Catastrophe Unlimited Read online

  Catastrophe Unlimited

  Copyright © 2018 by Harebrained Schemes, LLC

  All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Catastrophe Unlimited is produced by Harebrained Schemes.

  www.harebrained-schemes.com

  Cover art by Marco Mazzoni.

  Licensing by Microsoft.

  Catastrophe Unlimited

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  michael stackpole

  Chapter One

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  Fallville, Solaris VII (The Game World)

  Rahneshire, Lyran Commonwealth

  28 April 3001

  “Spurs, cut left. Locust on your six.” Walter de Mesnil wrenched his COM-3A Commando around to his left. He let the golden crosshairs drift over the Locust’s bird-legged silhouette, but it came fast and he had trouble tracking it. After what seemed like forever, the dot at the heart of the aiming reticle blinked boldly, and he squeezed his triggers.

  The short-range missile launcher in the middle of his humanoid ’Mech’s chest launched a salvo of six missiles. Two of them hit, blasting the armor off the Locust’s left-wing weapon pod. A second salvo, from the SRM in the Commando’s right arm, hit full on, peppering explosions across the Locust’s center and right torso. A wave of heat washed up through Walter’s cockpit as the Commando’s medium laser turned armor on the Locust’s right wing into slag. The angry scarlet light carried on through the evaporating armor and sparked a red glow in the Locust’s ferro-titanium bones, but left its weaponry intact.

  Sorry, Spurs.

  The Locust sported small and medium lasers in its pods, and it trained all of them on Spurs’s Wasp. Red beams flashed out. A medium and a small laser melted the armor on the right side of the Wasp’s chest, though they burned through to the interior without destroying anything vital. The other medium laser sliced away all the Wasp’s armor on its left leg. The last small laser carved a black crescent on the Wasp’s right shoulder.

  The damage done hadn’t been enough to seriously hamper the Wasp, but the pilot wasn’t experienced enough to handle all the flashing lights and warning sounds echoing in the cockpit. Still, the Wasp brought its weapons in line with the Locust and fired back. Spurs missed wide with the medium laser, igniting a tree down range. The small lasers, however, hit the Locust’s right and left weapon pods. One laser burned the Locust’s right pod away cleanly and nibbled at structural members in the ’Mech’s torso. The other beam immolated the left weapon pod, effectively neutering the birdlike ’Mech.

  “Did you see that?” The pure exuberance in Spurs’s voice slapped a smile on Walter’s face. “I hit him.”

  “Now hit your jets, Spurs.”

  The Locust had not been alone. A much bigger ’Mech nearly twice the mass of the Wasp was stomping its way through a thick hedgerow: a Firestarter. It brought both of its arms up. Two medium laser beams, one underslung along each of the Firestarter’s forearms, shot hot light at the Wasp. With surgical precision, the red beams crossed at the Wasp’s left hip. The metal femur flashed white, and the lower leg fell away. The beams continued to vent their energy into the Wasp’s interior. Molten metal gushed out of the wound. The Wasp’s left side sagged and collapsed, with momentum spinning the fighting machine around before it crashed to the ground.

  Acid boiled up in Walter’s throat. I’m running hot, it weighs ten tons more than I do, and unless I get lucky… He sighed. Experience had long taught him that the only luck in this sort of situation was catastrophic.

  Even so, he brought his weapons to bear and triggered them. Eight of the dozen SRMs hit the humanoid Firestarter, sowing fire over its heart and right leg. A secondary explosion hinted that something had punched through into the ’Mech’s chest. The Commando’s medium laser melted a furrow in the armor over the right side of the Firestarter’s chest, but none of the hits had wholly compromised the larger ’Mech’s armor.

  If the damage done had discomfited the Firestarter’s pilot, the return attack gave little sign of distress. One of the medium laser shots missed, but the other pierced the Commando’s left arm. The beam consumed the limb from the elbow down, destroying one of Walter’s medium lasers. The Firestarter’s twinned machine guns ripped streams of projectiles over the smaller ’Mech. One gnawed some more at the left arm, while the other stippled a line of holes across the Commando’s chest.

