Chapter 2: A matter of perspective
"That's right, ladies and pervs, the Solaris Heavyweight Champion of 3044, Grady Kiefer, was in my mech bay! Little-known fact," I winked at the camera, "He snores like a hog. Three guesses as to how I know, and the first two don't count!"
"That's cheating!" I felt the OST's cockpit tilt sharply as I was thrown back against the reinforced concrete wall. Another salvo of LRMs struck the other side, slowly eating away at my cover. My cockpit vibrated with each successive explosion as the concussive force shook me like an earthquake, even through the barrier. As the last few slammed home, I wrenched the OST into a hard right turn and sprinted out from behind the wall and splashed back into the Coliseum trench.
My computer finally stopped screaming about target locks, and I pushed the throttle to the max, hoping to cover more distance in less time than Bill thought possible. At this rate my only hope to even get a shot off was to catch him off guard and the only thing keeping me alive was the speed it took to break line of sight and the few seconds of reprieve I was granted by each of the Assault mech's reload cycles.
A blind-fire flight of missiles peppered the far wall of the trench, falling in and around me as I pounded around the corner at almost 140kph. The OST's feet threw up sand and water in great gouts and the engine screamed with the strain of my pace on such loose terrain. Still, the heat lines remained in the yellow, and they would continue to no matter how hard I pushed the engine so long as I wasn't also firing the medium laser or my jump jets. Even then, I'd hardly be redlining, unfortunately excellent heat management wasn't going to win me any points here.
The OST trembled violently as a lucky LRM detonated against my shoulder, stripping away another few panels of its thin armor and painting my board with red warning icons. The detonation pushed me two paces to the right and for a split second the warning shrills of target lock wailed before I could wrench the machine back to the left and hug the near wall. My margin of heat management was, ironically, the least of my worries, my margin for keeping the OST out of Gigatomata's LoS was slim and the margin that combined time, positioning, and range for an actual shot from the OST's quite singular offensive weapon… I shook my head, trying to focus, sweating despite the cockpit being at a very reasonable 30*C.
I jerked the controls around hard and the mech roared up an embankment one and a half times as tall as it was. I crested the rim and spotted Gigagomata immediately, standing in the infamous Steiner Gap like a figure out of medieval fantasy. One of the Atlas' massive armored fists, resting against a towering steel barricade even taller than it was, braced the Assault mech's torso as her opposite foot braced against the twin wall on the far side. The Steiner Gap, as it was commonly called, stood on a plateau raised ten meters above the rest of the coliseum and was a twelve-meter-wide space between two massive steel barriers, thicker and sturdier than the hardiest wartime fortifications. It was key terrain for many reasons, chief among them the ability to safely break line-of-sight between weapon reloads or coolant flushes and boasted the best field of fire across the coliseum.
The advantages it provided the otherwise slow and unwieldy Atlas were painfully obvious. With less than 150 meters between the rear of the gap and the stadium wall, the open area behind it was covered by its two rear-facing medium lasers, not to mention that it could simply cross into the rear area through the gap and blast anything that moved with its chest-mounted AC-20. On the opposite side, the raised area both helped to disrupt enemy lines of fire and allow it to easily target-lock enemy mechs with its LRM-20 clear across to the other side and even in the trench for anything taller than ten meters. The gap even allowed it to step seamlessly out of the way of incoming missile barrages from anyone who would reply in kind, the arch of any such incoming fire intersecting with the steel walls instead of their intended target with only slight movements on its own part. This relative lack of required movement further allowed the mech to conserve power and thus eliminate a lot of heat buildup as the engine remained at low output.
I triggered the medium laser built into the OST's chest, the green beam cut across the expanse between us and had just begun burning into the Gigatomata's torso when a flash erupted just to the side of my target reticle and I slammed the OST down into a crouch, discharging the last of the laser blast into the sand. A tenth of a second later a roar from behind me indicated the AC-20 slug had flown directly over my head to impact harmlessly against the Coliseum's detonator grid.
Bill was good, damn good. If not for issues with his inner ear he could have made it big. That limitation didn't exist in the sim…
I swallowed hard, backing the OST out of sight and into the trench as a flight of LRMs followed the depleted uranium slug, peppering the lip of the trench and the ground around me with explosions. The OST shook violently and I noted that my left arm was responding sluggishly after taking that last LRM hit to the shoulder.
"This isn't fair!" I voiced over the comm once more, "if I get in range to hit you, I take an AC round to the face and that's a one-hit KO in this light rig, and the whole rest of the time you're going scorched earth on me with those LRMS!"
