The Great Trash Can Run

by Lucen Dacier

In a stand-alone short story, an underdog enters himself in a crazy race to find his fortune on Solaris VII.

Solaris VII

The Game World

4 June 3063

"Goooood afternoooon all you crazy can-fans! Are we ready to RUN?!"

The roar of the crowd was clear even through the tinny headphones in Raymond Hughes's neurohelmet. The announcer was no Duncan Fisher, but he didn't need to be. The crowd were here to see the spectacle, and that was happening no matter who was announcing it.

Look at yourself, boy, he heard his father's voice saying in his head. Another dumb plan. Another 'surefire success,' right? How is this going to be any different from the last twenty times?

Hughes did his best to push those thoughts out of his head. He flexed his fingers on the control sticks and swept his eyes over the instrument cluster. The heat gauge was quivering steadily in the green, his fuel was topped off, and the tachometer was rumbling at a smooth idle. His internal combustion engine was a pale imitation of a BattleMech's fusion reactor, but beggars couldn't be choosers. After months of shoehorning the old equipment into his 'Mech, he had become very familiar with the engine's little quirks. The rest of the old 'Mech seemed to have accepted the rumbling brick of solid metal at its core, currently burning compressed fuel pellets to make enough energy to move the 30-ton machine.

"Welll-comme alllllll!" the announcer shouted. "To the ninth! Annual! TRASH CAAAN RUUUUUNNN!"

The crowd roared again in response. Hughes squared his shoulders and took in the view through his smudged canopy window, seeing the ferrocrete track ahead of him, defined by sidewalls covered with sponsor logos. With a glance at the 360-degree compressed view in his helmet's internal monitor, he could see the eleven other 'Mechs lined up next to him, toeing the broad white starting line. Some were established competitors in the Solaris games, evidenced by sponsor patches decorating their machines. Others like Hughes were independent, which was code for 'desperate.' All twelve of the 'Mechs were UrbanMechs, their cylindrical bodies resembling giant trash cans with legs, each emblazoned with a number between 2 and Hughes' own #13. There was no number 1; that was reserved for the winner.

Each 'Mech sported its own array of weapons and add-ons. The decorations ranged from flags to glued-on toys to war paint to a massive cape draped over the shoulders of one. Next to them, the huge exhaust pipes and patchwork armor plates of his own UrbanMech fit right in. That was the first rule of the Trash Can Run: all competitors needed to be built on the Republic-R Chassis of an UrbanMech. So long as it fit that chassis, any modification was allowed.

"Our competitors arrrree at the starting liiiiine! They are rrrreadyyy to RUN!"

I'll give it ten steps before that rust heap tears itself apart.

Hughes took a breath to take his mind off his father's words. He couldn't afford to succumb to doubt now, not after all he'd gone through to get himself here. From rebuilding his cored-out 'Mech with century-old parts, to begging and borrowing his way to Solaris VII to enter himself in the games. Finally getting on-planet only to find that no stable wanted to take a risk on him or his 'Mech. Then when his hope of making a splash on the competition circuit had seemed doomed to join his long string of failed dreams, he'd gotten a tip on the "Trash Can Run," the all-UrbanMech race famous for being pure Schadenfreude of 30-ton walking turrets crashing and shooting their way through an obstacle course. Hughes didn't doubt most of the crowd was here to watch the competitors crash and burn before even reaching the finish line. But he had to take the chance on getting the winner's purse. And if he did well enough, he could pick up one of those shiny sponsors adorning the more established runners…

Always one good day away from actually succeeding, aren't you? his father's voice chided. Thankfully the announcer drowned out any further criticism.

"All right, folks! IT'S TIME! TO TAKE OUT! THE TRAAAASSH!"

The crowd echoed the catch phrase as the announcer's voice boomed over the course. Hughes gripped his throttle lever. Ahead of him, a starting light flashed red, then yellow. The moment it reached green, Hughes shifted the throttle, and his machine started moving…backwards.

In a move he'd practiced half a dozen times, his UrbanMech did a fake-out dip forward while simultaneously taking a lumbering step back, which saved him from losing the race as all hell broke loose. Next to him, one of other UrbanMechs turned to aim its giant arm cannon in his direction. The huge Imperator autocannon barked out a stream of heavy shells, missing Hughes' 'Mech by centimeters as he backed up. The shells hit the ground in front of another runner, sending the 'Mech stumbling over the new crater in the ferrocrete. The shot was just one of several, as 'Mechs all down the starting line opened fire.

