And since defeating Sha would be a win in Petr’s book, it would more than do.

Tumbled Heights, Near Halifax

Vanderfox, Adhafera

Prefecture VII, The Republic

14 July 3134

“What other outcome did you expect?” Sha said, his voice a winter breeze wafting through the desert wastes of Petr’s heated cockpit.

“Come now, ovKhan, we both know where this will lead. Accept it. Give in to the inevitable.”

The almost imperceptible whiff of blood he previously smelled now screamed in his nostrils as a river of life streamed slowly down his right biceps from the shoulder wound. Petr hunched forward, trying to rest his right elbow firmly on the command couch armrest. He still needed to manipulate the joystick, but wanted to take as much weight off the shoulder as possible. Eddies of waste heat caressed the hairs on his legs and arms, while sweat drenched him, mingling with his blood, quickening its flow, hastening his eventual death.

Using the foot pedals, he hunkered down a little more in the ravine, hoping the stone contained enough trace metals to throw off Sha’s magscan; the humidity might, might, soak up enough heat to fool a thermal scan as well… provided Sha didn’t simply stumble upon his hiding spot.

“Petr,” that seductive voice crooned, using his first name for the first time, “why delay? Let us end these Rituals of Combat and we shall both view the final few pairings of the Trial of Bloodright; watch as my Beta warrior takes the Bloodname. A fitting capstone to Beta seizing the Rituals of Combat.”

Petr would not be roused by Sha’s barbed words. After all, that was what got him into this mess.

Though high in humidity, the day held the quality of emerging from a long darkness into the promise of a new tomorrow. Today spheroids would be out in droves, cleaning their cars and lawns, running errands, visiting friends, making quick plans for picnics and barbecues. The sun danced merry light across lush ground—verdant fields that spoke of a need to be happy, to enjoy the day and all its unspoken promises.

“I know the promise I need fulfilled today,” Petr spoke softly, as he brought his Tiburon up to a full sprint of almost 120 kilometers an hour. The pounding rhythm of the run felt like the drumming beat of a Marik Jazzilues band he heard the last time they made a port of call, brought a smile to his face, as he began moving at an oblique angle to Sha’s oncoming Sphinx.

He tapped through several maps to bring up the best topographical of the area, locked his threat assessment screen onto Sha’s ’Mech. Unlike most of the ’Mechs participating this day, both the Sphinx and his own Tiburon mounted medium– to short-range weaponry. As such, they would close to a ridiculously short distance before targeting could be sure and true.

“So, ovKhan Petr, have you come to settle for a tie for Delta Aimag?” The calm of Sha’s voice emerged in his neurohelmet. The heat in his chest mimicked the burning within the heart of his Tiburon.

“Why should I settle for a mere tie, Sha, when I can win?”

“And how, ovKhan, can that occur? Have you created a new math to go with your recklessness?”

Petr laughed, drenching the airwaves with sarcasm.

The ’Mechs closed rapidly. Though considerably slower than his own ride, Sha’s Sphinx still held respectable speed. It also mounted massive armor, weighed twice as much as his Tiburon and mounted a mind-numbing ten extended-range medium lasers. Of course, that very firepower could be its undoing. It could fire only a fraction of them without overheating; firing them all would generate heat no number of heat sinks could dissipate safely, triggering an automatic shutdown—and Petr would hold the surat by the short hairs.

It would come down to superior skill; though the Tiburon carried a far superior targeting computer, they both mounted weapons of the same range. Though each warrior angled for terrain, they would let fly their armaments at the same moments. The better hair-trigger finger, the better hand-eye coordination to line up a shot against such rapidly moving targets, would score first.

At the last possible moment, Petr planted the Tiburon’s left foot on what he prayed would be firm ground. Stomped down on the left pedal and literally leaned to the left, the whine of the gyro mounted below his feet screaming to a crescendo that sunk into his lower jawbone joint—a painful, sympathetic vibration almost chattering his teeth as the ’Mech wrenched to the left in an amazing display of piloting skill.

At the same moment, his right hand guided the targeting reticule onto the Sphinx. It flashed a golden hue and the soft chime of lock rang in his ear; his index finger caressed the trigger, setting off his primary targeting interlock circuit.

A perceptual time dilation washed around him. Petr could practically feel the workings of his ’Mech. Almost became the energy surging through wiring toward the quartet of medium lasers waiting with barely concealed energy to savage a foe of his choosing; became the fusion reactor spiking its power output to compensate for the drain; became the targeting computer as it ran algorithms, plotting numerous solutions, choosing one and unleashing coherent beams of air-shattering strength; became bundles of photons as they slashed into the onrushing Sphinx like giant sun swords, carving off almost two tons of armor like a kitchen vibroblade cleaves off meat from a turkey at Sunday dinner.

Reality returned in a rush of victory; the return assault missed completely, sending up multiple sprays of explosive steam as puddles and damp earth flash-heated under the onslaught.

Petr hunched the Tiburon slightly and continued the almost breakneck zigzagging; he made his way toward a small copse. He finally responded.

“I will win, Sha, because I will beat you.” His previous luxurious feeling peaked to a climax as his skills became one with his ’Mech. Repeated counterassault slashes of superheated photons failed to even stroke a touch across armor, much less do real damage.

The small copse covered no more than an eighth of a kilometer on any one side, but it provided plenty of breathing space; that last volley came a little too close. Just like Jesup before him (even more so), one good slap from the Sphinx and all of his previous pinpricks against Sha would be for naught.

“How like you,” Sha said. Petr hesitated, slowed slightly, struck by the timbre of Sha’s voice. Though computer reproduced, the voice managed to retain a quality of …what? Sadness? Regret? Suddenly he understood, and his rage seared his insides as though his ’Mech were overheating. Pity. Sha pitied him? Him!

Without conscious thought, Petr manipulated the foot pedals and angled the Tiburon back around in a arcing sweep, building his speed back up, bringing him back toward Sha.

That Sha would pity him!

“Ah, come back to play, I see,” Sha said in his infuriatingly cool voice; he unleashed a sextet of lasers as the Tiburon cleared the copse, half of which ripped into the ’Mech’s legs like a beast with winter’s hunger savaging its first victim of spring. The damage schematic lit up across the bottom of the display—angry red smears that spoke of imminent black.

“Stravag,” Petr cursed, riding the storm of damage as armor cascaded off his ’Mech, using the neurohelmet and its feedback keyed to the gyro to keep the Tiburon on its feet. Sha goaded him into it.

He closed with the copse and then played me like an instrument. Try as he might, his rage only built—at himself, at the situation.