"Well, I guess you'll just have to keep playing cat and mouse till I run out of ammo, eh?" Bill's voice showed no sign of strain and every sign of amusement. His cockpit was probably cooler than mine!
I did a little mental math, trying to guess at how many extra tons of armor the techs had added to the Atlas' already ungainly frame and how much room that left for additional ammunition. Bill certainly wasn't being stingy with his ammo, even though I was his only opponent. As if to punctuate the thought, another missile barrage exploded around me and I pushed the mech back into a trot along the trench, the only place of relative safety available to me. This fight was going nowhere fast. More precisely it was hurtling to an inevitable conclusion.
It was a light vs an assault, tier I vs tier V, there had never been much contest, but I had expected to at least fight back. Nothing is ever certain, my dad always said it, even as he walked away from match after match without even a scorch mark on the OST's frame. So… so what?
I grinned, shaking my head. "I have a feeling I'm going to run out of armor first," I growled back, "even if only from taking continued shrapnel from those blind LRM bursts of yours."
"So, you give up?"
I didn't deign to reply. Instead, I pushed the small mech back into a sprint, squeezing every ounce of speed I could out of the engine. It was time to try something unconventional.
"You can't hide in the trench forever," Bill's voice filtered through my cockpit as I backed up once more, ensuring I had the right angle.
With a roar I shot forward, taking two, three, four quick strides as I ignited the OST's jump jets. I hit the top of the steel wall with the clang of metal on metal and spray of sparks as my mech fought to get a foothold on the comparatively narrow landing strip.
Gigatomata turned towards the noise, a single red eye glaring up at me, and I saw the AC-20 coming up as she leaned backwards to bring the high-caliber weapon to bear. I threw caution to the wind and pushed the throttle sticks forward, forcing the OST to charge along the precarious ledge. The big gun roared, blowing a chunk of steel off the wall behind me but it was too late, I was beyond the Atlas' elevation threshold. With a cheer of delight I slowed, nearly at the edge of the gap, and pumped a full laser burst into the assault mech's easily visible head at less than twenty meters.
Bill was certainly surprised, but not so much as to expose his cockpit and quickly turned away.
Armor glowed red, then white, then began to run down the skull-like head in rivets as the laser expended its energy. I whooped over the comm and fired again, adrenaline pumping through my system. I was inside viable LRM range and too high for the Atlas to hit me with it's Autocannon, even if Bill backed up far enough to bring it into line it would only take a second to step over the edge and plop down on the opposite side of the wall, then the gap would be mine, at least temporarily.
I'd seized the key terrain right out from under, or in this case, up and over Bill's smug smile.
My excited cry was choked off as the upper torso of the Atlas split open and a flight of LRMS spewed out straight at me. There was no chance to dodge but also no reason, or so I thought. The LRMs didn't have enough distance to arm their warheads or even reach optimal speed. As they slammed into my upper torso I took almost no damage, at least until the sheer force toppled my mech off the wall and sent me plunging down into the sand with a bone-jarring slam that even the hydraulics of the simulator couldn't quite replicate.
My screens were blanking as dust and sand billowed around me. A critical second ticked by as my mind fought to establish which way was up. Face up, I was face up. I hit the jump jets, prone, they threw me across the sand and a muffled whump let me know I'd just avoided taking an AC round at point blank range.
I rose, cycling to thermal to spot Gigatomata, no longer in the gap, but striding towards me, less than twenty meters, three, maybe four steps, and only the short cycle time on the auto cannon determining my effective lifespan.
In a real fight, ejecting was the smart move, and most pilots would have taken it. Or, as often was the case in one on one matches, launching a white flare to signal surrender would be just as quick, so long as you trusted the other guy not to pull the trigger and claim he just hadn't seen the flare in time. Pride, or your life, a very close call when it came to mech jocks on a planet where reputation and popular appeal was more valuable than even political connections and C-bills.
Well, conventional was already out the window, so next in line was crazy. I pushed the throttle forward, slammed the jump jets for any juice they had left, and pulled the trigger. The OST met Gigatomata's charge head-on, clearing her firing arc by sheer proximity just before smashing into her chest. The simulator utterly failed to reproduce the impact and a warning indicator noted that I had likely suffered a concussion as a result and furthermore that the potential for pilot casualty had exceeded win/loss threshold. I ignored it.
My laser was still burning away as we hit, the OST slamming into a widening waterfall of liquid armor. Then the impact... then nothing. No drop, no chance to disengage—I was stuck. Forward screens were blank, laser cooling.
For a moment, neither mech moved.
