LE5790 - Illusions Of Victory Read online

  The Best Seats in the House

  Michael hesitated at the controls of his airborne 'Mech, still shaken from the assault Victor was relentlessly throwing at him. He couldn't tell what was happening, or where he was in the Coliseum. But the laser hits kept coming.

  FLASH—his Pillager drifted to the left, spinning out of control, still rising on its remaining plasma-vent lifters.

  FLASH—one hundred tons of armor, weapons, and control systems hurtled back against the ferroglass shield and detonator grid protecting the screaming, bloodthirsty fans in the stands. A cascade of bright, white-hot sparks lit up an entire quadrant of the arena as the underpowered grid tried to push back the huge 'Mech.

  There was no chance.

  FLASH—Michael could only hold on for dear life as the Pillager smashed through the detonator grid and ferroglass shield to plunge into the Coliseum's filled stadium seating.

  Then the fans started screaming for real. . . .

  BATTLETECH.

  LE5790

  ILLUSIONS OF VICTORY

  Loren L. Coleman

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane,

  London W8 5TZ, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

  Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, May 2000 10 987654321

  Copyright © FASA Corporation, 2000 All rights reserved

  Series Editor: Donna Ippolito

  Mechanical Drawings: Duane Loose and the FASA art department Cover art by Peter Peebles

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  BATTLETECH, FASA, and the distinctive BATTLETECH and FASA logos are trademarks of the FASA Corporation, 1100 W. Cermak, Suite B305, Chicago, IL 60608.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET. NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  To Bryan Nystul and Randall Bills, for your enthusiasm and support.

  I would like to bring the following people under the camera's eye, each of whom in many ways contributed to this novel. Appearance so rarely stands up to the reality that the author is never alone.

  Jim LeMonds, Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, and Mike Stackpole, for their various turns at the roles of teachers, business associates, and friends.

  Bryan Nystul and Randall Bills, who keep the BattleTech universe moving and jumped on the "Return to Solaris" bandwagon early. Donna Ippolito and Annalise Raziq, for putting up with one more tight deadline and working with me to make this the best book possible. Jordan Weisman and Ross Babcock, still the powers behind the throne.

  My parents, LaRon and Dawn Coleman, who continue to take an active interest in my life. Even, surprisingly enough, to the benefit of their son.

  "The Group." By which I mean Russell Loveday, Keith Mick, Allen and Amy Mattila, Vince Foley, Matt Dillahunty, Tim Tousely, Tim Huffer, and the returned Mr. Raymond Sainz.

  The BattleForce IRC community, especially Chas, Ed, and Camille. Group W, who just couldn't be slipped into the pages this time.

  My agent, Don Maass, who never seems too busy for "just one more question."

  My wife, Heather Joy. My energetic sons, Talon LaRon and Conner Rhys Monroe. My lovely new daughter, Alexia Joy.

  Oh, and the cats—Chaos, Rumor, and Ranger—who always seem to know when I start a new book, and stare.

  Prelude

  (Three Years Before)

  Solaris Spaceport, International Zone

  Solaris City, Solaris VII

  Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance

  21 September 3059

  The line of steerage passengers shuffled out of the DropShip and slowly down the covered gantry, winding its way into the West Terminal of Solaris City Spaceport. Behind the passengers, the large Monarch Class vessel sat steaming on the tarmac as residual heat from reentry into atmosphere fought a short-lived battle against the gray drizzle falling from an overcast sky. The heat made the air rank with the scents of scorched ferrocrete and human sweat. People cursed as a sharp wind blew rain in under the lip of the gantry overhang. The gust was biting and cruel, bringing no true relief. Muttering under their breaths, the passengers pressed forward, anxious to gain the protection of the terminal, ignoring the dark glances from those in front of them while casting similar glances at those behind.

  This was how Michael Searcy arrived on Solaris VII, the Game World. Young and eager. And dispossessed.

  He threaded his way through the tight knot of people who blocked the gantry exit meeting up with relatives or asking the harried Monopole Line official posted there for directions available on any of the several nearby signs. At one point he stopped to let an elderly couple past, preventing an impatient mother towing three wrangling children from bustling into the pair. Then he, in turn, was pushed aside by security, who formed an instant corridor through the tangled mass of passengers to make way for a pair of agents escorting a man restrained by fetters and manacles. Michael spearheaded the rush to fill the void left by the departing security, breaking through the congestion at the arrival gate and into the terminal proper.

  To be immediately confronted by a Gunslinger.

  The replica of the assault 'Mech stood three meters tall, only a fourth the size of the actual eighty-five-ton BattleMech but still towering over the crowd. Several passengers had stopped to stare in awe, while Michael examined it for how faithful it memorialized BattleMech designs from all across the Inner Sphere as well as what was known of Clan 'Mechs.

