“Good thing you found what you found,” Clay muttered as sleep started to take him. “I am pretty much done here, buddy. My body just can’t take anymore.”

  “Sleep, man,” Gibbons replied. “I’ll wake you when it’s time. These people won’t know what hit them.”

  Clay smiled as his eyes closed. “No, they sure as shit won’t.”

  Dawn broke over the horizon, and the bright pink light filtered into the cockpit much faster than Clay could have believed. Even with the injector’s cocktail in him, his sleep had been restless and far from comfortable.

  “Good morning,” Gibbons said. “That night went fast.”

  “Says the guy who doesn’t have to sleep,” Clay said.

  “Ready to drop the bomb on the powers that be?” Gibbons asked.

  “Ready,” Clay replied. He crawled up into what had been the pilot’s seat, but he and Gibbons had transformed into the co-pilot’s seat during their hours of plotting and planning.

  Clay opened a com and cleared his sleep-gunked throat.

  “Good morning, Tourney folks,” Clay said. “Got a little announcement to make. Unfortunately, my body is not cooperating this morning. I took one hell of a beating yesterday, not to mention the beatings I’ve taken the past few weeks, and I don’t think I will be able to continue as pilot.”

  “He forfeits!” the Mister’s voice yelled over the com. “I insist that I am declared the winner of the tournament for yet another year!”

  “Hold your horses, Grampy Greedy Dick,” Clay said. “I did not forfeit. In fact, I intend to stay in this cockpit during the entire fight to come. It’s just that I am invoking Section 8, Subparagraph Y of the tournament rules and regulations that states if no other machine is available, I reserve the right to have an alternate pilot take my place. This is, of course, if my sponsoring landowner agrees.”

  There was silence. Everyone waited.

  “Will someone go wake up the damn comunista woman?” the Mister snarled.

  After a couple of minutes, Willow came on the com.

  “What is happening? Clay? Are you quitting?” Willow asked.

  Clay read the entire section and subparagraph. Willow didn’t respond. For a moment, Clay feared she wouldn’t agree and all of his and Gibbons’ planning would have been for nothing.

  “Can he do that?” Willow asked finally.

  “He can, according to the bylaws,” the tournament voice replied. “His right of replacement pilot is not even a question. It is the fact he is choosing his AI to take his place that I believe we should discuss.”

  “Why don’t you all do that,” Clay said. “I have to pee something fierce. I’m going to take five and climb down out of here, stretch my shaky legs a bit, and wait for your answer.”

  There was some fast shouting and several barked curse words from the Mister. Clay cut the com and stood up.

  “I’ll lower you down,” Gibbons said. “Co-pilot MacAulay.”

  “Ha freaking ha,” Clay said as he stumbled over to the hatch and popped it open.

  He basically fell out of the cockpit and onto the extended palm that Gibbons had brought up to him. He rode the whole way down on his back, rolling off onto his feet only when Gibbons gave him a hard shake.

  Clay looked at the line of privies set up fifty meters behind the mechs’ parking area. He shrugged and unzipped his trousers, deciding peeing where he stood was the better scenario. No way was he walking all that way to the privies and back just to take a leak.

  “Dude!” Gibbons yelled over the com. “You are pissing on my foot!”

  “Sorry,” Clay said as he adjusted his aim and sent the stream into the dirt.

  He shook, zipped, and turned to stretch. Nasta, Firoa, and Hank were standing right behind him.

  “We came to wish you good luck,” Nasta said, her nose wrinkled in disgust. “But it doesn’t look like you’re too concerned about today’s match.”

  “Not really,” Clay said and shrugged. “I have a plan.”

  “We have a plan,” Gibbons said. “Or, better yet, I have the plan. I found the loophole and you—”

  Clay clicked off his com. He looked at Hank and frowned.

  “Is that my hat?” Clay asked, pointing at Hank’s hands.

  Hank nodded and held it out.

  “Thanks, man,” Clay said as he took the old cavalry hat and settled it on his head. The world suddenly felt lighter to him. The aches and pains and dregs of the night’s fever didn’t exactly wash away, but they took a backseat to everything else for a change. “I don’t know how you got it, but thanks.”

