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  Next to him Jaryl was trying to gulp down the brown liquid through tear-stained eyes. His own eyes began to tear at the smell of the drink, which was as bad as Rose had feared it might be. Closing his eyes and holding his breath, he opened his throat as wide as he could. He poured the drink down in a single smooth motion, barely feeling the fish slide over his tongue on the way to his stomach. With a wide smile he overturned the glass and set it back on the tray while Jaryl struggled with the last of the dregs in hers. Rose risked a bream and discovered that the aftertaste was terrible. He glanced at Dillon, who stood smiling behind the bar. Jaryl coughed slightly and slammed the tumbler down on the tray, wiping her mouth with the back of her free hand. The crowd broke into wild applause.

  "Damn!" she exclaimed. "Dillon, why didn't you warn me I was going against a professional?" The crowd broke into laughter as Jaryl's face turned red.

  "Rose is the winner! Drinks on the house all night!" Dillon reached over and raised Rose's hand above his head. Those near Rose clapped him on the back and shouted their approval. ,

  "And Jaryl ..."

  "... PAYS FOR A ROUND OF DRINKS!" Dillon grinned as the applause grew louder. Jaryl, still red-faced, rolled her eyes and smiled at the crowd.

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. One round, Dillon. Put it on the tab." Jaryl turned to go, but Rose stopped her.

  "Just a second, Jaryl. Mind if we talk for a second?"

  "Sure thing, but let's get a table near a trivid. The first match is about to start."

  Rose ordered two bottles of Conner's and followed Jaryl to a booth just off the main viewing area. Despite the nearness to game time, the booth was still open. As Rose slid into one side and Jaryl into the other, he noticed that the booth offered an excellent view of the main trivid, near-perfect viewing without the press of the crowd on the main floor. He pushed one of the bottles over to Jaryl as she turned on the speaker built into the booth back.

  "Hope you like Conner's." Jaryl nodded and adjusted the volume. Rose couldn't understand the announcer's words, which were in Chinese but might as well have been Greek as far as he was concerned. Jaryl, on the other hand, was obviously picking up on all of it.

  "Hey, I'm sorry if I made you mad," he said.

  "No, not mad. It's just that I don't lose often and I don't like it when Ldo. Nothing personal. Really."

  "You're good."

  "Thanks. It was a trick I learned at the academy. It's not too hard to do with a little practice. Just concentrate on opening your throat and let the liquor slide right down."

  "Neat trick."

  "But still just a trick."

  "As you say."

  "Before Dillon brought the drinks, you said something ..."

  "Yes?"

  "... about having to kill me?"

  "Yes?"

  "Could you, maybe, expand on that point?"

  "I guess. I mean, you did buy me this nice, WARM beer." Rose decided not to meet the challenge in her voice or her eyes. She wasn't kidding when she said she didn't like to lose. He let the silence linger as he listened to an announcer he didn't understand go through the warm-ups for a fight he didn't care anything about.

  "Sorry, again." Jaryl lapsed into silence and partially turned to the main trivid. A Stalker 'Mech was lumbering through the doorway of the 'Mech shed. Rose tried to guess the arena, but couldn't place either the pilot or the location. He'd have recognized one of the five major arenas instantly, for each of those was as distinctive as the sector of Solaris City that spawned it. This must be a match in one of the lesser-class arenas of either the capital or one of the other nearby towns.

  The announcer became even more excited as the trivid image switched to a Banshee, presumably the Stalker's opponent, but Rose still found it difficult to get enthusiastic about the prospect of men dying for the amusement of others.

  "Do you have any idea how nervous you make people?" Jaryl asked suddenly.

  "Pardon?"

  "Do you have any idea how nervous you make people? People like Warwick or my boss Carstairs?" Rose eased back into his seat and thought about the question.

  "I guess not. I'm just one guy. What's to get nervous about?"

  "Plenty. You're an unknown. That drives the odds-makers crazy, but, god, what it does to the stablemasters."

  "I hadn't thought of it that way."

  "You'd better start. Do you know that within half an hour of your first call for a 'Mech, half the stables in Solaris City knew about you? By the end of the first day, most of the stablemen in the city had placed calls checking on your service record, which came up empty."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. Any idea why nobody would sell you a 'Mech?"

