Teng frowned. "I need no pilots. I cannot afford them." He looked up at the Vindicatorlooming above them in the darkened warehouse. "I exhausted my resources piecing this 'Mech together from what remnants I could salvage of my last 'Mech and the 'Mech my brother died in."
Justin nodded. The Tech, Tung Yuan, appeared from inside the PPC, and the glare of his arc-welder bleached the color from Teng's face while sinking his eyes into deep shadows. The Tech snapped an order in Capellan. Before Teng, hampered by the brace stiffening his right knee, could move to comply, Justin responded. Easing his dufflebag from his right shoulder, he crossed to the crate that the Tech had indicated and plucked a silver cylinder half a meter long and half that wide from the plastic foam inside the box.
He held it up toward the Tech, saying, "This is an R-4721 PPC Inhibitor." Justin frowned at Teng. "If you put this in the PPC, you'll get all the flash with none of the punch."
Teng snatched the cylinder from Justin and handed it up to the Tech. "Yes, Xiang, that is true. But it is also true that I do not want the punch."
Justin shook his head. "But if you win the match in Steiner Stadium tonight, you'll have enough money to refurbish your Vindicatorfrom top to bottom, and to hire a half-dozen pilots to work for you. With a few well-placed bets, you could even win enough to buy another 'Mech and start a stable."
Teng behaved as though he'd heard none of Justin's words. "Xiang, Xiang . . ." he mused, then suddenly smiled tensely. "Oh yes, you're the MechWarrior that Hanse Davion banished to our little world. Well, you may have been special where you came from, Justin Xiang, but without a 'Mech, you're nothing here." Teng shrugged, then smiled again weakly. "Understand. I do not mean to be harsh, but there are certain rules here on the Game World."
Justin narrowed his eyes. "You mean you've been ordered to lose the fight."
Teng smiled and the lines around his eyes betrayed his age. "I know survival is the key, and I feel more vulnerable out in Cathay than I do in any of the stadiums. The local oddsmakers have connections within the tongs, and are willing to use them to protect their profits." Fuh Teng shrugged philosophically. "I will be given another chance to win a large purse when it suits the purposes of the planet's masters."
Justin nodded solemnly. "So, in this case, your advice to a warrior without a 'Mech is that he should bet on your opponent?"
Teng nodded. "Your age belies your wisdom."
Justin smiled and bowed. Teng, knowing that the interview had ended, turned back to supervising the repair of his 'Mech. He never saw Justin's gloved left fist arc out and crash into his head. With a quiet gasp, Teng sank into a heap on the floor, and the tool he'd been holding clattered beside him on the ferrocrete.
When Tung Yuan poked his head back out of the PPC, his eyes popped open wide at the sight of his fallen employer. Justin merely smiled up at him. "Switch that inhibitor out of the PPC and blank the recognition system so I can link up with the machine."
Grinning broadly, the Tech nodded assent. Justin winked at him and added, "Then we'll tie up Teng here, and find someone willing to take a very specific bet on this fight at nice, long odds."
Tung Yuan ducked back into the Vindicator'sPPC housing. Though he never saw the grim smile take hold of Justin's face, he heard him mutter, Now, Hanse Davion, I begin to take my revenge. You will long remember this day.
* * *
"My dear Gray Noton, how pleased I am to see you've made it!" Enrico Lestrade, clad in a navy blue dress uniform with more medals and gold braid decorating it than were available in most of the Successor States, moved through the crowd gathered in his private box at Steiner Stadium. He enthusiastically grasped Noton's extended right hand in both of his own, pumping it furiously. "You honor us with your visit."
As other of Lestrade's guests turned to stare at Noton, he forced himself to smile, inwardly trying to decide whether to shatter Lestrade's clammy, fleshy hand. Instead, he grabbed Lestrade's right elbow tightly and gently squeezed. "So kind of you to invite me here to watch Teng battle Wolfson. It should be a good match."
Lestrade winced at the pressure on his elbow and quickly freed Noton's hand. Lowering his voice, he said, "We should speak. Come to my office."
Noton nodded and followed Lestrade back to a small room. As the door closed behind him, shutting out all the party's noise from the soundproof cubicle, Noton touched a button on his watch and waited for a red light to glow on the face. When nothing happened, Noton smiled to himself. He's not recording this meeting, and that makes him a fool."You have the ticket, Baron?"
Enrico Lestrade nodded. He flexed his right hand several times to try to get some feeling back into it, and frowned at Noton during the process. "I'm sorry, Noton, but that is how I greet all my guests."
Noton's eyes slitted. "I trust you do not have covert deals with all of them." Doublecross me, Baron, and you will regret it.
Enrico shook his head and began patting his pockets in search of the betting ticket. "No," he said, "most are visitors from the Commonwealth, and a few from the Federated Suns. Wolfson, being one of the Capellan Mafia—as Capet has so quaintly labeled his pack of warriors-—is a great draw. I've even invited him up here after the match."
"You did what?"Noton's voice exploded in anger. If you've done anything to suggest that this fight is fixed, I will have you flayed alive.
Lestrade recoiled from Noton's tone, as though from a heavy blow. "Come now, don't take me for a fool. I did not invite himup. I invited the winner." Smiling conspiratorially, he found the silvery slip of paper and extended it toward Noton. "Just because we know who will win doesn't mean we need to broadcast it."
Noton took the ticket and let a slow smile transform the mask of fury his face had become. His fee, 50,000 credits, had been used to place a bet at two-to-one odds that Wolfson would win. With the fight fixed, Noton got double his fee from the bookmakers on the planet, and no one could trace the transfer of wealth. "Very well. Let us rejoin the party."
Enrico beamed. "You'll be pleased to know, Noton, that the Contessa is here this evening." Enrico opened the door and escorted Noton among the guests, making a few preliminary introductions. Then he slipped away into the chattering crowd. Noton excused himself from a conversation about the neo-abstraction of the Deia traditionalist school, and navigated a path toward the bar.
The bartender smiled up at him. "Sir?"
Noton glanced at the various types of beer half-buried in a tray of ice, but changed his mind. Business is over. I can afford to drink, especially if Lestrade is paying.Noton smiled. "A PPC, Steiner, straight up."
The bartender smiled knowingly and set a brandy snifter on the counter. Into it, he poured four shots of grain alcohol, and because Noton had specified "Steiner," he cut it with two shots of peppermint schnapps. He reached for a sprig of mint, too, but Noton warned him off with a shake of his head. The bartender smiled and handed him the drink. "Be careful. That stuff can etch glass."
Noton laughed and cradled the snifter in one hand. He swirled the clear mixture around and watched as it picked up and distorted the sights and colors around him. With a pleased smile, he raised the glass to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of the liquid before it could fully numb his tongue.
"Not a sipping drink, is it, Mr. Noton?" Contessa Kym Sorenson commented as Noton screwed his eyes shut against the drink's jolt.
Noton relaxed his face, then opened his eyes. "You are a most welcome vision, Contessa." She wore high-heeled black boots gathered at the ankles, black trousers, and a sleeveless, strapless satiny green shirt that matched the silk scarf knotted around her pale throat. Noton smiled, took her outstretched hand, and raised it to his lips. "Please, call me Gray."