"The hell did you—"
My mind figured it out a step before Bill. The OST was spot-welded to Gigatomata's chest—her armor had melted and softened as I hit, then suddenly cooled and hardened around me. My heat gauge was in the red.
Experimentally, I fired. The laser went off, possibly because it truly wasn't damaged, housed in the torso as it was, or possibly because the simulator found the whole situation impossible to calculate and just gave up trying.
The temperature gauge climed further and I dismissed warning lights. Chest to chest, point blank, either I was going to overheat or I was going to burn through to Gigatomata's reactor. Air screamed around me as heat sinks wailed and metal popped and pinged with heat-flex.
Bill moved, and my cockpit shook, slamming me left and right into my restraint harness as he tried to dislodge me. Damage indicators lit up the cockpit in red as Gigatomata gripped my left leg and tore it clean off, followed by the right leg and left arm. None of it dislodged me, we were melted into one mess of a machine and I felt the big mech sway precariously as its own gyros strained to deal with the shift center of mass.
I fired. Critical shutdown. Override. I pulled the trigger one last time then hit the ejection lever and the Sim went dark.
For a moment, a long one, I just sat there in the blackness, breathing hard, the sim's internal temperature was maxed out at 38*C, a safety precaution, and sweat poured down my face and back as gasped. Had it worked?
The sim's hatch popped open, and a flood of cool air smelling of oil and ozone wafted over me like music.
"Cute," Bill said, "but dumb—even by your crazy old man's standards." His voice was hard and low, not the tone of a sore loser, that would have been enjoyable at least. No, this was the tone of an adult talking down to a child and it felt worse than losing.
"Did I win?" I shot back, slapping the emergency release on the harness and shakily rising to my feet, wincing at the bruises the restraints had left on my shoulders and ribs.
"First off," Bill stepped back as I climbed out, "that would never have happened in real life, you caused the sim to hallucinate a scenario it couldn't calculate for and it just so happened to go in your favor—"
"So I won!"
Bill's hands slapped together right in front of my growing smile and I flinched back at the abrupt and very un-Bill-like response. I was suddenly treated to the voice I'd only heard him use to chew out techs who nearly got themselves or someone else killed by some mistake or near mishap.
"Listen!" I did, and swallowed, suddenly feeling the difference in our size grow to that of the OST standing before Gigatomata. "Best case scenario and the sim was true to life, you're rad-fried about fifty meters from a double reactor critical. Much more likely you're dead as soon as we collide, or sitting in a half busted mech with a broken collarbone and punctured lungs, not to mention whatever the impact did to your head."
I swallowed again. "It was just a… a dumb idea," I muttered, my voice as small as I felt. "Just a sim."
"No!" I realized what I'd said even before the words left my mouth, but it was too late to stop them. The lecture kicked off as soon as the words left my mouth. It started with, "nothing is just a sim, you treat every sim like it's the real thing or you're not fit to ever sit in a real seat. Do you understand?" And ended with, "if you ever pull a stunt like that in real life, even if it works, no stable would ever keep you or hire you. Risk management, Samantha, how many times have we had this conversation?"
We'd had it many times, starting when I was seven and could barely reach the controls even with a towel wrapped around my head to make the interface helmet fit.
This time was different though, Bill was different. He wasn't just lecturing me. He was angry. Bill, angry, at me. It didn't make sense. I said as much.
"It's not about this time, or last time, Sammy…" he took a deep breath and his voice changed completely when he spoke again, his tone shifting from disappointed anger to quiet, almost mournful concern. "You're turning eighteen in days, girl, and Sammy is going to become Miss Hades, mech pilot extraordinaire," Bill waved his hands dramatically. "Before I have any more opportunity to get these words through that stubborn head of yours I'll be watching you out there," more exaggerated gesticulations, "and I don't want to watch you fry yourself on some damned fool play chasing the win."
Chasing the win… I sighed, my dad's words thrown in my face, words I should have taken to heart by now. No one chasing the win ever wins. The cool, the calm, the calculating, those centered in the here and now and in touch with their surroundings and sensors won. Those dreaming of glory and heroic last stands got what they were looking for, just without the cheering fans at the end. My dad never chased the win, he was the master at baiting others into chasing it themselves, that's why he always won. Or so he said often enough that I felt like an idiot hearing the words from Bill's mouth.
"I'm, sorry…" I managed, swallowing again and trying to hold back tears. "It just… it was just… so frustrating, I had to do something!"