  "Not at all. Most of the people I contacted said they didn't have what I wanted, but that got a little hard to believe after a while." Rose thought back to all the calls he'd made during the inbound flight aboard the Drop-Ship. Out of all the 'Mech dealers on Solaris, not one would sell him even an abused heavy or assault class machine?

  "Finals week, that's why. This is the last week of the season. A new guy like you isn't much of a threat for the grand championship—that's handled by a process of elimination. On the other hand, there are plenty of other competitions you could enter if you had a 'Mech. Events like the match between Carstairs and Warwick. Events where the team is entered, not the individual competitors.

  "Were there any 'Mechs on the ship that brought you here?"

  "I don't know," Rose said. "Most of the cargo bays were off-limits."

  "Probably not. If there had been, they'd have been impounded until the end of the week—no new blood until the end of the season. What little manages to get into the city is roadblocked."

  "If new blood is so dangerous to the odds, and money, of the gamblers, why am I still walking around? Why was Warwick the only one to approach me?"

  "You don't have a service record. Most stables probably passed you off as a 'Mechbunny or ghost." Rose simply stared at her. "That's wannabe or spy to you out-of-towners. Either way, only a desperate manager would touch you, a guy like Warwick."

  "And if I'd arrived a month ago?"

  "No problem."

  Rose slammed the table and rocked both bottles. Only a quick grab by Jaryl saved her beer from spilling all over her and the table.

  "Sorry," he said. "What about next week, when most of the battles have been decided? Can I get a 'Mech then?"

  "Probably, but still not for sure. Most of the stables have you pegged either as idle rich or trouble. Either way, a tech is only going to sell to you if he's willing to risk their anger or if the profits are so good he can't pass up the opportunity. Until the major stables figure out who you are and what kind of trouble you're going to be, you're dispossessed."

  "I'm nobody to these guys. Why do they want to make my life so damn rough?"

  "Because they can. You can get a 'Mech. You're just going to have to wait a while to do it. In two or three months most of the stable owners will have forgotten about you."

  Rose could only growl and slam the table again. "I leave in ten days."

  "Then you leave without a 'Mech." Rose didn't want to believe her, but thinking over the past few days, he realized Jaryl was right. Few, if any, of the locals would talk with him, and those who did seemed on edge. The Pelican was the only place in town where he felt even halfway welcome, and that was mostly because of Dillon. There had to be a way to get a 'Mech, but he couldn't guess what it might be. He concentrated on spinning his empty bottle until he realized he was ignoring his companion. Looking over at Jaryl, he saw that she was engrossed in the trivid on the main floor. Rose followed her eyes and watched as the Stalker and the Banshee caught sight of one another for the first time in the fight.

  The orange and gray Stalker let fly with every missile it had. The black Banshee, seemingly surprised by the encounter, triggered both its PPCs, but the blast of the missiles and the suddenness of the Stalker's attack made both shots go wide. As the smoke cleared, Rose could see ho
w good a shot was the Stalker pilot. He'd targeted all four flights of missiles at the Banshee's torso, blasting away armor and threatening the 'Mech's delicate interior.

  The Banshee attempted to back around a corner, but the Stalker pressed its advantage. Rose wondered where they were fighting. The announcer was practically screaming in his ear, but the volume didn't help his comprehension. Jaryl was studying the fight intently, yet without the air of bloodlust that had gripped the rest of The Pelican's patrons. The spectacle held everyone in the room in its thrall.

  As Rose turned back to the trivid the Stalker continued to close with the Banshee, which had fired its shoulder-mounted missile rack, but made only scattered hits along the Stalker's left leg. In return the Stalker delivered a single large laser into the Banshee's already-damaged right torso, melting rivulets of plasteel and setting off a series of minor explosions inside.

  Rose knew the battle was already decided, but the Banshee fought on and the Stalker continued to press its advantage. Viewers unconsciously edged closer to the trivid, sensing a kill as the Banshee attempted to fight on.

