Q2 3037: Bug Hunt - Preferential Treatment
Manderville's Golden Arena
Solaris City, Grayland Continent
Solaris
Defiance-Hesperus Consolidant
23 May 3037
The Golden Arena was the chosen venue for the White Horses vs. Triarii "Battle of the Bugs", with the former piloting Wasp 'Mechs against the latter's Stingers. Mark, designated as Triarii 18, found himself envious of his opponents, as the Stinger's cramped cockpit was living up to its wretched reputation.
The two "bug" light 'Mechs shared similar profiles. The same speed, roughly similar protection as well, medium-rated laser for a main weapon, the only major difference besides structure was his 'Mech had a pair of machine guns while his opponents' 'Mechs mounted SRM-2s on their left legs. This gave them a slight edge at range, but the machines' qualities were close enough it wouldn't be decisive, necessarily.
Makes me miss the Cavalry, he thought, given the weight of the old over-the-shoulders neurohelmet that kept him from being able to turn his neck. Aside from a cooling vest all he had were cotton shorts and a tank top, not one of the cooling suits he'd gotten used to in the service. Grandfather William and Great-Grandmother Sara fought like this, he reminded himself. I can too.
While the announcer provided the names of the contestants, Mark finished a final equipment check of his machine. Everything was fine. Everything was ready.
"Let's get ready to RUUUUUMBLE!"
The voice came over his comm system and moments later the light on his display turned green. The remote systems lock on his weapons was off. It was show time.
The arena was large, an oval that was about six hundred meters across at its widest point and only three hundred at the narrowest. It was made for short-range fights like the one he was facing, and complicated by the dense packing of forty machines in the space.
The fight started in effective range of the laser weapons, and immediately the sky was lit up with various shades of red, blue, and green, with an occasional yellow, stabbed out across the space. One laser might have struck Mark had it not first sheared most of the armor off the left side of the machine slightly in front of him. A few pilots on both sides turned to jumping, trying to get clear of the fusillade of light, but that simply led to even more shots stabbing upward in attempts to hit them. Some stray fire truck the inner dome or the protective refractors for the crowd, or spread outward into the open sky.
The fight called for a company commander, at minimum, but none presented themselves. It was all chaos, and Mark's training revolted at it. Isn't this supposed to be unit on unit? Shouldn't we be fighting in more organized fashion? He went to turn on the tac-comm, but stopped himself from issuing orders. He was a walk-on, and in the pecking order he was last place. He wouldn't be listened to.
Well, not by most.
He dodged incoming missile fire while keying his tac-com to just five other machines. "Triarii 15, 16, 17, 19, and 20, this is 18," he said. "If you want to survive this—"
"Piss off you Arcadian wanker," an accented voice growled, and Triarii 17 cut the line.
"—follow my lead." He waited to see if they would, and while 20 seemed a little uninterested, he gradually gravitated toward Mark's Stinger. They formed a simple line and Mark directed targets for them, as quickly as he could, all while his crosshairs hovered over the form of an approaching Wasp.
Said Wasp was capable of taking a few laser hits, but not three. They sliced through chest armor, relieving the Wasp of much of its armoring.
The pilot retorted with a shot, putting a laser into 16 and missiles toward 18. Mark quickly raised an arm, taking one of the missiles for his comrade and reducing the damage inflicted. He squeezed off another shot in tandem with the others.
Boom.
One of the lasers found the missile magazine for the enemy machine, and the explosion utterly annihilated the Wasp in a spray of burnt metal.
That a man or woman had just died in unnecessary bloodsport, not a proper battle, didn't quite register on Mark just yet. All he felt was elation at his success, and that of his people. "Triarii 18, we're at your side!" one of the other pilots called out.
Already more enemies presented themselves, and Mark quickly delegated orders even as he turned his aim to a Wasp gunning for one of the other stable pilots. The enemy pilot has a clear shot at a machine with a hole in its torso plate, and if it was a machine gun bin strike it'd be just as immediately fatal. He triggered his medium laser in an expert shot that speared the other machine's head module. It didn't destroy the cockpit, but the pilot within panicked and ejected, his or her pod trailing into the sky.