Bill took a deep breath and shook his head, "it was a no-win scenario, kid. You knew that walking into it. You should have thrown the flare. Failing that, you should have ejected and taken the L. Your little stunt on the wall was great, there'd have been more cheers for you than Gigatomata if that had been the real thing and you'd thrown in the towel when I knocked you off. You'd have won the crowd and that's more important than winning the fight. Instead, even had you survived, you destroyed two well-known and well-liked mechs and a rising star rookie that everyone seems to love. Now you're a… Look I…" Another sigh, a large hand closed over my shoulder and the second patted my head, "I didn't mean to come on so strong, sport, I just care for you a whole lot, ok? You give a stout constitution the shakes when you go doing things like that and all I can see is your obituary in the Solaris Circuit, kay? Sometimes it's a no-win scenario and you just have to take the best loss you can."
"There's no such thing as a no-win scenario," I mumbled back, feeling a bit of my own latent anger kindle against the very idea of being a kid, being wrong, being treated like everything I did was rash and not thought through." It wasn't, I told myself. The idea, the attack, meeting the charge, the point blank shot, spot welding… the dominos just appeared and fell into place in my mind as it happened. Just like fixing a gyro or soldering a faulty circuit board, I saw it and my mind made it right, so I went with it.
Bill closed his eyes for a long minute. The lecture did not resume.
"So," his tone was friendly again and I kicked my feelings back down into my guts then shoved them into the back of my mind for later, always for later, "did you figure out Grady's strategy?"
I chuckled, partly in humor partly in relief, yes, that had been painfully clear from the moment we started.
"Even with an arena full of mechs, if you have enough armor to muscle your way to the high ground and enough ammo to hold it indefinitely, you're almost guaranteed to win." I nodded slowly, it wouldn't work nearly as well against an arena full of Assault mechs, but in a mixed match? With everything from lights to heavies that were all faster and more maneuverable, it made perfect sense. "So, he is entering the Open Championship?"
Bill nodded and smiled, "first time go, as usual," he glanced around conspiratorially, "crazy shenanigans aside, you handle Sheela better than your old man does. With a little real experience you'd run circles around us both, just don't tell him I said so." Bill smiled ruefully, "he'd cancel my subscription out of spite."
I rolled my eyes. He was patronizing me, right? Making up for his earlier outburst, "only in a SIM." Then the mention of my father kicked over a rock I'd forgotten I'd left in my mind. "Where is dad anyways? You said he was busy?"
Bill's smile vanished, then reappeared quickly as though he hadn't meant to react at all, "yeah, uh, busy." he agreed, failing to elaborate further, "look, I'm sure he'll be along for supper, it's free after all."
I frowned; the man was clearly not admitting to something. Knowing dad, he was probably streaming. There wasn't really a time when he wasn't streaming, except at meals and inside the mech bay, where he'd been banned from doing so after accidentally leaking footage of David's crew working on a Kurita Grand Dragon mockup that wasn't supposed to exist.
"Do I want to know?" I asked, genuinely. Bill might as well have been my father, for as much time as the man had spent with me over the past eight years since my mother and sisters had left us for better prospects than life as the wife of a thrill-seeking MechWarrior who, despite my mother's desperate hope, would never settle down to being the father of three he should have been.
"Him," I mumbled to myself by way of reminder, "they left him, not me," I took a deep breath, kick, gut, stomp, back of the mind, pack for later, sometime, maybe never, "I stayed of my own choice. I live with the consequences. I make the best of it."
I sighed heavily and turned to face Bill who was oblivious to my own self-dialogue, or more likely, polite enough to pretend not to hear me over the noise of the bay.
"No, you don't." He said pointedly and in a manner that made me even more curious. Whatever my father was doing right then, Bill didn't approve… which was saying something for a man who'd happily taken it upon himself to engage me in everything from mech repair to gambling since the age of seven.
"Then I don't," I shrugged, pretending not to care just as he pretended not to hear. "What's for dinner?"
"Depends," Bill shot back, hooking a thumb in the direction of the kitchens, "you volunteering to help Trapper cook?"
I grinned and nodded, "if it means I get to find out for a fact whether or not he actually boils the beef in used coolant, yes!"
He did, as it turned out, but in amounts low enough so as not to be dangerous to our health, or so he claimed, health expert that he was, another suspect claim. Bill pointed out that any amount of poison was still poison and earned himself an extra helping of Sloppy Joe. I secretly suspected that was his intent.