  The Gunslinger was a classic example of the war machines that ruled thirty-first-century battlefields. Built along humanoid lines, its broad-chested torso sat on thick, tree-stump legs, and its arms ended in the wide-bore barrels of gauss rifles. The 'Mech also boasted a pair of medium-class lasers on shoulder-mounted turrets for when combat got up close and personal.

  A man and wife stood nearby, gazing up at the Gunslinger's head, where a bright red light glowed behind the cockpit viewscreen. It lent the 'Mech a menacing air, though Michael knew that 'Mech cockpits were mostly dark, cramped spaces lit only by the muted glow of instrument panels, a few monitor screens, and various caution and warning lights that a 'Warrior never wanted to see. Theatrics, he decided about the
red lighting. Just like the replica's metallic blue paint and the illuminated sign dangling from the ceiling. Flashing, the sign commanded: LET THE GAMES BEGIN.

  "I wonder which BattleMech this is?" The wife was peering into the barrel of the left-arm gauss rifle. She shuddered. "It certainly looks deadly enough."

  The husband looked up toward the cockpit. "Crusader, maybe? You remember, like the one from that Allard-Liao and Cox team match against a Skye Tiger team a few years back ..." He trailed off speculatively.

  Michael wanted to laugh. If you shaved off twenty tons and reconfigured the offensive capability for missiles rather than direct-fire weaponry, then maybe by a wild stretch of imagination it might be a Crusader—a 'Mech antiquated on the modern battlefields.

  "It's a Gunslinger," he said quietly. "Designation Gun-One E-R-D. Eighty-five-ton assault class BattleMech. Twin gauss rifles in the arms and quad lasers riding over the shoulders."

  The couple looked him over with sudden interest, eyeing his dress military uniform, which gave away his heritage. The white jacket, blue trousers piped with gold and red, and the dark blue sash were all unmistakably Federated Suns—the Davion half of the fractured Davion-Steiner alliance. He'd eschewed the cape, feeling it would be out of place among steerage, but too proud to give up his uniform yet.

  And why not? His official discharge wouldn't be final for a few months yet. And while it would be on record as OTH—other than honorable—Michael would never accept what had happened. His 'Mech had shut down from overheating on New Canton, despite his former commander's charges of suspected pusillanimity—a fancy way of calling him a coward. He couldn't think of it without getting a lump in his throat. The hurt was still raw.

  "Leftenant Michael Searcy," he said, thinking now was as good a time as any to start getting to know the people of his new home. He planned to make a fresh start here on Solaris VII.

  The man's wife turned away with an audible sniff. "A Davionist," she said under her breath, just as surely giving away her own loyalties. That would make the couple citizens of the Lyran Alliance, former sister-state of the Federated Suns. The two great nations had once been joined as the mighty Federated Commonwealth, but had recently split apart, with each star empire championing its own member of the ruling Steiner-Davion line. Archon Katherine—Katrina to her people—for the Aliiance and Prince Victor with the Commonwealth nee Federated Suns. Bad blood there.

  "AFFC, eh?" The husband ignored his wife's politics. "You see any action against the Clans?" A natural question, with Prince Victor and the FedCom military currently spearheading a retaliatory strike against the Clanners. A real headliner, and the likely reason he gave Michael any grace at all.

  "No, sir, I'm sorry to say. Just the action on New Canton, trying to hold off the Liao-Marik offensive in '57. I was"—he tried to keep his voice strong—"discharged before the main assault against Clan Smoke Jaguar began." What he didn't say was that he'd been court-martialed and stripped of his 'Mech—dispossessed—a fate worse than death for a Mech Warrior.

  But the man apparently did not want to hear about '57 and was even less interested in any Mech Warrior's humble attitude. Not here on Solaris VII. He grunted something noncommittal and let his wife pull him away from the Gunslinger to rejoin the crowd.

  Michael turned back toward the 'Mech, his face hot with embarrassment. Lesson number one, he decided. People here wanted flash and glamour. They wanted theatrics. He ran his fingers back through his short-cropped hair. Come to think of it, the same thing was also true in the regular military where you were expected to be part of a team. If you knew how to think for yourself, you'd better show a strong performance to justify your actions. While Michael hadn't. Abandoned by his commander in the path of Confederation forces, he'd been caught alone in a 'Mech that had shut down from overheating. He'd had no choice but to punch out, but his commanding officer gave a different version of the facts. The court found Michael guilty as charged, refusing to give him a second chance. That was what had brought him to Solaris VII, the hope of proving himself worthy. He glanced up again at the flashing sign.

  LET THE GAMES BEGIN.

  And they did, just the other side of the Gunslinger replica. A row of bank machines was interspersed with betting terminals in a long lihe stretching away from each terminal. Betting stubs littered the tiled floor, dashed hopes cast away as people readied a new series of wagers. The custodians merely swept the stubs aside like so much dust, forming small drifts along the walls that young children took delight in kicking through.