That was the second rule of the Trash Can Run: the winner was whoever crossed the finish line. How you got there was up to you.

The 'Mechs that weren't shooting were all making their own flashy starts. A few of them launched fireworks into the air or blared clusters of air horns. Others ignited their jump jets, leaping into the air in an effort to get past the chaos of the starting line. Hughes stayed ground-bound, not wanting to risk his repairs surviving a jump this early in the race. For similar reasons he kept his finger off his weapons' triggers. After spending days reviewing footage and working out a strategy, he knew he couldn't afford to waste his limited resources just trying to start off with a bang. His best move was to back up, wait a precious few seconds until the other racers were engaged with each other, then get moving.

The engine roared as Hughes grabbed the shifter that served as his throttle and shoved it into first gear, changing his reverse to a slow acceleration forward. A BattleMech's fusion reactor could just immediately go to full-speed ahead; his own repurposed AgroMech engine needed to be eased up to maximum output. At peak it could get him moving at just over 30 kph, which was far from fast, but about standard for an UrbanMech. The engine was barely enough to keep him in the running as the racers began to spread out, with those that had floored it pulling ahead of those that had hung back to take shots at the starting line. The ones in the back quickly tried to level the playing field by lining up shots on their faster competitors. Hughes swerved to one side as runner #8 behind him coughed out a cloud of medium-range missiles. They swarmed past him, chasing after runner #10, who was sprinting ahead almost twice as fast as anyone else.

Hughes was already sweating. He'd thought he was mentally prepared, but for a moment he was back on his farmstead, defending his home from a band of pirates. He'd been so proud of his little UrbanMech then, a secondhand purchase he'd bought on a loan, sure it would keep his family's land safe from everything that galaxy could throw at him. How quickly that had changed, as his machine's autocannon had run dry and the counterattack had torn it apart, leaving him unconscious, bleeding, and trapped in a disabled 'Mech while the pirates had come through and taken whatever they wanted from his home.

He shifted to second gear and kept moving. He mentally reminded himself that the weapons fire wasn't as dangerous as it looked. After a few high-profile deaths in the first couple of races, the organizers had imposed restrictions on firepower, requiring the 'Mechs to be outfit as per MechWarrior training grounds elsewhere on the planet. The de-powered lasers, dummy warheads, and low-velocity autocannon shells were perhaps half as powerful as their wartime counterparts, but they were still impressively flashy, and concentrated fire could still tear through an UrbanMech's armor, or even worse, knock it over. With virtually all the competitors sporting the signature stumpy arms of an UrbanMech, anyone who fell over was effectively out of the race, stranded until a recovery team could stand their little 'Mech back up.

Hughes knew he had to get out of the line of fire, but in the rush of adrenaline from the start of the race, he couldn't resist the urge to take a shot of his own. Right after he shifted into third gear, he lined up his main gun's iron sights with runner #10 and pulled the trigger.

His cockpit shook as the Heavy Rifle on his arm spoke. He felt a rush as the crowd cheered at the shot, but the shell went high, his engine's vibration from accelerating to maximum output throwing off his aim. In response the fast-moving UrbanMech #10 turned at the waist, its entire upper half rotating 180 degrees to aim back at him. Hughes' breath caught; he'd thought that to move that fast the pilot would've had to pull most of the weapons, but the thing still had an intimidating-looking cannon to point in his direction.

The fast UrbanMech's shot went wide as a brilliant azure projectile exploded on its chest. It stumbled and almost crashed into a sidewall before its pilot rotated the torso back around and it picked up even more speed, turning a corner and disappearing from view. Hughes ground his teeth at the sight; there was no way he could keep up with #10.

He told himself it would be all right; the Republic-R chassis didn't have the space for a big power plant. #10's pilot must have been pushing his Urbie far beyond its limits to be moving so fast. With any luck he would burn out his reactor before he could reach the finish line.

Hughes checked on the other competitors. His slow acceleration meant a lot of the other racers were pulling ahead of him, leaving him with the more heavily armed ones in the rear. He was neck-and-neck with #3, the one who had fired the PPC. He could see the 'Mech sported the sponsor labels of an established pilot. Its PPC looked to be borrowed from a Manticore tank, firing the characteristic blue projectiles. It also sported the torso weapons cluster, searchlight, and shoulder missile pack of a Warhammer. His jury-rigged targeting computer agreed with him, fritzing for a moment before dubbing runner #3 UrbanHammer. Even as the combined name flashed on his screen, the thing turned to face him and disgorged a pack of short-range missiles, along with a gout of fire from a Flamer at its hip. Hughes tried to dodge, but too slowly; the flames washed over him and the missiles impacted on his arms and legs, sending him stumbling into the course's sidewall. Sparks flew from his armor as he scraped along the barrier.