I grabbed a tray after Trapper kicked us out of the kitchen and joined the que of techs, analysts, and paper pushers Vining Engineering employed and took a seat with Bill at the big round table in the center of the mess hall. In minutes we were joined by Nicky Faust, head of marketing, blond hair, business suite and perfect makeup, Charles Durst Head of finance and looking like he'd just crawled out of his parent's basement and seen the sun for the first time, Timothy Stockwell, head of acquisitions who actually looked about as average as it got, minus the hooked nose that someone broke years ago, the story always changed, and eventually Dr. David Vining himself after whom Vining Engineering was named who somehow always seemed to look like he'd just stepped in something unpleasant, his young face and ash-white hair always split by a half frown.
"What're you trying to pull, Miss Hades?" Dr. Vining asked before he'd even sat down, slapping a data pad onto the table, "fifteen thousand C-bills worth of hardware, another couple hundred to transport it and pay for the labor to load and offload it. Not to mention that I'm giving it up for an indeterminant period of time, and all to be done tonight and ready before the crack of dawn!?"
I swallowed and opened my mouth to respond when Bill kicked my leg under the table, and I turned to see him give me a quick wink. I kept my mouth shut and Miss Faust spoke up.
"Now now, David," she smiled hugely with the same, fake, marketing grin I was used to seeing her wear. "You need to think of this as an opportunity on par with or even far exceeding our most recent contract with Mr. Grady here." One of her slender, manicured hands patted Dr. Vining's arm like someone might pet a dog.
I turned to see Grady stride into the room, eye the food, shrug, and move to the rack to get a tray.
"Oh really?" Dr. Vining asked, skepticism heavy in his tone.
"Absolutely!" Faust nodded enthusiastically, "why, do you know how many viewers The Scarlet Bands has on Solaris alone?"
Vining's perpetual frown deepened, "I have a feeling you do."
"Millions, David, billions if you include the whole of the inner sphere."
"So what?" Vining inquired, "you want me to demand advertising rights as compensation for our generous assistance with some temporary props?" He scoffed, "even I know they'd never agree to that."
Faust's smile did not falter. "Of course not, but it does seem that OGS is on a very tight schedule, isn't that right, Miss Hades?"
I quickly swallowed the bite I'd just put into my mouth and managed a nod, "yes ma'am, they've chosen to broadcast each episode the same week they film it, it's playing murder with their editing team, but their viewership has never been higher. At least, that's what I overhear."
"Right, so they either get the parts, or they might miss a week's release, which is worth far more than the piddly sum they pay you for your…" she coughed, "consulting…"
Dr. Vining waved a hand, "I know a conspiracy when I see it, get to the point people, why am I agreeing to do this pro-bono?"
Faust pouted, her immaculately painted lips spilling out like inflated blivits of some red liquid, "spoil sport, sir, the buildup to the punchline is half the fun."
"Time," Vining replied evenly, "is money. Isn't that your line?"
Faust laughed and nodded, "fair enough, Bill, could you summarize."
I turned to give Bill a questioning look. When had he had time to be wrapped up in all this. Then it occurred to me, probably in the hour it took me to land a single decent shot on his Atlas in the simulator. It didn't take much concentration to pump out LRMs and missile locks when there was no reason to dodge or even hardly move.
"You see, sir," He grinned at me, clearly reading my thoughts, "we'll be painting and etching Dr. Vining and the Vining logo in every flat surface of every 'prop'" he put the word in air quotes, "that we provide to OGS. The camera won't be able to help but pick it up in frame and ba-da-boom, free product placement for us."
"You don't think they'll just edit it out?" Vining asked, not missing a beat.
"With their staff as overworked as Miss Hades suggests?" Faust shook her head, "not a chance."
"They could always do away with the stuff after only an episode or two, or they may return it altogether." Vining pointed out, undeterred.
"They could," Faust nodded, "but if we gifted the props to them, instead of loaning them…"
Vining sighed, "they'd be much more inclined not to look a gift gyro in the bearings." He finished.
"Precisely," Faust's smile became far more genuine, "can you imagine, an entire season of free product placement for the piddly sum of a few spare parts?"
Vining turned back to his food, "no," he commented without emotion, "but it's your job to do that and if you think it's a good investment then I approve. Now," he turned to face me then Bill, "is Mr. Hades guest officially off the premises?"
Bill shrugged, and I didn't respond. The way he'd said the word suggested he too wasn't happy about whatever dad was up to either. A guest? A subscriber probably, some platinum tier paying for an autograph or maybe a journalist after an interview. But that didn't explain the distaste everyone else had pasted over their faces.
Vining grunted in annoyance and opened his mouth but I jumped in before he could respond.
"I'll go check on my dad," I volunteered, receiving another kick from Bill under the table and choosing to ignore it.