  “You think you can beat her?” Nasta asked. “Beat Bunting? She is a monster in that mech of hers. Some think she would prefer to be a mech rather than a person.”

  “I get that,” Clay said. “I honestly do.” He reached out and patted his mech’s leg. “But she isn’t a mech, this is. As much as she wants it, she won’t be metal, but always flesh and blood.” He gave the three of them a wicked grin. “Which is why she’ll lose.”

  “Your ego is disgusting,” Firoa said. “I will be glad when you’re gone and we can focus on our cause.”

  “Right back atcha, FiFi,” Clay said and gave her a thumbs up.

  “Bastard,” Firoa said and stomped off.

  Hank nodded to Clay and followed right behind Firoa, both headed to a roller only a few meters away. Clay eyed the roller, then eyed Nasta.

  “Going somewhere?” Clay asked.

  “We’re leaving,” Nasta said. “Heading back to our caves. If you lose, we can’t be anywhere near here. They disarmed us and have us on watch anyway. We couldn’t execute the backup plan if we wanted to.”

  “I’m not going to lose,” Clay said.

  “Yes, you said that,” Nasta replied. “But Firoa does have a point about your ego. Not that I think it’s disgusting, but it is not one of your more positive attributes. I think you are being too casual about this match. Bunting has never lost once. Not in all the years she has fought for the Mister in this tournament. No pilot has even come close to beating her.”

  “Pilot MacAulay?” the tournament voice announced. “I mean, uh… Co-pilot MacAulay. Please return to your cockpit. The match will begin in five minutes.”

  Clay tapped at his com. “So I guess the Mister couldn’t find a way to disqualify me, eh?”

  “No, Co-pilot MacAulay, he could not,” the tournament voice replied. “Your analysis of the rules and regulations was correct. There is no rule against an AI being a pilot, only being a co-pilot. There is also no rule stopping your AI from replacing you as pilot in your mech due to your injuries. Since you are the sole entry by the Flower Peoples’ Brigade…” the tournament voice took a deep breath, working up the strength to ignore the idiotic name and continue. “Since you are the sole entry by the Flower Peoples’ Brigade, then a second is allowed without a new mech being required.”

  “Excellent,” Clay said.

  “You!” the Mister shouted as an open top roller came speeding toward him. Right drove while Left hung in the backseat, a rifle across his chest. “YOU!”

  “Me,” Clay said and waited for the old man’s roller to come to a stop right in front of him. The wheels came close to running over his feet, but he stepped back in time, never showing that he even cared, his face passive and serene. “Morning, old man.”

  “You!” the Mister shouted again. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

  “Nope,” Clay said. “Well, yeah, but not about this. My AI is the one that figured it all out, God bless him.”

  “Don’t you blaspheme by thinking the Lord would have anything to do with that abomination!” the Mister shouted as he got out of the roller and crutched his way up to Clay. “I do not recognize your claim if you should happen to win! You will not get a damn thing from me, boy! Not one square inch of land nor a single hoof from my cattle!”

  “I don’t want any of it,” Clay said. “I’ll leave that all up to the Flower Peoples’ Brigade.” He shivered as the words came out of his mouth. “Ugh. Yuck. Anyway, the second this fight is over, I am out of here. Whatever happens, happens. None of my business, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Damn right it is none of your business!” the Mister said. He pulled a revolver from his waist band and pointed it at Clay’s head.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa there!” Clay yelled as held up his hands. “Chill the hell out, old man!”

  He stared at the revolver’s barrel for a seconds.

  “Hey, is that my gun?” Clay asked. The Mister sneered and nodded. “Asshole.”

  Still in the roller, Right and Left aimed rifles at Clay’s chest. He was staring down three barrels, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  “Co-pilot MacAulay, please return to your cockpit immediately,” the tournament voice said. “If you do not, then you really will forfeit this match.”

  “Kind of got a situation on my hands,” Clay replied.

  “I got it, pal,” Gibbons said.

  The mech’s foot lifted, then came down squarely on the Mister’s roller. Neither Left nor Right even had a second to scream. Their crushed bodies, as well as the demolished roller, pulped out from under the mech’s foot, staining the dirt a deep, oily black.

