The Contessa nodded and smiled. "Gray, it is." She turned and leaned against the bar, glancing wearily from the milling crowd to
Gray. Pointing at his drink, she said, "Does that make these gatherings any less stuffy?"
Noton shrugged his wide shoulders. The light rippled off the black velvet of his tunic, whose wide "V" of gray velvet running from one shoulder to his waist and back up to the other shoulder made the MechWarrior seem more slender. "Lestrade runs with a rarified crowd. I remember many of these people from the days when the Battle Commission honored me with parties because of my victories out in the Arenas. They've always been stuffy, and, yes,"—he looked down at his drink—"I've found PPCs a great help."
The Contessa turned to the bartender. "I'll have a PPC, too."
The bartender smiled as Noton, standing behind the Contessa, signaled the man to dilute the drink by half. "How would you like that, my lady?"
The Contessa frowned and turned to Noton. "Gray?"
Noton smiled. "The drink has several variations, each one known by one of the Great House names. I drink the Steiner variant, which cuts the white lightning with peppermint schnapps. The Liao version cuts it with plum wine, and the Kuritan dilutes it with sake—or aviation fuel, whichever is handier." Noton paused for a moment, trying to recall the other variants. "Davion cuts it with bourbon, or tequila, if you're in the Capellan March."
The Contessa wrinkled her nose. "And Marik?"
The bartender brandished a bottle of ouzo and the Contessa smiled. "I'll have mine Marik." The bartender quickly complied and handed her a snifter identical to the one that Noton was holding.
Noton led the Contessa away from the bar to the first row of chairs looking out over the Arena. "You'd best sit down before you drink that. The first one is something of an experience." Noton waited for her to sit, then dropped into a plush red seat beside her, and began to swirl his drink.
The Contessa aped his motion. "Why do they call it a PPC?"
Noton laughed. "The particle projection cannon is one of the most powerful weapons a 'Mech can carry. It packs a nasty punch, just like this drink." Noton nodded toward her glass. "The trick is to get it down before."
"Before what?"
Noton quickly drank and swallowed. "Try it and see," he whispered hoarsely.
The Contessa reared her head and tossed off the PPC. She swallowed, then coughed and wiped the tears that sprang to her eyes. She waved a hand in front of her mouth for a couple of seconds, then swallowed again. "I see." She coughed again lightly. "My mouth is numb."
Noton smiled. "In about thirty minutes, that numbness will hit your brain. You ought not to notice the stuffiness of the party."
The Contessa smiled and turned to look out the massive window. Below, in a sandy, open arena reminiscent of the coliseums of ancient Rome, a trio of medium 'Mechs battled twice their number of more agile, lighter 'Mechs. Nearly invisible and impossibly delicate, a crisscrossed cage of wires surrounded the arena, separating the killing area from the glassed-in spectator galleries and, above them, the luxury boxes.
The Contessa pointed to the wire mesh. "What is that?"
Noton, sitting back as the drink spread its warmth through his body, knit his brows in concentration. "That is a detonator grid. Any missiles flying from the arena will hit it before they hit the spectator windows. The windows are covered with the same sort of high-impact plastic used in 'Mech canopies, but no one wants to take any chances."
"What about lasers or PPC shots?"
"The grid will siphon off PPC energy. The windows themselves are reflective." Gray laughed and leaned forward. "I remember once using the window to bounce off a shot at a foe's weakened aft armor." He nodded toward the arena. "There can actually be a 'home field advantage' for a warrior who fights regularly in one arena."
Kym furrowed her blond eyebrows. "Neither of the two men we're here to watch is from the Commonwealth, and so neither would have that advantage?"
Noton pursed his lips and watched as one of the battling Mech-Warriors ejected right before his 'Mech exploded. "Billy Wolfson, the guy who will pilot the Hermes II,has fought in this arena more times than has Fuh Teng, though Teng has more fights overall."
"Won't a Vindicatortake the Hermesapart? The Hermessurrenders five tons and some weaponry." Another explosion down on the killing floor flashed yellow and orange light against Kym's face and hair. "I should think Teng will walk all over this Wolfson."
Noton smiled carefully. "That's what the bookmakers believe. They have Teng a two-to-one favorite over Wolfson." Kym smiled impishly. "But.. .”
“But?"
Kym laid her hand on Noton's thick forearm. "You obviously have your own opinion, Gray. Who do you think will win?" Noton chuckled softly to himself. "Touche. This is Teng's first fight in several weeks. His knee is now braced, and he's fighting without his brother at his side. I think that Wolfson, who is a good fighter on his way up, will win the contest."
Down on the battlefield, two of the medium 'Mechs finished off the last light 'Mech, and the maintenance crew appeared to clear away the debris. They worked quickly and efficiently to tow any 'Mechs unable to leave the arena on their own.
Behind Noton and the Contessa, Lestrade's other guests also noticed that the fight had ended. With a whispered rustle of silks and satins, the guests quickly took seats overlooking the field. A few cursed their luck concerning bets on the last battle, and several loudly predicted the outcome of the fight they'd all come to watch. Whenever any overheard pronouncement seemed particularly absurd, Kym turned to Noton and both of them shared a silent laugh.
"Ladies and gentlemen of all nations and races," boomed an announcer's voice. "This is the ninth fight on this evening's card. In the Medium Class, from the stable of Lord Brighton, we have Hermes II. Its pilot, for this evening, is Billy Wolfson."
The cheering in Baron von Summer's box echoed, in a small part, the thunderous ovation from below.
18
Solaris VII (The Game World)
Rahneshire, Lyran Commonwealth
20 February 3027
Justin Xiang reached out with his right hand to adjust the volume on his external microphone. The crowd's applause for Billy Wolfson and his Hermes IIdid not surprise Justin, but the vibrant insistency of it did. They dearly want him to win.The loud ovation rasped across his brain like sandpaper and threatened to release the anxiety he'd earlier managed to lock away with a round of tai chi chuan exercises.
I've never fought before an audience,Justin thought, then involuntary laughter filled his neurohelmet. That's the least of your worries,he reminded himself. You've never fought without your left arm before, either.
He glanced over at the synthetic limb. The ribbon cable, freed from the compartment at his wrist, had neatly clicked into place on the arm rest, and Justin had closed the fingers of his metal hand around the joystick. He did not want the limb falling and jerking the cable free in the middle of combat. Checking and double-checking, he verified his ability to control the Vindicator'sleft arm. The 'Mech's hand and the small laser both functioned normally, as reported by the test lights flashing on his command console. He also verified that the missile control was operational for the LRMs. Though they launched from the Vindicator'storso, their controls were also on the left joystick.