"Hey, you stole my kill!" a pilot complained. "Back off, fresh meat!"
Mark noted with irritation it was the same pilot whose life he might have just saved. "You're welcome," he replied drolly before returning his focus to the fight, just in time to be ready to take four missiles from a pair of Wasps. One followed up with a laser shot that removed his left arm. Undaunted he charged ahead, getting close enough that he could effectively engage with the machine gun built into the right arm alongside the laser. The weapon was primarily anti-infantry, but at close range and in full bursts it could chip away at even 'Mech armor. Enough sustained fire and it'd even break through it.
But he wasn't looking to do just that. He peppered one target with machine gun fire and a second laser shot that broke their hip-mounted missile launcher before turning his attention to the other. The pilot tried a point-blank laser shot that he dodged at the last moment before using a burst from his jump jets to put his 'Mech in the air. He manhandled the controls to get the leg up and execute a jumping kick into the Wasp's torso that smashed in the weakened armor and the gyro underneath. His head hurt from some of the gyro feedback of the collision, and it took a lot of focus and effort to keep his machine from falling when he got it back on its feet. The other pilot wasn't so lucky, toppling onto their back, and leaving an exposed torso for his weapons to destroy what was left of the gyro.
The enemy he'd deprived of a missile launcher turned on him, throwing a punch he absorbed with the stump of his 'Mech's left arm that caved in the remaining armor and skeletal steel. He punched back and gave a good dent to their torso armor, but that wasn't want did the enemy in. Machine gun and laser fire converged on its back and sliced away armor and material. One laser nearly severed an arm at the shoulder while bullets and laser fire did in the Wasp's engine. The machine toppled backward.
The battle was nothing more than a scrum now, but their side was pulling ahead given the losses the White Horse Stables took. Mark felt that old surge, the one he'd felt on Medzev almost four years ago when he'd led his lance in taking down that Hunchback in closed terrain. It was invigorating, after the years of recovery and pain… here he was, in a 'Mech again, fighting, winning, proving himself, proving he could do this.
Given the nearness of enemy units, and the battle being very much a short-range affair, Mark reached down and pulled the arm off the fallen Wasp, throwing it into the legs of a nearby Wasp. The White Horse Stables pilot tripped over the sudden obstruction smacking their knee actuators and fell over, giving his allies a fair shot at putting them down. He joined them.
A few hours later and not very far away, Tanya was in a very expensive-looking room with someone who was not her boss, and not even her boss's boss, but more like five steps up the ladder. Dick Cox, the innuendo of his name aside, was a consummate showman, and more than that, keenly interested in the recording of the Battle of the Bugs. "Three solo kills, four assisted kills. This guy's a walk-on?"
"Yes sir."
"And that jumping kick. The man's a natural. What was his name again?"
"Marcus Corey, sir," Tanya answered, providing the file she'd made for the walk-on. "Arcadian, certainly. Has a prosthetic arm and leg."
"Ah. So they won't let him fight. Leaguer influence in the old AFFM, really. And he fought on Bolan?"
"So he said."
"Might be made up. That was Arcadia's big hero moment to the rest of the Inner Sphere. How fortunate for me they've come around to the usefulness of the O'Reillys." Cox looked over the file further. "There's something familiar about this man. Either way, I know a star gladiator when I see one."
"I'm not sure," said Tanya. "He's a great natural MechWarrior, but his fighting is too basic. That jump kick aside, he's methodical and precise, and the crowds want a show, not an execution."
"We've certainly got a military-trained MechWarrior, then. But sometimes the brute force military 'smash 'em, no frills' approach still puts asses in seats. Sometimes people just want to see a professional kick the shit out of a showboat." Cox chuckled. "Sign him on. Normal contract, but we'll be flexible about appearances."
"Flexible? You mean…"
"If he has to change a fight, we do what we can," said Cox. "I've got a good feeling about him. He'll make up for the fines and fees."
"It'll make the other pilots mad."
"Preferential treatment always does." He winked. "It reminds them there's somebody worth getting it and that it's not them. See to it, Miss Olsen."