"OOOOOOHHHH! Runner Three is bringing the HEAT! Thirteen is grinding HARRRRD!" the announcer remarked.

Hughes clenched his jaw, seeing the ground threatening to come up at him just as it had months ago. He stomped on the foot pedals and cranked back on the control stick, somehow keeping his 'Mech's feet under him while the gyro struggled to keep him upright. He downshifted back to the lowest throttle setting to give himself a chance to catch his balance.

At least I'm not drunk this time, he thought. That had been a mistake; he'd been three whiskey shots into his Friday break when the pirates had attacked. With the 'Mech depending on its pilot's own sense of balance to stay upright, it was really no surprise he hadn't been able to keep it standing. Dad always said drinking would be the end of me.

While he struggled to recover himself the rest of the pack started to pull away, trading weapons fire between them. A few stray autocannon shells impacted around Hughes, but for better or worse, none of the other UrbanMechs seemed to think it was worth the ammo to shoot in his direction.

Hughes cursed under his breath and wiped sweat out of his eyes. His cockpit was already sweltering from the Flamer hit and his own weapons' fire; to make room for his engine he'd had to pull out every heat sink except for the one that was welded into the 'Mech's superstructure, and right now that sink was taxed to the limit. He upshifted again, steering his 'Mech away from the wall and back onto the track.

He pulled on the lever to reload his Rifle as he rounded the first bend. The course split into two paths at that point, one going down through an arena dotted with 'Mech-sized pillars to dodge around, the other going up a narrow raised pathway with a steep drop on either side. The Bouncers and the Tightrope, Hughes knew the paths were called. The course changed from year to year, but there were a few popular features that kept coming back.

His research of past races told him what to expect from both paths. The Bouncers were lower-risk, but the pillars blocked any kind of straight-line path through. Going that way would slow his UrbanMech's already-sluggish pace down to almost nothing, holding him back and giving any opportunistic competitors a chance to take potshots. Meanwhile the Tightrope provided a quick shortcut, but a tumble off either side would be the end for him. Still, he was already behind and had precious few tricks that would let him catch up. He steered towards the Tightrope.

His 'Mech lumbered up a ramp and onto the narrow path. His balance gauge swung back and forth between yellow and orange zones as he teetered on a path barely wide enough to stand on, made worse as he was up in third gear, going as fast as he could get his 'Mech to move. On the upside only one other UrbanMech, Runner #5 out ahead of him, had decided to go this way. His computers struggled to ID it, but Hughes could see sponsor logos on the machine, alongside the sleek bulges of laser mounts dotting its arms and torso.

He risked a look out the canopy to the Bouncers, seeing the other racers weaving through the pillars while trading missiles, cannon shells, and laser beams. A few of them were using their jump jets to hop up onto the pillars, trying to leapfrog ahead of the competition while teetering on narrow ledges. Hughes rotated his 'Mech at the waist and lined up his sights with one of the hopping 'Mechs. He fired his Rifle, scoring a hit on one of the UrbanMechs. The other 'Mech returned fire, but the shot went wide. It tried jumping to another pillar, but was distracted trying to aim and missed, deflecting off the pillar and going tumbling to the ground.

At least I wasn't the first to go down, Hughes thought. He cranked the lever to reload the Rifle again. He saw movement out the corner of his eye too late to react; a pair of medium lasers flashed at him, carving armor off of his flank. Ahead of him, Runner #5 had rotated its upper half around to fire behind itself. Hughes struggled to keep his 'Mech balanced on the narrow path, even as he saw the ominous glow of a Large Laser being aimed at him.

Before #5 could fire it was blindsided, a 'Mech sized chainsaw flipping up from the side of the Tightrope and carving into its arm with a shower of sparks. The 'Mech tried to twist free, but the saw just bit deeper, wrenching it off its feet. The pilot desperately fired his jump jets to try to recover, but ended up sending himself spinning into the air before plummeting down to crash into the ditch next to the Tightrope.