  As it staggered back, the Banshee fired its pair of front-mounted medium lasers and one of its PPCs. Rose saw the pilot also attempt to line up the Gauss rifle, but the Stalker pilot was keeping well to the right of its humanoid enemy, preferring to take the laser and PPC fire as the Banshee's heat rose. Again the Banshee pilot had aimed low, succeeding in hitting, but not damaging, the powerful legs of the Stalker, which were driving toward the nearly stationary Banshee. Rose turned away with a slow, sad shake of his head, knowing what would come next.

  The Stalker continued to fire its medium lasers as it collided with the Banshee, driving its armored snout into the battered center torso of its foe. Picked up off its feet and driven backward, the Banshee folded around the Stalker. As the force of the blow slowed the Stalker, the Banshee uncurled from around the other 'Mech and flew backward, its remaining PPC firing blindly through the air in a slow, graceful arc. As the Stalker fought to regain control, the Banshee landed on its hip, then rolled onto its back, whiplashing its head against the ferrocrete floor.

  Sparks flew along the back of the fallen 'Mech as the Stalker succeeded in maintaining its balance by staggering into the nearby wall. Although the 'Mech punched completely through the wall, it succeeded in remaining upright. With only a slight wobble, the Stalker approached its fallen foe.

  Rose was still shaking his head when he glanced over to Jaryl, catching, by accident, the face of a man just a few steps away. Shoulders relaxed, feet slightly spread, he was standing near one of The Pelican's several fire doors. Rose stared for a moment before realizing who he was seeing. Jaryl, with the man to her blind side, did not realize that Rose was looking past her and continued to watch the combat.

  As Rose met the man's eyes across the roomful of humans mesmerized by the destruction of the Banshee, Scoggins drew a gyrojet pistol from his jacket and aimed it at Rose's table. Rose was halfway across the table when the shot hit Jaryl in the side of the head. As flying bits of blood and bone blinded Rose, the murderer crashed through the door and escaped into the night.

  9

  Solaris City, Solaris

  4 August 3054

  Six hours after the shooting, The Pelican stood silent and vacant except for Rose, Dillon, and a Lieutenant Viets of the Federated Commonwealth Police Department. As Dillon went over what little he knew of Jaryl's too short life, Rose sat in what was becoming his customary seat, silently sipping a Conner's, his first since the shooting. With ill-concealed contempt Rose watched the policewoman work. She was beautiful, if somewhat short for Rose's taste, but he had long ago learned never to judge a woman by appearance, either for good or bad. In another circumstance he might have been impressed with her soft features and athletic body, but tonight she was just another officer. An officer he did not care to be around. An officer who, for six hours, had done nothing but ask questions, covering the same ground over and over.

  As the adrenaline wore off, Rose went numb from the shock. He was no stranger to death in most of its grisly forms, but he had never been this close to the work of an assassin. The juxtaposition was almost too much for him. People had been laughing and having a good time. People weren't killed the way Jaryl was killed. They died on the battlefield, or in some accident, or at home in bed.

  The situation started to play on his nerves before his professionalism and experience took hold and glued him together. Jaryl was a soldier, wasn't she? Not like any he'd ever met, but then most of what he'd been experiencing on Solaris was unlike anything he'd ever encountered. Life in the Com Guards had certainly been more straightforward, if not easier. Dogma and duty his lance-mates had called it, the Twin Dees.

  Rose had been questioned for only an hour by Lieutenant Viets. She obviously hadn't learned much, or else she didn't like what she'd learned because she'd ordered the bar closed and made everyone go home. Dillon had howled like a wounded animal when she threw everyone out. He continued to mumble about the lost profits while shaking a weary head. When the questioning was done, Rose drifted back to the bar to sort out his thoughts. Most of the police left within the next few hours after wandering in and out in twos and threes to take evidence, tri-vids, and whatever else police did at the scene of a murder.

  Rose observed the proceedings with halfhearted interest. Another lead, another dead end, only this time he could do no better than watch as the woman who'd tried to help him was gunned down. He briefly considered the possibility that he was somehow to blame, but quickly gave up the idea. He doubted that Warwick, or anyone else, would have killed Jaryl just to get back at him for something. Jaryl had obviously been Scoggins' target because of something she had—or hadn't—done, or something Rose couldn't even begin to guess at.

