‘What's this all about, kid?’ Trev-R asked as they settled down.
‘Great news, Trev-R,’ burbled the kid. ‘I'm scheduled for my first arena fight as a MechWarrior in two weeks.’
‘But yer only 16,’ argued Trev-R. ‘You couldn't get a license to fight at that age.’
‘Maybe you couldn't,’ bragged the kid, ‘but I'm a noble of House Oonthrax. A little money in the right place’—he made the sign of the bribe, rubbing thumb and index finger together—’and the record-computers think I'm 18 and have three fights to my credit already. Pretty neat, huh?’
‘Damn dumb, I'd say.’ growled Trev-R.
‘What's the matter, Trev-R? Can't get any more fights of your own? I thought you'd be proud of me.’
‘Yer not ready, kid. Ya need at least two more years of training afore I'd let ya in a 'Mech for real.’
‘Ah, Trev-R, I'm good enough. You're just jealous.’
‘Shows what you know, kid. I've got another fight coming up in two weeks also. Ya won't see much of me between now and then. My 'Mech needs repairs.’
‘Well, then,’ said Vayil. ‘That's great! Maybe we'll see each other at the arena! I know you're going to be impressed, Trev-R. Won't you wish me luck like everyone else here has? Not that I'll need it of course.’
A crooked smile appeared on the old warrior's face. ‘Yer a real fire-eater, Vayil, me boy, and I do wish you the best of luck.’
Bonnie, the barmaid, pushed through the crowd and plunked down two bottles-one of Cthonian and the other of R-thing Cola. ‘Compliments of the house.’ she smiled. ‘And, kid. if you're not too busy. I'd like to extend my personal congratulations a little later.’ She gave him a broad wink and a leer as Vayil's fair skin turned beet-red. Then she sashayed away with an exaggerated wiggle.
A few minutes later, Vayil left to talk to other wellwishers. Trev-R settled down to do some serious drinking.
Half a dozen Mech hangars, big, square, ugly gray buildings of Solaris mud-bricks and corrugated aluminum, stood at the edge of town beyond the arena. Trev-R had gotten permission from old Fred McBru. the custodian, to sleep on the premises in the rec room at the rear of the heavy 'Mech hangar. McBru had agreed to it when Trev-R told him that he was flat broke and could not afford to stay in town at Morte's Tavern anymore. Besides, it was far too walk every morning and every night, and Trev-R needed to spend most of his days in the hangar working on his 'Mech.
The WHM-6Rhad its own hangar, which was also filled with scaffolding and gantries. Patches of gray steel showed through the flaking bronze paint on the armor. An ugly black laser scorch marred the front torso engine mounting. Broken myomer muscle cable showed where the left-arm PPC had been blown off. Dings, dents, scorches, and bullet holes covered most of the body, and the head unit, where the pilot rode, looked like it had been smashed in with a club. Just getting the head fixed was going to be a major job. Trev-R put JoeBob to work on replacing the head armor and internal controls, while he and a team of welders tried to reattach the broken PPC. The job took three days of hard work.
It seemed like every time he turned around, JoeBob was feeding him some kind of bad news. The bit that really bothered Trev-R was about the ejector mechanism. It did not work, and it would take more than a month to get a new one to replace it. Worse, when Trev-R checked, Kandar Kant refused to authorize the expense. The Arena Master swore at Trev-R and told him that he was not going to have some chicken-hearted warrior punching out if he got scared in the big fight. Trev-R began to feel that the deck might be even more stacked against him than he had anticipated.
Trev-R used all of his technical expertise to restore the Warhammer.
Cooperation and enthusiasm for the job from JoeBob and the other Techs seemed perfunctory at best, but they managed to affix new ceramic armor and smooth out the dents. Three days before the fight, the Warhammerwas supposedly ready. Trev-R planned to make his own inspection after hours. He had pretended to quit early that day, then sat down to drink a whole bottle of Cthonian. ‘What a sot!’ said JoeBob as he ambled by the table and saw Trev-R leaning back in his chair and snoring.
‘Poor guy,’ said another Tech named Kfyde. ‘He probably knows he doesn't have a chance against that Atlas.With the way you've sabotaged his 'Mech. he'll be lucky to last three minutes.’
‘Oh. the Boss will keep him alive and make it look like a good fight for a little while at least. But he's as good as dead.’
‘That may be why he's getting drunk. He's looked pretty sharp the last few days. He may know he doesn't have a chance.’
The two men turned out the lights and. left Trev-R snoring. When he was sure they were really gone, Trev stopped his act and sat up. It was a real Cthonian whiskey bottle, but the contents had been 90 percent R-thing Cola, with just enough booze in it to give his breath the right smell.
Trev-R scrambled up the scaffolding with a flashlight and conducted a quick inspection. That's when he learned that the crystals in his medium lasers had hairline cracks and would probably blow the first time he tried to use them. That's when he learned that half of his machine gun ammunition was blanks instead of the high-explosive armor-piercing shells it should have been. That's when he found the damaged firing pin that would jam his left gun and that he was able to replace on the spot. That's when he found the premature timing mechanism in three of his short-range missiles. That's when he knew he had been set up to die. And that's when Trev-R decided not to go along with this foul scheme, even if it meant he'd have to cheat.
Trev-R did not get much sleep that night, or the next, and only about four hours on the night before the battle. When the big morning came, however, he was ready, and he had a plan. Perhaps not a great plan, but any plan was better than nothing.
Then, too, there was that smuggler, Toron Jones, who had agreed to get Trev-R offplanet in a hurry if he lived through the fight. And the payroll clerk who had been bribed to give him his ‘winnings’ quickly if, indeed, he should win.
Vayil spent most ot the days ot his two weeks before the fight strapped into his battle couch inside the great spherical head of his mighty new 'Mech. His father was spending a fortune to see that his armament was as good as it could be. Extra armor had been welded onto every vulnerable spot, especially the pilot's quarters. Ammunition was all new, too, and he had a neurohelmet and heat-insulation vest fresh from the factory. Vayil was proud to know that he had the best money could buy. Total expenses: Five million C-bills for the 'Mech and another two hundred thousand in refurbishing.
His 'Mech was a grim-looking monster of gray titanium steel, more humanoid than most ot the BattleMechs around. The word massive described every part of it, from the powerful chest to the sturdy arms and legs. His weapons included a Class 20 autocannon, four medium lasers, and two short-range missile systems capable of firing six missiles each. Normally, the Atlaswould carry a long-range missile system as well, but it had been replaced as unnecessary for arena combat. The whole arena was only 300 meters on a side.
Vayil practiced diligently. As his mind attuned to the computers within the Mech. his movements got less clumsy, more skillful. By the day before the fight, he could bring his 'Mech into an all-out running charge within 100 meters. He could get up from a prone position in just under a minute. He could track a 240-degree arc with his autocannon. and hit a Solaris gullbird with his lasers at 90 meters. He felt ready.
When he woke up on the big day. he found that a card had been delivered during the night. He almost did not open it, until he noticed a number—997—in parenthesis behind his name.
He knew that his opponent was supposed to be some old sot that the Arena had hired He did not know that it was Trev-R until the announcer mentioned it in the opening ceremonies.