Viewers all over the planet were stunned as the mighty Atlas,now headless, fell over backward.
‘How on Solaris did Trev-R do that?’ blurted the announcer. ‘I don't believe it. Kid Oonthrax had him at his mercy, and he punched out. I don't believe it! The Atlasis down and out! The Warhammerwins! The Warhammerwins!’
In the arena control booth. Baron Oonthrax and Kandar Kant sat gasping at each other like beached fish. ‘You said he couldn't lose!’ croaked the Baron. ‘I bet everything on this fight. I'm ruined.’
‘Your cowardly son punched out.’ retorted the Arena Master. ‘How could I figure on that? It's all his fault! I bet as much as you did. I'm ruined, too.’
They sat there staring at each other with as much hate as disbelief.
Trev-R's Warhammerstood above its fallen foe for a moment, then slowly turned and began to trudge toward the exit. Trev-R knew what would happen next. He would dodge the publicity people, collect his reward, and be offplanet before sundown. His life wouldn't be worth an iron slug on Solaris once they figured out what he had done.
‘I'm sorry, kid.’ he mumbled to himself, ‘but you don't get to be an old MechWarrior by losin' the big ones.’
‘Yeah. I'm sorry, but if ya meet me at Jones's DropShip like I asked in the note I sent. I'll make it up to ya. My old outfit will take ya on if I recommend ya. and with them, ya can learn to be a real MechWarrior.’
BLACK CATS CROSS YOUR PATH
-Tara Gallagher & James Lanigan
Falstatt sweats to death And lards the lean earth as he walks along—Henry IV
Considering there's always a war on somewhere, things have been pretty quiet these days. It's nice to have a little rest time. Time to train some new recruits and to work out a tew new ideas, but only the battlefield can really keep you sharp. ‘Big Bill Flynn.’ I say to myself, ‘A man like you has got to keep fighting, or he's going to turn into just another barroom mariner, always looking for a wedding guest to regale with a story.’ And there's nothing wrong with that, except that you've got to keep coming up with new stories.
Every year should bring new tales, and last year was no exception. For instance, we got a job to protect Lawrence, this four-bit semi-industrial town in the middle of nowhere. Some House jerk had a bee in his neurohelmet about one of those Star League parts depots being in or near the town. The town was expecting a raid.
I'm not saying the Black Cats are intolerably special, although maybe we are, but there just aren't many mercenary infantry units. The life expectancy is short. People hire you, then expect you to be dead when payday comes. Mostly, though, rich guys would rather hire a few nice-looking Mechs than a bunch of normal-size people. It makes them feel important. So we Black Cats mostly get jobs defending little cities. The nice thing is these are people whose governments won't protect them with so-called Real Troops, and they're happy to see us.
Any infantry unit that lasts more than a year has to find creative ways to operate, to keep from going buggy. So Boots, my boss Sergeant Elizabeth Hill, is always trying newer and odder ways to peel 'Mechs. Some folks say this means she is already buggy, but it's just a way of keeping us together. They don't call her ‘Boot Hill’ for nothing, you know. She's been boss for nearly two years, longer than most infantry units last.
One of the nice things about being an infantry unit—maybe the only nice thing—is that the tinker boys—the Mech drivers—don't take you seriously. So. if you're a good infantry unit, you prove them wrong in fun and interesting ways. They're sohumiliated. ‘Tis sport, indeed, to see the engineer hoisted on his own petard. And in Lawrence we made those 'Mechs look petarded.
The raid did, indeed, show up. And the locals went crazy. Almost from the second those DropShips had been launched, the word was around town: ‘Widows! The Black Widows!’
‘I’ll admit that made my stomach disappear for a few seconds, until Boots snapped me back to the real world, whichever one it was.
‘If those are the Black Widow Company, I'm Sinwan Kunta.’ she announced. We were going to send a few Cats over for a look-see, but our employers were not happy with our calm manner in the face of what they thought would be particularly slow, agonizing death and destruction of their world.
This is how Boots. Lou Lingg, my little self, and a few new guys and local cops ended up creeping through the woods on a nasty cold night, playing spies to look like we were earning our C-bills. A little acting is part of the job. Hell, a lot of acting, if you count looking nonchalant while running around the feet of sixty tons of tippy metal. Freezing our triggers off is part of the job, too, but not for no reason. I was just about to say so, when we reached the camp.
‘Ill met by moonlight, proud Titans,’ I said instead.
‘Wannabees,’ said Boots. ‘We just dragged through nature's own cryonics lab for a bunch of Widow Wannabees.’
She explained to the locals that this group of no-talents had apparently painted spiders on their 'Mechs, either to confuse people and strike fear in their hearts, or because they thought it would be really neat to be like the Widows.
The Widow Company would have wept, or more likely shot them all, had they seen those clowns. There was only one company and some infantry that looked like drek. I hate dealing with guys like that. No challenge, no glory. They set up on the edge of town (we had walked nine klicks out of the way, thanks to the local city boys' sense of direction), obviously expecting to march in while the populace turned tail and fled. I like surprise parties.
The next day, we reviewed probable routes they would take into the city, and set up to meet them. The infantry is at an advantage in a city, especially if we know our way around and the enemy don't. Small size works to a distinct advantage when you can squeeze into a spot and trap a big hulk.
The big galoots did not appear in town that entire day. Boots said it was possible they were waiting for dark, but it was more likely they had put themselves in such an obvious location because they were hoping the townspeople would simply evacuate. Of course, it was possible they were simply real stupid and didn't have a clue.
The next day, they finally got off their big cans, into their bigger cans, and headed into town. We met them at the edge of town, and took some potshots at them like any hometown militia in a sweat. Once we had their attention, Boots ordered a retreat and dispersed the squad into town.
Boots and I—well. Boots actually—had decided to lure some 'Mechs into this large industrial bakery. It was a maze of heavy machinery, vats, and conveyer belts, a good place to trap a 'Mech while it tried to crunch its way out. Let them eat cake, we said.
We had two fire teams in the bakery, when Boots gets this very friendly look on her face. ‘Bill.’ she says, ‘How would you like to be the hero this afternoon?’
Well, I'd been the hero for Boots before, and it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. But she's the top kick in this outfit, so there's no odds in arguing. She sees the look on my face and says, ‘Have I ever shown you less than a great time?’
I decided not to answer that, and found myself leading my fire team out the back door of the bakery. The 'Mechs had pushed past the bakery and were strolling into town. We worked our way from doorway to doorway until we were about 50 meters from two clumsy-looking buckets of bolts.
‘Hi, girls,’ I said, as we squeezed a few rockets at their tin behinds. We knew it wouldn't hurt them much. We just wanted their attention. We got it. They turned around, and in the words of the poet, all hell broke loose.