  Michael watched as the couple he'd talked with joined a line at one computer to place their first bets. No care for the odds or even a glance at the latest betting sheets. They were here to gamble and live the dark adventure that was the promise and the lure of the Game World. On Solaris the wars of the Inner Sphere were recreated for the pleasure of the viewing audience as BattleMechs were pitted against each other in the arenas. Michael shook his head, still unable to fully grasp the idea of a place where MechWarriors fought—and sometimes died—for sport. Nowhere else in the Inner Sphere could this system work.

  But then Solaris City was a microcosm of the rest of the Inner Sphere, each of its sectors corresponding to one of the ruling Great Houses. The spaceport was in the International Zone, a small sector in the southwestern corner of the city. It handled DropShip travel and the higher-level government functions. Most other duties changed hands at the sector borders. The city was divided by the Solaris River, which ran almost exactly across the center. South of the river were the International Zone, followed by the Black Hills, Cathay, and then Silesia, which bled a few neighborhoods to the northeast bank of the river. On the north bank of the river were the sectors of Montenegro and Kobe.

  It was ironic that the leaders of the Inner Sphere had finally managed to resurrect the Star League in the face of the Clan invasion, but here on Solaris VII the old rivalries and many new ones ran too deep to be so easily put aside. Rivalries that were flaunted and exploited every night as the various House-affiliated stables battled each other in the arenas, each one clawing for dominion over the rest.

  Several monitors suspended over the bank of automated tellers and betting terminals showed clips from the latest bouts and promoted the evening's upcoming matches. Commentators talked over one another while the distant sounds of combat added to the din. Michael moved closer to one showing the latest box scores, fishing deep into a uniform pocket for his own betting receipts. The DropShip that brought him here had been fitted with impressive theaters for viewing the fights, and no one had been immune to the draw. Michael had hoped his four years in the AFFC might give him a betting edge. Instead he ended up crumpling one ticket after another, missing the spreads by a few seconds in one fight, by a ton of armor in another. Finding a straight-up bet on the games wasn't easy; the simple win-lose wagers were reserved for long-odds upsets. That was how the entertainment commission kept a handle on the gambling, balancing out everything until only the savviest aficionados could hope to find the best wagers.

  Michael knew this, but it hadn't kept him from trying. Nothing would ever keep him from trying. He found one winning bet among his tickets. It was the one where he'd taken the odds that Theodore Gross, the number one-ranked warrior on Solaris VII and this year's Champion, would successfully defend his title, but that the match would run better than ten minutes. An eternity in one of Gross's matches, but the bet had paid off and Michael recovered half of his initial stake.

  On the next monitor over, one of the screens with louder accompanying sound was showing holovid footage of just that fight, with a Game World vidcaster sagely offering his commentary.

  "Theodore Gross has never been put on the defensive so quickly, but that lucky shot found a flaw in his armor and managed to crack the shielding surrounding his fusion engine. The Katana was bleeding waste heat. In the Jungle, that can be a death sentence for a 'Mech."

  An outline of the huge, pyramidal Cathay arena was displayed on the screen
. Michael knew that the interior was filled with a lush tropical forest and maintained at temperatures that often pushed a BattleMech to the edge of overheating. An engine hit would be bad in there. He also recognized the vidcaster as Julian Nero, one of the more popular commentators on Solaris VII. Nero usually reported the fights at the Steiner Coliseum and was developing a reputation for accurate predictions. His "sure bets" often set off immediate and rapid fluctuations among the odds-makers.

  "Fortunately for the defending Champion, Stephen Neils got too eager. Once the young warrior came within range of the Katana's jump jets, allowing Gross to slip in behind him, it was all over." Nero winked at the camera. "Sorry, Stephen. I warned you."

  Then back to business. "And now the Champion is set to defend his title for the fourth time at the Steiner arena in two months. What can he expect from veteran Ervine Rebelke? We have this statement."

  Nero's chiseled features were replaced with the rough visage of a battle-scarred veteran. Michael wondered what battle had caused the ugly gash running from Rebelke's upper brow to his left ear. A real-life battle or an arena match? And was there really much difference between the two?

  Rebelke apparently didn't think so as he sneered for the camera. "Theodore's good, but he's already past his prime. I'll bring the Drac down. In the Coliseum I'll own him."

  So much smoke, Michael thought. Nero seemed to agree, shaking his head once as the camera cut back to him. "I certainly wish Mr. Rebelke luck. It promises to be a fast and brutal fight. That's for sure. The kind Theodore Gross enjoys, with his training in the Ishiyama Arena. A good evening's entertainment, for those of you with tickets for the live show.

  "This from Julian Nero. Your man in the know."

  The names and places were a buzz in the back of Michael's mind. Gross and Rebelke. Ishiyama and the Coliseum. Would he fight these men? In those arenas? That was why he was here, to restore his pride and to prove his worth to anyone with eyes to see. He knew he had it in him. All he needed was a chance.