Runner FIVE TAKES A DIIIIIVE!" the announcer shouted, to the cheers of the crowd. Hughes knew he should feel a rush at the sight, but his feelings were quickly soured as another chainsaw whipped up next to him at cockpit-height. Unwilling to risk braking and losing momentum again, he ducked his UrbanMech down as far as he could, barreling forward and letting the saw pass overhead. There was a shriek of metal as the blades shortened one of his exhaust pipes, but he kept moving undeterred. All the other competitors were forgotten now as Hughes kept his eyes glued on the path in front of him, watching for more booby traps.

Another saw flipped up in front of him, this one swinging low to take him off at the knees. Hughes reflexively stomped down on the tabs next to his foot pedals. His UrbanMech squat down, huge springs tensioning in its legs. Just as the saw was about to hit him the springs released, launching his 'Mech's 30-ton weight into the air.

Hughes' stomach was crushed with the acceleration of the jump, then rolled over inside of him as he crested on his ballistic trajectory and began to fall. He hit the ground with bone-jarring force; even with the jump boosters helping absorb the impact, the landing still slammed him against the safety harness holding him in his seat. His 'Mech teetered onto one foot, the momentum of his jump carrying him too far in one direction. The ravine on the side yawned up at him.

The saw he had jumped over ended up saving him. As it retracted back the way it had come and flipped up to slide back into its hiding hole, the saw collided with his left side in a shower of sparks, carving up his armor but also pushing him back onto the track. His balance regained, the UrbanMech resumed plodding forward, making it to the end of the Tightrope.

"Number Thirteen SAVES IT AGAIN! GO, LITTLE COAL BURNERRRRR!"

Hughes allowed himself a smile as he heard the crowd cheer in approval. This was what he'd expected when he'd bought the UrbanMech. MechWarriors weren't failures who staggered from one crazy plan to another. MechWarriors were heroes, towering over everyone else in their mighty BattleMechs, standing up against insurmountable odds to fight for what mattered. They succeeded where others would fail, and came home to cheers of the people they'd saved.

Unfortunately, reality rarely kept up with the dream. His first outing had been a disaster, and his second wasn't going much better so far. He could tell from the way the 'Mech was moving that the saw had torn a lot of armor off his left shoulder.

He rotated his 'Mech at the waist to look back at the Bouncers, seeing most of the competitors were still stuck in among the columns. From the explosions and gunfire he could see through his canopy window, he guessed a lot of them wouldn't be getting any further. Even so, he saw the weapons-heavy UrbanHammer lumbering out. The air rippled around the machine from the waste heat it was venting, and the tip of its PPC arm was glowing molten red.

Set me on fire, will you? Hughes thought at the UrbanHammer pilot, then lined up his sights on the machine and fired his Rifle. The UrbanHammer's pilot reacted quickly, twisting at the waist to take the hit on one shoulder instead of dead-center like Hughes had been aiming. The UrbanHammer swung back to face him…and didn't fire. Hughes guessed that the pilot couldn't afford to shoot, not with the amount of heat their 'Mech was already radiating. Shooting the PPC in that state could shut the 'Mech down, or make its ammo reserves spontaneously cook off.

He checked his own heat; the gauge jumped up every time he fired his gun, and took forever to come back down. Still, he could tell the UrbanHammer pilot was good; he had to do what he could to slow them down. He loaded another shell and fired again at the 'Mech, scoring a hit on its leg before he turned a corner and lost sight of it.

The second shot turned his already-warm cockpit into a steam bath, with alerts sounding as his engine protested the 'Mech's boiling internal temperature. Hughes still kept the throttle in the highest gear, struggling to keep the slim lead he'd secured by taking the more dangerous route. He rounded the bend in the course and flinched as he saw another UrbanMech ahead of him. He hastily pulled the lever to reload his Rifle, but hesitated as he saw the little machine wasn't moving. Smoke poured out of vents in its torso, and it was leaning against one sidewall, barely standing on its feet. Hughes recognized it as #10, the fast UrbanMech from earlier. Apparently whatever the pilot had crammed into the frame to make move so fast had pushed its little reactor too far. Know your limits, he thought at the pilot as he plodded past, echoing his own father's warning to him countless times before.

He squinted, seeing no other 'Mechs ahead of him. There was also one more leg of the obstacle course to get through: the Ramparts. A maze of walls, just low enough to let you see the finish line in the distance. The whole area would be dotted with hidden gun turrets and missile launchers, ready to pop up and catch him unawares. Hughes clenched his jaw at the deceptively peaceful sight of the walls that were currently all that stood between him and victory. He aimed straight for it, hoping to power through.