"Good girl," Vining nodded, "make sure his
guest leaves promptly and out the back, then lock up, and remind your father that streaming is off limits outside his trailer until after the Open Championship." Vining sliced his hand through the air for emphasis, "zero exceptions."
I nodded and purposely avoided Bill's gaze as I left my half-finished tray and slipped out of the cafeteria. Two minutes and five turns through multi-meter high piles of armor, scrap and mech parts later, I arrived at the double-wide trailer that had been our home ever since mom had sold our flat in the International Zone of Solaris City and took my sisters off planet.
Initially, we'd both lived in the entire trailer, but as I grew older, Dad gave me one side for myself and restricted himself to the other. The walls were paper thin, so it wasn't really like having my own room, but it'd been an acknowledgement of my growing desire for independence.
"STREAMING DO NOT ENTER"
I sighed and walked back around dilapidated side-by-side to my own domicile, opening the door and entering with as much silence as the rusted iron of the steps and slightly concave aluminul of the door would allow. Quietly, trying to catch some snippet of conversation from my father's no less worn but purposely sound-proofed abode, I sat down at a platform that was at once, desk, dinner table, and bed, depending on my need for it. Moments later I was staring at an image on my personal console, along with some hundreds of others no doubt, of my father and another man, playing chess.
My eyes widened as I recognized the other man even before my gaze target locked the title of the stream. "Kabuto Amago," I breathed, a chill running up my spine. Now the source of Bill's hesitation to say anything and Dr. Vining's down-right disgust was obvious. "What the hell are you playing at, dad?" There wasn't any additional time to ponder it, however, as the man across from my father shook his head and laid the small King-Crab figurine down on its side, signaling his concession of the game.
Both men rose, shook hands, and exchanged pleasantries. I switched off the just as my father's door opened.
"A good game!" My father's weathered face framed by thin, greying hair smiled broadly in stark contrast to the smooth tanned skin, and black haired of young Amago.
As soon as the door closed the other man's smile vanished, the drone broadcasting the stream now locked inside the trailer, ensuring the stream had indeed ended.
"A foolish children's game," Kabuto Amago replied in thickly accented English. His dark eyes and darker hair glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. "I humored you, old man, don't expect such concession in the arena. Remember our—Oh," both men seemed to notice me at the same time.
There was a momentary pause before the young man bowed slightly in my direction, "Miss Hades," his voice shifted to a softer tone, and his attempt at perfect English—something native speakers had been attempting and failing for centuries—improved somewhat. "Your father seems to have great faith in your future as a MechWarrior."
I didn't know what to say to the man whose career would, in my best estimations and hopes, be my father's next victim. Unfortunately, that seldom stopped my mouth from doing the actual work of producing sound, which, in this case came out as "more than Silver Dragon Stables has in you."
"Samantha!" I wasn't sure if it was my father's voice or my own inner monologue that I heard but my mouth snapped shut either way and I blushed furiously.
"Saul, Saul! Let the little dragonling speak her mind, after all, she becomes an adult in a short time, yes?" Small, dark eyes turned to me with an expectant if predatory expression, "dragonlings often feel big and strong, playing in the dirt with their fellow spawn. Then one day their sires decide they've grown up and give them a good trashing before tossing them out into the world and they find out that they're not as big as they imagined."
I met the man's gaze, unflinching as steel, well almost. To say that I was completely uncowed and filled with a righteous invincibility wouldn't be totally accurate, however, with careful application of actress' secret of never staring at the camera, I managed a defiant glare at the small mole on the tip of his nose.
"My dad is the best light soloist on Solars," not true in practice but on paper one could make a quite convincing argument, "he gets paid to trim the fat off big stables. You're fat."
For a moment the man was perplexed and I felt no small amount of vengeful glee that my comment caused him to glance, albeit reflexively only, at his otherwise handsome and well muscled physique.
"I'm afraid I don't follow, it is probably my English, your language is as convoluted as Solarian politics and not nearly as fun." His grin didn't falter, as though completely understanding my intent and daring me to spell it out for him.
There was, at this juncture, a firm hand on my left shoulder applying gentle pressure, far more gentle than the voice in my head was applying, both in uniform purposes to keep me from opening my mouth. Neither made it there in time.
"My dad," I enunciated the words, "is retired. The only people he fights, are solo matches, the effect of which is to cause defeat so absolute, from an opponent so clearly past his prime, that the stable in question has ample moral, legal, and popular capital as to terminate the warrior in question thus saving time and money trimming the fat, those MechWarriors they deem unworthy, from their ranks." And that should have been the end of it, but my ire was up and, like a small cup holding too much water, a final few word spilled over the rim. "I hear even the most caring of dragons eat the weak and feeble of their own offspring."