  Gibbons returned the foot to its first position and lowered a hand to Clay. Clay’s eyes locked onto the Mister’s pistol, his pistol. He crawled into the hand and let out a long breath as Gibbons brought him up to the cockpit as fast as possible.

  “That was close,” Clay said as he stepped into the cockpit and took his seat. “That crazy old bastard didn’t even flinch when you stomped his guys.”

  “He’s gonna flinch when I stomp his mech,” Gibbons chuckled. “Ready, pal?”

  “Always, buddy,” Clay said and strapped in. It was nice not having the burden of being the pilot on his shoulders. Plus, he really didn’t have the will to squeeze back into that integration control suit. “Let’s win this thing and get the hell out of here.”

  30

  Clay double-checked all systems, even though he knew Gibbons had already done it a hundred times in the time it took him to do it once. As good of an idea as it was to have Gibbons take over as pilot, it still was a bit of an ego punch to Clay. He felt a little obsolete.

  “Here she comes,” Gibbons said as Bunting’s mech walked onto the battlefield.

  The mech stopped and faced Clay’s mech. If he squinted really, really hard, he could just make out the shadow of Bunting tucked away inside her cockpit, all cabled in to her integration control suit. He lifted both hands and flipped her off. He was more than surprised when Bunting’s mech returned the gestures.

  “Nice,” Clay laughed. “I like this woman. I’m almost sorry we have to kill her.”

  “Really?” Gibbons asked. “Because I could change my strategy and leave her alive for—”

  “Nope,” Clay interrupted. “Rip the bitch apart.”

  “Roger that, pal,” Gibbons said.

  The tournament voice gave the countdown and the fight was on. Just like that, the end of the tournament was only one win away from being over. Or one defeat away, depending on the view point.

  Gibbons circled the mech around, using the sidestep motion technique to compensate for the lack of servo flexibility in its waist. Bunting only pivoted on one giant foot, keeping her mech facing forward the entire time, never giving Gibbons even a glance at her side or back.

  “This isn’t going to be easy, Clay,” Gibbons said. “I’m detecting serious power surges in her extremities. She is really juicing up her arms and legs. I don’t know what she’s playing at, but it is not going to be pleasant.”

  Gibbons was right. It was not pleasant.

  Like a furious storm, Bunting sent her mech rushing at Gibbons and Clay, both arms up with fists raised. Gibbons stood his ground and tried to turn the mech so he was in a side stance, but his waist wouldn’t allow it, so he basically turned completely to the side, cutting off the cockpit’s, and Clay’s, field of vision.

  Luckily, Gibbons wasn’t human, and his field of vision was every single sensor and scanner the mech had. He saw Bunting’s mech get ready to strike, both arms coming in for a crushing blow that would annihilate the cockpit with one hit. Gibbons leaned to the left and kicked out to the right, his left heel shooting a ten-meter anchor into the ground for stability.

  Bunting tried to switch tactics, but it was too late, she had built up too much steam and there was no way to slow down. Her mech ran right into Gibbons’ extended leg and her armor plating crumpled under the blow. Half of Bunting’s midsection sheared right off and fell to the ground, the other half hung loose against her side.

  Bunting’s mech spun away from the impact and fell to a knee. She ripped the remaining armor plating from her midsection and threw it at Gibbons and Clay. Gibbons stepped out of the way, and the screams from the spectators could be heard all the way up in the cockpit.

  “Oh, damn,” Clay said as he brought up an image of rollers sliced in half by the flying armor plating. People were running every which way, some bleeding profusely, others just looking dazed and panicked. “That was cold.”

  Bunting leapt at Gibbons and Clay. Her mech’s shoulder collided with Gibbons’ and Clay’s side, sending them sliding backward for several meters. Right to the edge of the white line.

  “Gibbons,” Clay growled.

  “I’m on it,” Gibbons replied as he spun around and let Bunting’s momentum take her to the line.