The first gun appeared when he was still a hundred meters from the Ramparts. He saw a dark form flip up into view, and a machine gun started spraying rounds at him. They exploded into splatters of neon green on impact, leaving his legs and the ground around him covered in polka-dots that made the crowd cheer. It was almost funny, but from the heavy metallic ringing resonating through the cockpit he could tell the rounds were more than just paint getting shot at him.

"This is it, folks!" the announcer called out. "The FINAL STRETCH! Number Thirteen is in the lead, and going right down maw of the RAMPARTS!"

It's not worth it, Hughes heard his father warn. We'll be all right, we don't need this plan. With me gone, you're the only one left to manage the farm. The land needs someone reliable to look after it. Before Hughes could push those thoughts down, more turrets popped up on other walls.

His UrbanMech shuddered under multiple impacts, and his vision was obscured by colorful smoke as missiles impacted on his hull. Klaxons started sounding in the cockpit, warning him his armor was taking a heavy beating. Grimacing, Hughes thumbed the trigger for his left arm weapon, and his machine gun started spraying bullets. Aiming was a clumsy affair, but he kept pressure on the trigger and lined up the iron sights as best he could on the turrets, picking them off in sprays of rubble and paint. The whole time he kept moving, rotating his torso left and right to aim while his legs steadily plodded along. He glanced at his compressed display to check behind him, clenching his jaw again as he saw the other racers coming around the bend and closing the distance. He wondered if they had allowed him to take the lead on purpose, letting him trigger the turrets so they would know where to go to avoid getting pounded. When expecting booby traps, let the boob go in first.

Regardless, he was committed now; he would have to keep up the speed and hope his 'Mech held out. He kept his finger off the trigger for his main gun. Unable to afford a replacement Autocannon after his ride had been trashed, he'd had to swap in the antiquated Heavy Rifle for a main weapon. It was powerful enough, but it ran hot. His 'Mech was only just recovering from firing at the UrbanHammer; if he fired his Rifle now his 'Mech would slow down from the accumulated heat, which he couldn't afford. On top of that, by his count he only had two shots left.

He kept up the pressure with his machine gun, firing it as fast as he could get his shaking sights lined up on the turrets. The UrbanMech trembled around him with impacts and recoil from his guns, but somehow it kept moving. He flinched as one wall next to him flash-melted under a PPC blast. A swarm of SRMs bombed around him, and alerts blared as one blasted through his armor and shredded his left shoulder, freezing the arm in place. He winced and turned his torso around to aim his Rifle back at his pursuers. He could only make out vague outlines in the dust and colored smoke from the gunfire and missile explosions, but those outlines were all shooting at him. Spotting the glow of a charging PPC in the smoke, he took aim and fired, seeing the spark of an impact. Unfortunately the pack of Urbies kept coming, undeterred by the turrets and his Rifle.

His shot slowed him down, his engine being pushed too far to keep up the pace. Swearing, he pounded his feet on the tabs for his jump boosters and launched himself into the air. A flight of missiles passed under him to pulverize part of the track. Hughes looked at his display, realizing his mistake as he saw a wall coming up at him. He had been too caught up with his pursuers to calculate a jump properly, and had stupidly jumped without knowing what he was aimed at. He frantically pushed on the foot pedals as his 'Mech's feet slammed onto the wall. He somehow managed to land on the top of the wall, for what it was worth. The turret-walls weren't made to support a 'Mech's weight, which he found out firsthand as his footing shifted treacherously under him. Staying in place was impossible, so instead he leaned his 'Mech towards the finish line and hit the jump boosters again. He popped into the air, careening over the last of the Ramparts and crashing onto his feet.

A screech of metal signaled his 'Mech's leg protesting, damage from the turrets having weakened it to the point that the structure couldn't handle the high-altitude landing. Alarm klaxons blared and he swayed, struggling to stay upright. Hughes blinked sweat out of his eyes and coughed in the hot cockpit. The world was swimming in his vision, but he saw the finish line, just a hundred meters from him. With his leg failing and engine overheating, he doubted his 'Mech could get even that far, at least not on foot.

He checked his bearing; he was still lined up somehow. He hit the jump tabs again, and his 'Mech leapt forward another sixty meters. I can make it if I land on my good leg, he reasoned.