Solaris City, Grayland Continent
Solaris
Defiance-Hesperus Consolidant
23 May 3037
The Golden Arena was the chosen venue for the White Horses vs. Triarii "Battle of the Bugs", with the former piloting Wasp 'Mechs against the latter's Stingers. Mark, designated as Triarii 18, found himself envious of his opponents, as the Stinger's cramped cockpit was living up to its wretched reputation.
The two "bug" light 'Mechs shared similar profiles. The same speed, roughly similar protection as well, medium-rated laser for a main weapon, the only major difference besides structure was his 'Mech had a pair of machine guns while his opponents' 'Mechs mounted SRM-2s on their left legs. This gave them a slight edge at range, but the machines' qualities were close enough it wouldn't be decisive, necessarily.
Makes me miss the Cavalry, he thought, given the weight of the old over-the-shoulders neurohelmet that kept him from being able to turn his neck. Aside from a cooling vest all he had were cotton shorts and a tank top, not one of the cooling suits he'd gotten used to in the service. Grandfather William and Great-Grandmother Sara fought like this, he reminded himself. I can too.
While the announcer provided the names of the contestants, Mark finished a final equipment check of his machine. Everything was fine. Everything was ready.
"Let's get ready to RUUUUUMBLE!"
The voice came over his comm system and moments later the light on his display turned green. The remote systems lock on his weapons was off. It was show time.
The arena was large, an oval that was about six hundred meters across at its widest point and only three hundred at the narrowest. It was made for short-range fights like the one he was facing, and complicated by the dense packing of forty machines in the space.
The fight started in effective range of the laser weapons, and immediately the sky was lit up with various shades of red, blue, and green, with an occasional yellow, stabbed out across the space. One laser might have struck Mark had it not first sheared most of the armor off the left side of the machine slightly in front of him. A few pilots on both sides turned to jumping, trying to get clear of the fusillade of light, but that simply led to even more shots stabbing upward in attempts to hit them. Some stray fire truck the inner dome or the protective refractors for the crowd, or spread outward into the open sky.
The fight called for a company commander, at minimum, but none presented themselves. It was all chaos, and Mark's training revolted at it. Isn't this supposed to be unit on unit? Shouldn't we be fighting in more organized fashion? He went to turn on the tac-comm, but stopped himself from issuing orders. He was a walk-on, and in the pecking order he was last place. He wouldn't be listened to.
Well, not by most.
He dodged incoming missile fire while keying his tac-com to just five other machines. "Triarii 15, 16, 17, 19, and 20, this is 18," he said. "If you want to survive this—"
"Piss off you Arcadian wanker," an accented voice growled, and Triarii 17 cut the line.
"—follow my lead." He waited to see if they would, and while 20 seemed a little uninterested, he gradually gravitated toward Mark's Stinger. They formed a simple line and Mark directed targets for them, as quickly as he could, all while his crosshairs hovered over the form of an approaching Wasp.
Said Wasp was capable of taking a few laser hits, but not three. They sliced through chest armor, relieving the Wasp of much of its armoring.
The pilot retorted with a shot, putting a laser into 16 and missiles toward 18. Mark quickly raised an arm, taking one of the missiles for his comrade and reducing the damage inflicted. He squeezed off another shot in tandem with the others.
Boom.
One of the lasers found the missile magazine for the enemy machine, and the explosion utterly annihilated the Wasp in a spray of burnt metal.
That a man or woman had just died in unnecessary bloodsport, not a proper battle, didn't quite register on Mark just yet. All he felt was elation at his success, and that of his people. "Triarii 18, we're at your side!" one of the other pilots called out.
Already more enemies presented themselves, and Mark quickly delegated orders even as he turned his aim to a Wasp gunning for one of the other stable pilots. The enemy pilot has a clear shot at a machine with a hole in its torso plate, and if it was a machine gun bin strike it'd be just as immediately fatal. He triggered his medium laser in an expert shot that speared the other machine's head module. It didn't destroy the cockpit, but the pilot within panicked and ejected, his or her pod trailing into the sky.