The effect of my ill thought out and rather scathing bluntness, it being the full truth notwithstanding, left me both in shock and confusion. The target of my verbal alpha-strike, rather than being insighted to the natural enraged defense of his own pride, burst into sudden and, by all observable tells, genuinely mirthful laughter.
I glanced from the man to my father who, also staring at his soon-to-be opponent, did not meet my eyes. My father's grey features, masked by a false smile appeared pale. Whether by trick of the light or the momentary hemostatic upset of fear I had no time to investigate for Amago regained control of his faculties and made to reply.
Amago fixed me with a smile all children know well. It's the suggestive twitching fo the lips that speaks of hidden things, the one that tells you something you've done is funny but in an adult way that shall, in no manner, be explained to you in terms your young mind can grasp, "Perhaps the day will come, after much hard work, when you may rise to challenge me in vengeance of your father's honor after his immanent defeat at my hands in six cycles."
My father chuckled, a false, hollow sound and shook his head.
My manners, having returned on account of the passage of time, were now heeded by my body in no small part due to the unsettling and inexplicably opposite reactions of the two men. I gave Kabuto Amago the deep bow I knew was the respectful greeting of a lesser to a greater within the social morass of the Draconis Combine, and returned his smile with a practiced facsimile.
"I appreciate your offer, Mr. Amago. Unfortunately, I will have to politely decline. I expect your defeat at my father's hand next week to be so complete that honor itself will demand nothing short of seppuku."
The man's countenance darkened. His eyes widened. Then a calm smile, cold and mirthless, broke only to allow past its icy confines a dangerous chuckle.
"Blake's blood, Saul." His gaze shifted over my shoulder, and the hand gripping it now tightened painfully. "If her blade is as sharp as her tongue, I may go easy on you just to avoid incurring her wrath."
My dad, forced grin looking even thinner than before replied with the practiced voice of a man who'd spent years speaking to a crowd, "I assure you her bite is as fierce as her bark." The words were slightly rushed, the tempo beyond his usual cant, fear? Nervousness? What was going on!? "Speaking of which," he glanced at me with a clear stare that made it abundantly clear my part in this conversation was over, "I'm apparently late for dinner with my lovely daughter, may I show you the way out?"
I moved to follow but my dad held up a hand to keep me in place as he walked away with his soon to be opponent. Victim, I corrected myself, they'd stopped being opponents when mom left and dad retired from competitive matches to duals. Embarrassment matches where his years of experience and practiced finesse cut young up-and-comers into pieces and left them rethinking their career choice.
They stopped at the rear gate, exchanged more words than I felt even the most courteous farewell should require and, bizarrely, shook hands.
My dad's boots crunched on the gravel as he returned to the trailer and gave me a quizzical look, "what?"
"What? What in the stars are you doing, dad!?" I stared hard into my father's face, "you brought your opponent into the yard, into our home? Do I need to check our trailer for explosives?"
My dad raised his eyebrows in surprise, "it was a friendly game of chess," he smiled disarmingly, placing a hand on my shoulder and steering us towards the mess hall. It was a lie, at the very least a verbal flanking maneuver designed to drive me away from a charge into what was going on here that I had no intention of abandoning.
"Bull-Shit!" I pulled away from his hand and folded my arms over my developing chest.
"Language!"
I growled, "I'm your daughter, not an idiot. Your viewers might buy that crap, but the last time I saw you clasp hands like that, you were signing a contract with Dr. Vining to let Sheela and us live here after Mom left."
There was sadness in his gaze as we locked eyes—more than there usually was when I brought up Mom. I felt a pang of guilt, guilt that then rebounded off anger and resentment that all children hold, hide, and try their best to pretend does not exist towards parents whose jobs rob them of desired time and attention. He broke first and looked down but didn't speak.
"What's going on, Dad?"
When he looked up again it was with that same carefree smile I'd seen a million times at the start of his streams. The same smile he'd fixed as soon as Amago and I had begun exchanging barbs. In that moment I knew, with no uncertainty, that I was not going to get a satisfying answer.
"Nothing's going on, pumpkin." He placed his arm around me again and I allowed it to stay. "Just raising the stakes a bit, showmanship, remember? Winning or losing, doesn't matter as much—"
"As being memorable and likable to the audience," I snapped. "I'm not a kid, dad! I'm a gods-damn mech tech and twice the pilot you were at my age."