But you're not that good, his father said as he landed from the jump. He was jostled in his seat by the force of his landing, his safety harness crushing his chest enough to drive the breath from his lungs. His UrbanMech didn't quite tumble over, but it did fall to one knee. His displays were blaring red, his ruined leg barely holding together at all. As if that wasn't enough, the jump hadn't carried him out of range; he could see his competition catching up to him, still firing at his stranded 'Mech. Hughes grunted in frustration and hit the jump tabs again.

His leg gave way completely, snapping off at the knee as he launched himself into the air. The loss of the limb sent him careening sideways; pushed off-course, he wasn't going to make it to the finish line. But he was also still aimed backwards, and had one shot left. He aimed on instinct and squeezed the trigger. His Rifle barked at the same time the UrbanHammer fired its PPC. The shots crossed in mid-air, his Rifle round going wide while PPC's blue shell struck true, exploding spectacularly through his chest armor and turning his 'Mech's internal skeleton into butter. Even so, the recoil from firing and the shock from getting hit gave him just enough of a nudge to correct his jump arc. All that was left was the landing…

His 'Mech's remaining leg crumpled on impact. His momentum sent him toppling, crashing to one side and rolling over and over until finally grinding to a halt. Looking out the canopy window, Hughes could see the finish line barely ten meters from him. So close, and yet his 'Mech couldn't even crawl that far.

He had a distinct feeling of déjà vu as he lay breathless in the wreck of his machine, his face illuminated in reds and yellows from damage readouts. He couldn't hear the alerts blaring over the ringing is his ears, but he could still feel the rhythmic thumping of 'Mech footsteps, shaking his cockpit. He looked up to see the handful of surviving racers clomping up towards him, with the UrbanHammer at the front. Its PPC arm was leveled at him, and a threatening glow of fire was peeking out of its Flamer. He numbly tried to swing his guns towards the machine; the Rifle was out of ammo, but maybe the machine gun…

He became aware of a hissing noise from outside the cockpit. As the ringing in his ears faded and the warning displays popped and short-circuited themselves to death, he realized it was the crowd outside cheering.

"AAAAAND WE HAVE A WINNNNNERRRR!" the announcer declared. "Number Thirteen takes first place in the TRAAAASSH CAAAAAAAN RUUUUUUUUNNN!"

The crowd's cheer rose to the point it drowned out the announcer. Hughes squinted at the blurry finish line, recognizing the rest of the course behind it. The finish line wasn't in front of him at all; his 'Mech had landed aimed backwards.

Did I roll over it? he thought numbly. In the madness of his landing he'd lost all sense of direction.

Meanwhile the UrbanHammer stopped in front of Hughes. He thought he saw a hatch on the top hiss open before he passed out.

Days later, Hughes walked into the block of 'Mech gantries rented out to independents like himself. A depressed look on his face, he made his way to the gantry he'd rented, where his ruined 'Mech hung suspended by support cables, its broken legs lying on the ground under it. A freshly-painted number "1" was prominent on the 'Mech's head, having been put on there shortly after his win. It was supposed to be a badge of honor, but with the 'Mech in its current state, the number was more of an insult.

He didn't want to be here; he was preparing for a long trip home, he certainly didn't need to be reminded how his big gamble had ended. He was already depressed from balancing his books; the prize money for winning had come through, but it was already as good as spent. After his travel costs to get back home, it still wouldn't be enough to pay back everything he owed for the repairs to his 'Mech. So he would be left with an empty bank account and a destroyed farm to his name, at least until the bank came to seize it for whatever else he owed on the damn 'Mech.

Just wanted too much, he thought to himself. He checked his chronometer, seeing he was running late; he'd gotten an offer for the wrecked UrbanMech, and the buyer had asked to come see the machine before closing the sale. Hughes looked around at the 'Mech's feet for his buyer until a passing tech pointed him up to the catwalk at cockpit level. He climbed into a lift to take him up.

He hoped the buyer was here to actually purchase the 'Mech, and not just gawk and laugh like so many others had been doing since the race. An image had been making the rounds on the commentator channels, showing his 'Mech legless and on its back like a stranded turtle, with the caption "You may not like it, but this is what peak performance looks like." He could normally tolerate the ridicule, since it wouldn't be the first time things hadn't worked out like he'd wanted. But after all the work he'd put into getting this far, he found himself wishing things had gone differently. Rebuilding the 'Mech and bringing it to Solaris had made so much sense, he'd been sure it would work out for him. But yet here he was, stuck in his own mess for the umpteenth time.