  He stared down into the half-empty bottle of Conner's, sloshing the liquid inside. It had long since stopped foaming from the agitation and now simply swirled around in a small whirlpool. This was not the first time Rose had seen death, but cold-blooded murder was different than death on the field of battle.

  He glanced again at Viets and Dillon, who were talking quietly behind the bar. Rose guessed that the two knew each other well, at least professionally. Who knew how much further it went? Whatever the situation, Dillon obviously had more patience for her than did Rose, who'd stopped answering even her occasional questions more than ninety minutes ago.

  Rose continued to fume into his bottle, silently cursing Solaris, Warwick, Lieutenant Viets, the Clans, and everything else that came to mind. How could a society function when divided into five independent, supposedly equal, governments within shooting distance of one another? How could these governments let a killer walk the streets? How could they ever bring anyone to justice when each sector of the city operated under its own separate police? And how could Viets just sit there when Rose had positively identified the assassin as Scoggins? He'd shouted that very question at her in his best commander's voice.

  The lieutenant had been surprisingly polite in the face of his hostility, pointing out that he was, after all, an off-worlder, with no ties to the victim or the alleged assailant. "Of course we'll follow up the lead you've given us," Viets said with a polite smile, "but I'm not sure anything will come of it. Mister Scoggins is a Liao national and likely safe and sound somewhere in Cathay right now." Rose finished his beer in one gulp, then stared again at Viets and Dillon, who were conversing in whispers.

  Feelings were boiling in him—his frustration at not being able to find a 'Mech anywhere in Solaris, exhaustion from going without sleep for something like forty-eight hours, and then the horror of Jaryl's murder. Even a man as controlled as Rose was cracking under the strain.

  "So, Lieutenant Viets," he said bitterly, "I suppose this means you'll just saunter on back to the station house and fill out your report? Just grab a bite to eat, maybe some nice young cop groupie, and head home for the evening. Nothing more about the so-called 'incident' tonight?"

 
Viets gazed at Rose, her jaw clenched angrily. The knuckles on her near hand went white as she slowly turned away from Dillon, but Rose continued to taunt her. "You slack-jawed, blue-chested clods are all alike. This bottle has more brains."

  "Oh, so the wise MechWarrior wants to show this poor, stupid clod how to conduct a police investigation. Do tell me, wise one, how should I proceed?" Viets scoffed. Rose had expected anger, but not the instant confrontation.

  "Wait, I know," she went on sarcastically. "I'll assemble the whole rest of the force and we'll march into Cathay, kick the bejesus out of anything that moves and drag back this Scoggins character you say killed Jaryl Whillins."

  "He did kill her!" Rose jabbed an accusing finger at the officer and pounded the bar for effect. The bottle danced to the vibration as it had on the table earlier. Lieutenant Viets didn't even acknowledge that he'd spoken.

  "Better yet, we'll just ask the Cathayans to turn him over. That wouldn't be such a problem. 'Yes, that's right. It seems like one of your malcontents shot one of our citizens at a local drinking establishment this evening. Could you just send him over with a note that says you don't mind if we hang him? Thank you very much.' " Rose gripped the edge of the bar and fought against the anger that threatened to overwhelm him. He'd wanted to provoke her, but now she'd turned the tables.

  "At least you'd be doing something." Again Viets ignored him. She continued to pace behind the bar, her eyes cast upward as if for heavenly inspiration. Suddenly she clapped her hands and turned to Rose.

  "I've got it. We'll just call in those limp-swords over in the international sector. They'd just love the chance to show off all those shiny new rifles they carry around." Rose roared and vaulted the bar, one hand acting as the pivot as his legs came sweeping over the surface. His top leg shot forward and the toes of his boot sought Viets' exposed head. The lieutenant ducked under the blow. With a sharp movement, she struck the inside of the elbow of the arm supporting his weight. Rose's entire body, which a moment ago had been perfectly poised on that one arm, came crashing down. Momentum carried him across the bar's flat surface, allowing him to land mostly on the padded runway. His head, however, bounced off the stainless steel sink just below the bar's surface.