fought conventionally. The prestige of affection had vanished, replaced by greed, ambition, and mere physical satisfaction. And the worst part of it: I welcomed myself into this sick society. I used it to get back to the heavy circuit.
The Timber Wolf made a last-ditch effort to stay longer in the game. Fire belched from its launchers, and missiles slapped wide vicinity over which I was standing. Two of them caught my right leg, and I weathered the slight tremor, keeping the Argus running in circle. The absence of proximity alarm informed me that the pilot rushed to keep me at bay. However, he did not learn from his mistake. He pumped up his entire laser arsenal, bringing it close to shut down temperature. But hampered by the smoke from its center torso, the lasers flew above my cockpit, harmlessly cored the wall behind me.
I fought this match halfheartedly. I did not have desire to win. And the Timber Wolf had technological and 15-ton weight advantages over my Argus. Despite all those edges, the pilot could not win over me. I was hoping he was good enough to bury me in this arena, but if he could not use his advantages, perhaps he did not deserve to win at all. I kicked my mech to full speed while readying my weapons for my final blow.
As the crosshair burnt gold, I linked all weapons together and fired an alpha strike. Tracers of light illuminated the void between us, and the Timber Wolf swallowed every single strike I threw at it. The armor caved in, and in a blinding light, the Wolf blazed into an inferno, spitting metal parts and smoke.
As I watched the fire flickering to die, I wished it were the other way around. I went into this arena with nothing else to hold. The Clan in me disdained my conduct so much that I walked into the arena hoping to get killed. But I did not want to just die. I wanted to die like a warrior, in Clan's most exulted death: the blaze of glory. So I went straight toward the Timber Wolf, whose mediocrity happened to be a disappointment.
Thwarted, I looked for another formidable duelist. There was an ace in a Catapult by the name of 'Mad Dog' Davis. I did not know if he was associated with La Cosa Nostra, but the big Steiner fist he carried at the side of the Catapult told me that he might as well be. I readied my RAC, then hit him from behind, just as he finished up with the Ostsol.
"Well done, young charlatan," Davis hissed his sarcasm as he turned his mech around. "Keep taking cheap shots, and you'll be the champion eventually. We all know how you get back in the game."
"The pitch of your voice gave you away, Davis," I taunted him. "The Ostsol was not a worthy enemy."
"Then are you?" he cackled.
"Find it out yourself," I accelerated. "If you dishonor me so, then come and get me."
"You ask for it," he lunged at me and fired his twin LRM 20 packs. A high-pitched warning scream squealed as armor-piercing drones raced toward my torso. I waited until I could see the color of the warheads, then weaved my torso. One third of the missiles flew above my head, another third skipped me by a meter on my left, and the last strafed my mech dead center. The ones that missed looped behind my back and crunched my rear armor. Shards of ferro-fibers scattered in the air, and the armor gauge turned red. However, the equally distributed blows kept my mech firmly on its feet.
It was a stupid blunder, even for a rookie. The Catapult had enough power to skin my mech to the internal structure. Adding the good marksmanship of the pilot, it had become the nightmare of the match, the number one seed. But I was not looking for a victory. I was giving him a head start, and hopefully, he was competent enough to turn it into a kill.
As Davis waited for his launcher to reload, I paced myself and blasted a good rattle of my RAC. The depleted-uranium slugs chaffed the Catapult on the bulbous torso, right under the cockpit. I added some missiles and lasers to the onslaught. I could see bubbling metal streaked on its torso, and the missiles wiped them off. The Catapult lurched to the side, leaning heavily against its right leg, but quickly corrected its position by firing its jump jets toward the opposite direction.
Davis furthered his mech to the sky, peppering me with laser bolts while his launchers reloaded. I brought my mech running in circle, taking pot shots at Davis rear end while he desperately trying to steer his mech midair. His launcher was ready, and he spat his missiles, all 40 of them. Fortunately, his airborne position did not give him a hard lock, so all missiles were wasted on the ground.
To my recollection, I had never had a burning desire to die. Even when I was a bondsman at Wotan, the grittiest ordeal that I had ever endured, I still kept a glint of hope. I refused to give the Jade Falcons the satisfaction seeing me surrendering to their primacy. I had never felt so helpless, so useless that the best course for me was to explode alongside my mech. I did not understand why I changed into a pathetic whiner. Where did the steel determination that made me survive Wotan go?