Hughes made it up to the catwalk to find a pair of men in suits waiting outside of his UrbanMech. He took a breath to steady himself and walked towards them. He paused as he saw a woman with short-cropped fiery red hair and a sharp uniform climbing out of the cockpit. She exchanged a few words with the men, then looked in his direction. Hughes' stomach went tight at the expression on the woman's face. She was looking at him like he was a bug she'd found in her shoe.

"Raymond Hughes," the woman sharply addressed him. She extended a hand to him as he approached. "I'm Maeve Brennan."

Hughes' brain whirled, trying to make a connection. He vaguely recalled seeing that name on the boards for the Light 'Mech league. He uncertainly shook her hand. "All right…"

"I was one of your competitors at the race. Number three."

UrbanHammer, Hughes immediately thought. The hard expression on the woman's face fit the brutal performance he'd seen from that 'Mech. "What brings you out here?"

"My sponsors are here to buy your 'Mech," she answered with a gesture towards the men behind her. "I'm here to supervise the transfer and examine the machine. What's left of it, anyway," she said with a disdainful glance at the wreck hanging in the gantry. "I've got another event to get ready for, so let's make this quick. Who's the team that built this thing?"

Hughes shrugged. "Me, and whoever I could get to help," he answered.

Brennan quirked an eyebrow in response, and looked him up and down, as though reassessing him. "The readouts I was getting were all over the place. What made you put in a burner engine?"

"I had to improvise. Not everyone can get a new fusion reactor shipped out to them when they need one."

One of the men behind Brennan seemed to brighten at that and took a breath to say something, but Brennan turned and silenced him by holding up her hand. "What's with the controls?" she asked Hughes. "I've never seen a 'Mech with a gearshift. And there's almost no displays."

"Had to pull 'em. Needed all the engine output to keep it moving," he answered with a shrug. Instead of the expected derisive laugh at the design, Brennan just stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. A little confused, Hughes elaborated. "AgroMechs don't have twenty different screens showing you every little thing about 'em, and they work just fine. You have to let 'em tell you how they're doing. Sound of the engine, the way it moves, the way it feels." He gave her a questioning look. "Why do you care? The thing is wrecked."

"…wrecked for now," Brennan corrected, the annoyance clear in her voice. "They want me to see if it can be fixed up to run again."

Hughes stared at her blankly. After a long moment he managed to ask, "Why?"

"You said it yourself, not everyone can get a fusion reactor," one of the men behind Brennan answered. "A lot of people watching these games have never seen a BattleMech in person, but they've driven 'Mechs with internal combustion engines. An ICE machine got amazing viewership just for competing. With a first-place win to its name already, we think we'll pull some great numbers with our pilots in the cockpit. We'd need to make some changes, though, maybe swap in an autocannon. We've got a licensing deal with Armstrong, they'll insist on having their equipment mounted."

"And there's talk of setting up an ICE league," the other man chimed in. "Small potatoes really, but could be popular in the right circles. We think we can get in a position to really make a name for ourselves there." He stepped forwards, handing Hughes a datapad with a smile. "You've already seen our offer for the 'Mech. Ms. Brennan seems to think it's fixable, but we'd like you to share your expertise with it. Can we convince you to stay around another few weeks? We're prepared to offer you a consultant's stipend if you can explain the 'Mech to our technicians and MechWarriors," he said, tapping on the datapad and the contract displayed on it.

Hughes looked at the datapad, trying to keep up his poker face at the amount. It would definitely help pay back everyone he owed, maybe even with something leftover. It was practically a no-brainer, but he still found himself hesitating.

He looked suspiciously at Brennan. "Why are you here?"

"I told you, they wanted me to look it over," Brennan smoothly answered. "I work with custom machines all the time. They wanted my opinion on…your work."

He didn't miss the disdainful tone in her voice as she spoke. "They could've gotten any 'Mech tech to tell them whether it could be fixed," he said. "You want to tell me you've got nothing better to do than troll around the independent rental bays and give me a hard time about my machine?"

"We thought a fellow MechWarrior would show we're coming in good faith…" one of the men began, but trailed off as Brennan raised a finger. She yanked the datapad from Hughes and slapped it into the other man's hands before waving him off. As the man moved back, she stepped towards Hughes and lowered her voice.

"I came because I wanted to see who you were." She pursed her lips and looked him over again. "I had no expectations, and somehow I'm still disappointed. I was picturing someone who at least knew what he was doing. But you, you're just a farmer with delusions of grandeur."

Hughes crossed his arms and gave her a cool look. "Big words for second place."