  Then the bigger ’Mech lit up the weapons that had given it its name. Two flamers, one in each forearm, shot incandescent gouts of fire at the Commando. The shots boiled off the last of the armor over the Commando’s heart and sent another wave of heat through Walter’s cockpit. Heat scales crawled up into the yellow zone, and the ’Mech responded sluggishly to the controls.

  One last chance.

  The Commando launched two swarms of missiles at the Firestarter. Explosions blossomed on the right side of its chest and left shoulder, shattering ferro-ceramic armor plates. The majority of the missiles, however, compounded the damage the first shots had done. They blasted the last of the armor from the middle of the ’Mech’s chest, then they exploded within the barrel of its chest. Secondary and tertiary detonations shook the larger Firestarter. It staggered, then fell backward as its torso sent a jet of plasma stabbing into the sky.

  Walter kicked the sensors over to infrared from visual light, then shielded his eyes against the glow. His last shots had crushed the magnetic field generators controlling the fusion reactor that provided the ’Mech with energy. No longer contained, the roiling plasma had burned its way free.

  Burning sweat seeped into Walter’s eyes. As the plasma ball imploded, the Commando faced the defenseless Locust across a smoldering field where the remains of the Firestarter and Wasp lay motionless. Walter brought the Commando around to orient the SRM launchers on the smaller ’Mech. Don’t make me do it.

  But before the Locust gave him any reason to fire, the battlefield went dark, and cool air hissed into the simulator cockpit.

  The artificial wood paneling in Simon Traeger’s office couldn’t hide the fact that his ’Mech stable had started as a barn, and the office had been a shed grafted to the front. Walter lowered himself into one of the chairs opposite the man’s desk, being careful not to cut himself on the cracked green vinyl faux leather. Walter wasn’t quite certain which presented more of a threat: getting cut on the vinyl, or the predatory look on Traeger’s face.

  Spurs took the chair beside him, alternately glancing at his own hands and his shoes. Spurs, who had been born Ivan Litzau on a Periphery world, really looked the part of a schoolboy who was far from home and anxious to return after he’d proven himself. His performance in the ’Mech simulator wasn’t going to help him on the latter point. Even though his kicking ass hadn’t played a part in their planning, his failure to do so clearly weighed on him.

  Traeger dressed as cheaply as his office was decorated; he had donned a tan plaid blazer with red piping over a shimmering shirt that looked red, gold, or purple depending on how the light hit it. He leaned forward on his desk, elbows at the edge, hands clasped together as if in prayer. He had a thin mustache and thinner brown hair, but bristly eyebrows that moved of their own volition and mocked the gravity in his voice.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, boys. I mean, those who know me, they know Traeger isn’t one for mincing words. They say, ‘You don’t mince words, Traeger.’ So, here it goes. Really, I mean it.” He pointed
a finger at Spurs. “You, kid, are horrible. Seriously, you don’t need a cooling vest, you need a body bag. I know it hurts, but you’ll thank me later. No, you will. Really. It was like you were distracted out there, not paying attention. Any dreams you had of being a MechWarrior star here on Solaris—just flush ’em, kid. Flush ’em. You’re really, really bad.”

  Spurs didn’t look up. “I’m sorry I wasted your time, sir.”

  “Hey, why so glum? Look, kid, I like you.” Traeger’s eyebrows bounced up and down like acrobats. “But you, this guy, your buddy, he’s something. Ballsy going toe to frigging toe with that Firestarter. Of course, it was all a simulation. We both know that, but that showed some spine. If we’d been betting on that fight, someone would have walked away rich. Rich, rich is good, am I right? That’s what we all want, making some C-bills? Right? Right?”

  Walter arched an eyebrow. “Right. So, when can I start?”

  “Whoa, look at you, Mr. Let’s-get-busy.” Traeger pressed his hands flat to the desktop. “Sorry, I can’t use you.”