"Hey, you stole my kill!" a pilot complained. "Back off, fresh meat!"
Mark noted with irritation it was the same pilot whose life he might have just saved. "You're welcome," he replied drolly before returning his focus to the fight, just in time to be ready to take four missiles from a pair of Wasps. One followed up with a laser shot that removed his left arm. Undaunted he charged ahead, getting close enough that he could effectively engage with the machine gun built into the right arm alongside the laser. The weapon was primarily anti-infantry, but at close range and in full bursts it could chip away at even 'Mech armor. Enough sustained fire and it'd even break through it.
But he wasn't looking to do just that. He peppered one target with machine gun fire and a second laser shot that broke their hip-mounted missile launcher before turning his attention to the other. The pilot tried a point-blank laser shot that he dodged at the last moment before using a burst from his jump jets to put his 'Mech in the air. He manhandled the controls to get the leg up and execute a jumping kick into the Wasp's torso that smashed in the weakened armor and the gyro underneath. His head hurt from some of the gyro feedback of the collision, and it took a lot of focus and effort to keep his machine from falling when he got it back on its feet. The other pilot wasn't so lucky, toppling onto their back, and leaving an exposed torso for his weapons to destroy what was left of the gyro.
The enemy he'd deprived of a missile launcher turned on him, throwing a punch he absorbed with the stump of his 'Mech's left arm that caved in the remaining armor and skeletal steel. He punched back and gave a good dent to their torso armor, but that wasn't want did the enemy in. Machine gun and laser fire converged on its back and sliced away armor and material. One laser nearly severed an arm at the shoulder while bullets and laser fire did in the Wasp's engine. The machine toppled backward.
The battle was nothing more than a scrum now, but their side was pulling ahead given the losses the White Horse Stables took. Mark felt that old surge, the one he'd felt on Medzev almost four years ago when he'd led his lance in taking down that Hunchback in closed terrain. It was invigorating, after the years of recovery and pain… here he was, in a 'Mech again, fighting, winning, proving himself, proving he could do this.
Given the nearness of enemy units, and the battle being very much a short-range affair, Mark reached down and pulled the arm off the fallen Wasp, throwing it into the legs of a nearby Wasp. The White Horse Stables pilot tripped over the sudden obstruction smacking their knee actuators and fell over, giving his allies a fair shot at putting them down. He joined them.
A few hours later and not very far away, Tanya was in a very expensive-looking room with someone who was not her boss, and not even her boss's boss, but more like five steps up the ladder. Dick Cox, the innuendo of his name aside, was a consummate showman, and more than that, keenly interested in the recording of the Battle of the Bugs. "Three solo kills, four assisted kills. This guy's a walk-on?"
"Yes sir."
"And that jumping kick. The man's a natural. What was his name again?"
"Marcus Corey, sir," Tanya answered, providing the file she'd made for the walk-on. "Arcadian, certainly. Has a prosthetic arm and leg."
"Ah. So they won't let him fight. Leaguer influence in the old AFFM, really. And he fought on Bolan?"
"So he said."
"Might be made up. That was Arcadia's big hero moment to the rest of the Inner Sphere. How fortunate for me they've come around to the usefulness of the O'Reillys." Cox looked over the file further. "There's something familiar about this man. Either way, I know a star gladiator when I see one."
"I'm not sure," said Tanya. "He's a great natural MechWarrior, but his fighting is too basic. That jump kick aside, he's methodical and precise, and the crowds want a show, not an execution."
"We've certainly got a military-trained MechWarrior, then. But sometimes the brute force military 'smash 'em, no frills' approach still puts asses in seats. Sometimes people just want to see a professional kick the shit out of a showboat." Cox chuckled. "Sign him on. Normal contract, but we'll be flexible about appearances."
"Flexible? You mean…"
"If he has to change a fight, we do what we can," said Cox. "I've got a good feeling about him. He'll make up for the fines and fees."
"It'll make the other pilots mad."
"Preferential treatment always does." He winked. "It reminds them there's somebody worth getting it and that it's not them. See to it, Miss Olsen."