She snorted dismissively at the dig. "We both know that was supposed to be my win, but I'll get over it. There's another Light 'Mech matchup this afternoon, and I'll be on top of that, while you're off digging in the dirt or whatever it is you do." She narrowed her eyes at him. "You don't get it, do you? People don't watch these games just to see 'Mechs blow each other up. That's what war footage is for. They watch the games to be entertained. They want to see the best there is, doing things they won't see anywhere else. I give them that. You? You gave them a freakshow to point and laugh at. These clowns just want to sell the freakshow a little longer before the buzz wears off," she added on with a tilt of her head towards the suited men. "So here's some free advice from someone who can tell where you belong. Take what they're offering. Unload the junk heap, stick around and tell them all about it if you want, and enjoy the fifteen minutes of fame. Then get the hell off this planet and get back to doing something you're good at."

She's right, he could hear his father saying. You're a farmer, boy. It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's good, honest work. You're not a MechWarrior. It's not your place.

He knew there was wisdom in the words. His family had been farmers since forever. It was all he really knew. Even his own 'Mech had the heart of a farm machine, literally.

Still, he felt a familiar tingling in the brain, the rush that came from spotting an opportunity. He knew it was dumb, it always was. But he couldn't resist thinking about the possibilities. No, it probably wasn't worth it. But then again, he didn't need a hundred successful plans, he just needed one. And if the chance was there…

"Hey, let me see that offer again," he said to the man with the datapad. The man obligingly handed it over. Hughes read it, then quickly wrote in some edits in the margins.

"You can have the machine, and I'll walk you through repairing her," he said. "But instead of your consultant, how about you bring me on as her pilot? Let me take her out for you the next time she starts up."

Brennan's face went steely at the sentence, while the man's brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"Any MechWarrior will know all about handling those fancy fusion engines, but they'd have to re-learn everything to take my machine out. Everyone trying to compete in an ICE league will be an old dog trying to learn new tricks. Imagine if your ICE 'Mech has an ICE pilot?"

His brain was working on overdrive now, diving fully into the idea without looking back, just like it always did. He couldn't stop himself from pushing even further. He glanced at Brennan and smirked before looking back at the man. "And how about fielding me alongside your ace in the next UrbanMech event? First and second place winners, taking the field as lancemates. What do you say? You could call the team 'Fire and ICE.'"

Brennan's expression soured, leaving her looking like someone had just broken wind near her. However, the two men behind her were quickly talking in hushed voices.

"You can't be serious," Brennan said icily to Hughes. She looked at the men. "You can't be seriously thinking about that stupid idea."

"It's something they won't see anywhere else," Hughes quipped.

"…I need to make a call," one of the men finally said.

"All right, but you'd better hurry up. I've got a few other irons in the fire," Hughes replied.

"No you don't!" Brennan snapped. She looked at the two men. "Are you seriously going to fall for that line? He's selling you this pile of junk so he can leave!"

"I don't know, maybe I'm shopping around to see if anyone else would appreciate what I can bring," he answered with a smile.

"Other offers or no, he does know how to handle the machine," one of the men said. "Look, are you willing to stay in town a little while? We may be able to make a provisional offer for your services right now, pending approval of the higher-ups."

A 'maybe,' he heard his father chiding. You're turning down a good deal and making an enemy of one of the good pilots, over a 'maybe'?

Hughes thought about the roar of the crowd, the shout of the announcer as the 'Mechs had jockeyed against each other and the pilots had pulled off eye-catching moves. How it had felt as they had announced him the winner of the race.

Dad, he thought to himself, you know what they say.

He extended his hand, and the man took it, shaking it firmly.

No guts, no galaxy.

*End The Great Trash Can Run*

Thanks for reading!

This story first appeared in Magistracy Monthly's January 2024 volume. Go check out Magistracy Monthly, it's a really good BattleTech fan zine: magestrixriley/posts

"Final Leg of the Race" image is provided by Real Mech is Love: /realmechislove

Yes, I did make sheets for the ICE Urbie and the UrbanHammer, which are rules-legal and can be found here: drive/folders/1DKuerWKsG1TUHILEzIWLr_XcfkrF_-ER?usp=drive_link

Battletech and Mechwarrior are the property of Catalyst Game Labs.

A gallery of images for my stories is compiled on my Ko-Fi page. Donations are not required, but they are appreciated, and help me pay the artists to make more images for this story. (Thanks Eadbald, Ageless Games, Umbrawar, and Gladius for all your support!)

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