  “Can’t use me?” You may not mince words, but you don’t use them to make much sense, either. “Mr. Traeger, you manage fighters here on Solaris. You arrange fights, you take a cut of the purses…”

  “And the auxiliary merchandising, don’t forget that.”

  “Right, all that stuff. Now, I just showed that I can fight. And you’re telling me you can’t use me?” Walter frowned. “What am I missing?”

  Traeger eased himself back in his chair. “What you’re missing, Wally, is that this isn’t warfare. This is entertainment. Your file here says you were a mercenary, gives a list of battles. Whoever doctored it up for you was good, so I’ll assume, based on the sim-scrap, that most of it is true, or near enough to true that I don’t care. And, yeah, what you did to Aniki in that Firestarter was impressive. But you’re not alone in being able to do that, or in being that lucky. The fact is, neither of you has a story.”

  Walter scratched his forehead. “I’m still not following.”

  “You don’t have it. Neither of you is entertaining. You don’t even have an interesting name. Wallace Richards? What kind of name is that? You could go with Wallace, might excite the Northwind demographic, but Bloodstone is already doing the ‘single name’ thing.” Traeger made a great show of exhaling. “I can’t package a merc and his little buddy. Well, that’s not true. If it can be packaged, Traeger can do it.”

  “Then the problem is…?”

  “That I’ve done it. Everyone here on Solaris who manages fighters has done it. I mean, what’s your angle? Let’s see… the kid is the son of your beloved commander, who was treacherously killed in combat. Mutiny, maybe. So you got away with his son and vowed to train the kid up so he could retake his father’s legacy? Or the kid is in love with some princess, and her father won’t marry her off to someone who can’t uphold the family’s martial values? Really, stop me whenever I’m close, because I’ve seen them all. Hell, Traeger invented most of them.”

  Traeger continued. “Or maybe your buddy here is some Riff lord who lost his world and you’re going to win enough here to build a new unit and take his world back for him?”

  Walter suppressed his shudder, but Spurs failed to. That’s far too close to the mark. Traeger didn’t seem to notice their reactions.

  The man stood and pointed at a framed poster on his wall. The central image was one of a man and a woman, both young, with white hair and red highlights, in cooling vests, standing back to back with shoulder blades touching, arms crossed over their chests. She was drop-dead gorgeous, with icy blue eyes. He was youthfully handsome, with clean features and a devilish smile. Behind them, two snow-white BattleMechs were battling with twice their number.

  “These are Snorri and Aniki. You fought them in the simulator. Snorri was fighting way down in that Locust—he’s a medium to a heavy usually. But they’re good fighters. Dime a dozen here, really, but they’re stars now. Stars. And you know why?”

  Spurs looked up. “They have a story?”

  “No, they have a story. Really, kid, you gotta listen. Open those ears. God, they’re big enough.” Traeger spread his arms wide. “Brother and sister, big family, agro-combine decides to take the family’s land. Blah blah. They weaponize some AgroMechs and get rid of the combine’s mercs… No insult intended there, Wally. So, the people here love them. Most folks love them because they’re just like them. Snorri and Aniki are what they could be if John Q. Peasant ever had a chance to make it to Solaris. They do just fine. But their story, everybody gets it. You a merc, you a Riff lord—really, no one cares. Really.”

  Spurs hunched forward. “Mr. Traeger, sir, you could give my friend a story. He can fight, you see that. Just look at him. He could be that everyday guy you’re talking about, couldn’t he?”

  Traeger sat down again. “I admire your loyalty, kid. Doesn’t matter to me that he’s going to be your meal ticket, okay? I think you really have a friendship there. But look, I’m trying to save you both a galaxy of pain. You come here thinking, ‘Hey, if I get 5,000 C-bills, life is good.’ But that won’t be enough. No matter if you have finances figured to nine decimals, it won’t be enough. And that’s if you just want to make a living. If you really are out to get your mercenary band back together or something, that’s a goal you’re never going to hit.”

  Walter frowned. “Because?”