  She was one toe from being over and disqualified, but she brought the mech up onto tiptoes, then did an almost graceful pirouette that brought her back around to face them. Her left fist jabbed at the cockpit and Gibbons’ blocked it. It was a feint, an obvious one, so Gibbons brought his other arm up to block the right hook that came just after the jab.

  He didn’t see the knee that nailed him in the left thigh though. That sent alarms ringing through the mech, and both Gibbons and Clay swore continuously as they backed away from Bunting to give themselves some space to assess the damage.

  “Crap,” Clay said. “Power coupling is damaged. Bad. We’re going to lose that leg soon.”

  “I know,” Gibbons aid. “I’m trying to reroute power from the other leg.”

  “Don’t do that,” Clay said. “Two weak legs is not a good idea. Not with how fast she moves. Keep full power in the one leg and let the other die.”

  “Are you nuts, Clay?” Gibbons snapped.

  “Yes,” Clay replied. “But trust me. Drop an anchor into the ground and stake the leg down. Use it as a pivot point.”

  “You just said she moves fast,” Gibbons objected. “So why would we stake ourselves in place? Hard to get out of her way.”

  “We don’t want to,” Clay said. “Let her come at us. Use her speed and power against her.”

  “Okay…” Gibbons said.

  Clay typed some commands into the console next to him.

  “Oh, I see,” Gibbons said. “Good plan.”

  Bunting came at them. Gibbons let Bunting slam into them and pivoted on the leg. He used the force of her motion to spin them one hundred and eighty degrees, then grabbed her by the shoulder and slammed the mech down into the dirt. Their spin stopped dead and Bunting’s mech had two feet of earth covering most of it.

  She exploded up out of the dirt and shook it off. Her fists grabbed at Gibbons’ and Clay’s mech, but they met only open air as Gibbons spun them around the other way. Before Bunting could react, Gibbons had brought his knee up and let it slam into her mech, colliding with the unprotected midsection.

  Pieces of mech flew everywhere. Bunting’s mech went flying, barely held together by the few struts that hadn’t shattered. It rolled across the battlefield, sparks and flames flying up into the air. Yet, Bunting did not quit. She got her mech up onto its knees, then onto its feet. She stood there for a few seconds, then came stumbling toward them.

  “What does she think she’s going to do?” Clay laughed. “She’s done for. Look at her.”

  “Uh, Clay?” Gibbons said. “I’m reading some serious power build up coming from that mech. Holy hell, she’s got it set to self-destruct!”

  “Are you kidding me?” Clay yelled as he scrambled at the controls, forgetting that he wasn’t the pilot anymore. “Crap! Get us out of here, buddy!”

  “I’m trying, I’m trying!” Gibbons yelled. “But we’re anchored to the ground, man! The leg is stuck! I can’t get the anchor to withdraw!”

  “Then cut it off!” Clay yelled. “Cut it the hell off!”

  “Cut what off?” Gibbons screeched. “The leg? My leg? Are you insane?!”

  “Just rip it off and get us away from her!” Clay yelled.

  Gibbons moaned, then reached down and started yanking on the stuck leg. Bunting came closer and closer, and claxons had started to ring out on the staging field as the tournament organizers detected the self-destruct energy building. Rollers scrambled to get away. The mechs in the parking area, those still capable of escape, started to lumber off into the desert. The com was filled with panicked voices.

  “Come on, come on!” Clay shouted.

  “I am trying my best!” Gibbons shouted back as he yanked and yanked at the leg.

  Metal started to warp and tear. Gibbons worked the mech’s fingers between two struts and pulled. One strut popped and the mech began to teeter to one side. The second strut popped, and suddenly Clay felt the world go sideways.

  The mech collapsed onto its side and Gibbons didn’t waste a second. Hand over hand, he pulled them away from Bunting’s mech. He shoved with the one leg still attached, and was making progress when Bunting’s mech went critical. An automatic countdown started on the screen next to Clay. It was Gibbons’ estimation of how long they had until Bunting went thermo on their ass.

  Four seconds.

  Gibbons clawed across the battle field, aimed right for the white line. Estimations said that if he could get them there, they wouldn’t be destroyed. They’d take some major damage from the shrapnel, but complete destruction was only a fifteen percent likelihood.