Well, that might be it. I had lost my source of energy. I had something to fight on at Wotan, something worth more than my life. Now I had nothing. Nobody. Solaris had sucked every bit of my vigor and turned me into a zombie. Or was it really Solaris? Was I not the one that chose this world as my haven?
Davis found a way to my rear and rocked my mech with a well-placed salvo. The thin armor dripped to the ground, exposing the titanium skeleton. He fired me two more times, but I took measure. I torso-twisted to my left, and his lasers landed on my right arm. The bolts drilled four cavities, threatening my RAC into uselessness. Davis fired one more time, then hit his jets to gain space, setting up a firing range for his missiles.
I traced the arc Davis made in the air, and let loose everything I had. The missiles made beautiful curves in the air before expanding in fireballs as they smacked Davis' torso. The long traces of RAC painted the Catapult, shedding more armor on the front. My lasers weakened his structure, shaking him in the air before touching down. I kept my finger at the trigger, then a disturbing screech stopped my RAC altogether. Further tap on the trigger resulted only in more ear-splitting protest and an unbalanced whirl.
My RAC jammed.
It was a common problem in the Davion-made weapon. Eventually, Davis spotted this, and used it to his advantage. His missiles rained down on me, as if bringing punishment for my sin. I rotated left, using my left arm as my shield. The missiles took away everything, starting from the boxed launcher, working toward the left torso, ripping armor and myomer. The bulk of the left torso breached from the center, hanging loose on several strands of cable. The cockpit quaked, and for a moment I thought I was finished.
Funny world, Solaris was. I came here with a lot of hope. It offered none but money and fame, and it gave none but misery. All who came here had to give up a certain quality to have a shot at what it offered. In my case, it was dignity. I did accumulated money and fame, but honestly, they were not worth dignity. I wanted my dignity back. I wanted a life like Evee and I used to live, the few months after Arc Royal before Jerome Helmer changed everything.
Ah, Evee. I never knew how much I needed her… until now.
"Looks like you're running out of luck, Parker," Davis crackled on the comlink. "Maybe it's time you relinquish your reputation in public. You're overrated."
"People are entitled to their own opinion," I replied, trying to clear my RAC from the jam. "But it happens for a reason. There is also a reason why I have better odds than you, not withstanding what I did. Your bland career was only mediocre at best, and you have not beaten quality opponent. It was because of La Cosa Nostra that you reached this far. Perhaps you should look in the mirror before you accuse someone of being overrated."
My provocation hit his nerves. "Then let's prove who's the real goat here!"
With my left side gone and my primary weapon jammed, I thought that was it. My end was imminent. Davis still had all his weapons, and he charged me full speed, waiting for his missiles to reload. I knew I had several seconds, so I backpedaled while tapping my trigger. The giant gatling gun revolved intermittently, each turn produce a sickening screech, but after the fifth turn, it unexpectedly blasted in full force. The tracers of ballistics arced in the air, and lanced the Catapult right in the center.
A small explosion consumed the Catapult's cockpit, ripping the plexiglass canopy. The 65-ton mech continued its path, but the torso wiggled uncontrollably. It pitched toward the sky, then slumped to the ground, creating a large trench along the way before stopped moving completely.
I looked at the metal carcass, refusing to believe that I was that lucky. If it was a lucky shot, it happened at the worst possible time. Now there were only 2 mechs left in the arena, and the other one was a mutilated Black Knight. It had only one working large laser left. I supposed I could stand still and let it pound my mech with its lone laser, but I would not die in blaze of glory. Loosing to this mech was a disgrace, and I thought I did enough damage to my credentials. It was not happening today.
So I put my crosshair on its midst and let loose a long barrage of ballistics. The Black Knight staggered, rocking on its heels, taking my best shots, then launched its answer. A sharp strike drilled my Argus right in the center. The armor level ran critically low, and I knew I could not allow another shot like it. I paced my mech to limp to its left, away from its line of fire, while raining RAC rounds at the center. The Black Knight did not take long to fall. My rounds bled the reactor. Three consecutive explosions chopped the mech apart, and it erupted in a mountain of fire and smoke.
As the mech blossomed into a full inferno, I mused: is there any decent fighter left at Solaris? I held myself back in this match, yet I still came out the victor. Was this world so utterly corrupt that it did not matter whether you could fight in a mech or not, as long as you could find a sponsor?
I started to feel I made the wrong choice, and I could not wait to get out of Solaris.