  “Because if you were ever to get to be that good, there would be a lot of money at stake. People develop interests, and they would prevent you from leaving. By bribing you, or promising to take care of your problem, or by paying someone else to take care of you. After all, they own the rights to you; they will keep you pumping out money even after you’re dead. But, but, getting there ain’t even easy.” Traeger sighed. “You came to me, out here, not to someone in Solaris City, because I’m the place people break in. I know that. So, what that means is that to start, you’ll be barnstorming. Know what that is?”

  Spurs nodded. “You fight a circuit—small towns and cities, makeshift arenas, local holovid distribution, fighting hometown heroes. Big show, lots of explosions and fire and exciting stuff.”

  “No, no, kid. It’s when you fight on a circuit…” Traeger caught himself. “Okay, points for you doing your homework. But breaking out of it, getting regional play, that’s tough, that’s real tough. And getting into Solaris City, fighting in the Jungle or the Factory? A sack full of cats wouldn’t have enough lives to make that happen.”

  Walter opened his hands. “But Gray Noton, he was a merc.”

  “And so that story has been told for this generation.” Traeger shook his head. “Plus, he brought his own ’Mech to Solaris, bought his way into a stable, and capped a contender in his second fight. Those are all things you don’t have going on.”

  A woman spoke from the office doorway. “Give the merc a shot, Simon.”

  Walter turned in his chair. It took him a moment to realize the woman standing there was the same woman on the poster. The image had made her larger than life, but dressed in an oversized shirt, casual trousers, and a vest, she appeared to be every bit the farmer’s daughter from her legend.

  “Aniki, really, this isn’t anything you should be concerned with.”

  “But I am, Simon. You booked us for the South County Fall Fair. My brother and I are good to go, but Nick’s wife left, so he’s on a bender. This guy can fill in.”

  Traeger bored into Walter with glaring eyes. “You drink?”

  Walter nodded. “Not to excess.”

  “See? Reliable.” Aniki toyed with her thick white braid. “He gets through the fair, he’ll have earned his spot.”

  “But he doesn’t have a story.” Traeger shook his head. “He’s not even a down-on-his-luck-drunk looking for redemption. I got nothing to work with here.”

  “Wow, you’re giving up easy, Simon.” She smiled. “What you’ve got is this: he’s a man of mystery. He’s got amnesia. His buddy
here found him after some guys had given him a bad beating. Doesn’t know who he is, but he’s got some serious ’Mech skills. He’s fighting, hoping something will come back. He’s tragic. Women will love him and want to fix him, and the buddy story will make guys feel like he’s someone they could have a beer with.”

  “Oh, yeah, and we can get him a beer sponsorship. When you drink, it’s beer, right, Wally?”

  “It is now.”

  “I like the attitude. Take one for the team.” Traeger nodded. “Okay, okay, we can maybe make this work. So here’s the important stuff—you’ll be on a provisional license for a year. ’Mech Battle Commission will be so far up your ass you’ll want to charge them rent. Keep your nose clean and you’ll be good to go.”

  “Roger that.”

  Traeger’s eyes narrowed. “And if anyone approaches you about fixing a fight, well, you don’t take any dives unless I tell you to.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Traeger glanced past him at Aniki, then smiled. “Just a joke. But anyone gives you any trouble—doesn’t matter what it is—you tell me. I know people who know people. I have people I pay to do me favors, you understand. No secrets, got it?”

  “On my honor.”

  “Integrity, great.” Traeger sat back. “Just make sure you follow orders, and we’ll be good. You can follow orders, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Come back tomorrow. I’ll have the contracts drawn up.”

  Walter blinked. “Thank you, I think.” He shook Traeger’s hand, then turned toward the woman in the doorway. “And thank you.”

  “Hey, have to respect the guy who shot me out.” She winked at Spurs. “And your friend is kinda cute.”

  Spurs’s eyes widened, then he looked right and left to see who she was talking about.

  Walter shook his head. “C’mon, Spurs. Let’s go.”