"Sweet, the sims aren't the same as—"
"That's not the point!" I pulled us both to a stop and gripped both of his large, worn hands in mine. "I'm not your little girl anymore! In five days I turn eighteen. What do I have to do to get you to realize that?" It occurred to me in that moment that Kabuto Amago had seemed to know that too, and I felt even more than before that I was unknowingly treading upon some great conspiracy.
Silence, and a look I couldn't read. I shouldn't push. There is pain here, for both of us. But I am about to turn eighteen, a world of opportunity and danger is about to be mine. Bill had sat me down and talked me through it, my options, why couldn't my own father even acknowledge that? Why hadn't he been there to even do that? Why hadn't he been there for—
"I could join a merc outfit," the bubble burst and the words rushed out like a blown dam, "bust my chops at a mech tech position, work my way up to pilot, ship off-world. I could sign on with Vining. I could throw myself at one of the open stables and hope to prove myself in the arena. Hell, I could sign on with ComStar and work for your friend Darius or one of his people." That last line got me a look? I'll do you one better, dad. "I could up and leave like mom and my sisters did and not even tell you which option I picked. Three weeks, dad, three weeks and I could be smoke in the wind."
Quiet, silence, staring. I held my gaze.
"Is that what you really want, Sam?"
The question threw me, and I felt tears unbidden, stinging my eyes. What did he mean, what I really wanted? Of course it's what I wanted. To be my own person, to strike out like he had, to be a MechWarrior or, if not, an ace tech in high demand somewhere exciting and new.
I felt the hug and let it happen, locking my arms around his taller frame, his broader shoulders. I choked back a sob as the hardened adult self I'd imagined melted back into a little girl. Damn it! Damn it… I just…
"I just want to be like you," I swallowed hard, managing to speak clearly, forcing the emotions back down, clinging to Sam Hades, MechWarrior, adult, hard faced, strong willed, but somehow Samantha, the girl in pigtails, kept resurfacing.
"I know," my father hugged me tightly, "I just wish it weren't true."
I pulled back slightly, staring into my father's eyes, was he crying too? Why?
"I'm not a good man, Sam," He swallowed, and I watched his throat bob, "I'm selfish. I'm vain. A poor husband and worse father." He put a finger to my lips as my mouth opened in automatic protest. His finger moved up to wipe tears from my cheeks. "I gave everything I had to your mom when she left with your sisters, but you chose to stay. You wanted to be like me, and you wouldn't be happy with anything less than following in your foolish father's footsteps. Sam…"
I coughed to hide another sob.
"I've known you were an adult since you were six, and chose to stay with me, your absentee father, and I've done everything I can to make you a part of my life, our life, here, such as it is." He waved absently at the trailer side-by-side that was our home and the junkyard that was my childhood playground. "I know you're turning eighteen. I know you're becoming your own woman, and I know I'm going to lose my little girl—my Sammy. I just don't want to."
I gripped him back, squeezing hard, "You're not going to lose me, dad, I'm not going anywhere. I just…"
"I know," he cut in and gave me another reassuring squeeze before breaking the hug, "and I promise, I'll tell you everything in time. It's going to be different soon, Sammy, I promise, I'm… It's going to be different."
I nodded, and wiped my eyes, taking his offered hand as we moved back towards the mech bays and the mess hall. Our boots crunched amidst our silent voices and internal thoughts. He hadn't told me everything. He hadn't told me anything, not about Amago, or whatever I felt must be going on. But he'd told me he loved me, not in so many words, and at the same time, in so many words. The rest could wait.
"Grady Kiefer is here, with his Atlas." I broke the silence, allowing everything else to drop between us, bringing the walls down again, though the gap always remained.
"No shit?" He pulled a small bottle out of his coat pocket and popped a handful of pills into his mouth. "No wonder Dave is all up in arms over me recording things outside the trailer."
"Language!"
"I, am an adult."
We laughed, it felt good.
"I managed to get off work for your next match. Bill and I even have in-person tickets."
He nodded and smiled, but it was his show smile again. I should have pressed him, but tender moments with my father were as rare as LosTech—always in picture but never in person. I let it go.
"Also," I squeezed his arm, "I'm taking off work the day before, gee, there was something important about the day before your match that I sure went to a lot of trouble to get off for, gosh, I hope I remember what was so special about that day…"
"No," he laughed, genuinely again, "I haven't forgotten about your birthday."
"Unlike last time?"
He held his arms up in surrender, "didn't we just finish talking about how I'm a terrible parent and role model?" He grinned again and I gave him a mock punch in the ribs. "I have something very special planned for that day, trust me, I couldn't possibly forget about it."
