Текст книги "Decision at Thunder Rift"

Автор книги: Уильям Кейт

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14

 

"Hold it right there, Warrior!" he yelled, then gulped down a breath to control the shaking in his voice. "One twitch of any of those weapons and you're cooked. Scan me and see if I'm bluffing!"

Seconds dragged on. The Locust'slaser was canted down at the ground some distance in front of Grayson, and its machine guns remained rigidly immobile, trained across the street at the corner of the building opposite. Grayson stood upright, in full view, with the green image of the towering Locustfilling the crosshaired sights of his launcher, his finger tight on the trigger.

He gave the pilot a moment to scan the electronic emanations of the armed triggering circuits in his missile warheads. "You can kill me," he called again, "but you'll fry! Your heat exchangers must be up to shutdown mode by now. One round of Willie-Pete will finish you. And that's a very nasty way to go!"

The Locustpilot spoke, the voice electronically reproduced in a gravelly, amplified bass. "What do you want?"

"Don't touch your weapons. I want you to come out of there, unarmed. If I even imagineI see a weapon move in my direction, I'll fire!"

There was a pause, and Grayson could hear the sharp ping of hot metal cooling on the 'Mech's hull, could smell the sour-rubber stink of melted circuit insulation. The temperature inside must be...

"All right," said the pilot. "Don't shoot, I'm coming out." The electronically-produced voice could not register emotion, but to Grayson it sounded tired, perhaps resigned.

He remained standing as though the launcher on his shoulder were cast in bronze. From the Locustcame the sharp hiss of a broken pressure seal and the rasp of a hatch winched open by hand. There was a clatter, and a metal-runged chain ladder spilled out of the hatch, jiggling half a meter from the ground.

City militia troops were entering the cul-de-sac entrance now, weapons held ready. The Mech Warrior's legs appeared from the Locust'sbelly hatch, and it became apparent that the pilot was female. Scarcely more than a girl, she was dressed only in slippers and a scrap of black panty briefs. MechWarriors generally fought scantily clad in the hothouse confines of their machines, and she had not had time to get dressed before coming out. Her long blond hair hung in dank wet strands across her shoulders, and her body glistened with sweat After stepping down from the ladder, she stood facing them with arms folded across her breasts, alone and very vulnerable.

"Hey, hey," a soldier said with a nasty laugh. "Look-a-here, look-a-here! We caught us a prize, we did! Get those hands up! Behind your head!"

"Looks dangerous," another said. He shouldered his assault rifle and started toward her. "I think we'd better search her!"

"Yeah! C'mere, baby. We gotta check your uniform for concealed weapons."

Grayson set the rocket launcher aside, stepped over to where a sergeant stood watching, and pulled the pistol from the man's hip holster. It was a Stetta auto pistol, with a selector switch that let it fire single shots, bursts, or wildly inaccurate full-auto mayhem from an extended grip magazine holding 100 caseless rounds.

He snapped the selector from safe to full auto, pointed the muzzle into the air, and pulled the trigger. The snapping chatter of the deadly little weapon, shocking in the confined space between buildings, slopped the soldiers where they were, spun them around to face him.

"The first one to touch her dies." He waited, the weapon smoking in his hand. Though the challenge was a bit melodramatic, it had the desired effect. Every eye was on him.

"You!" He pointed the weapon at the two who had started toward the captured pilot. "Back to the vehicles. MOVE!" They scrambled to obey. "You!" He picked another soldier at random. "There's a blanket in my vehicle. Get it."

The trooper dashed back to the PPC carrier on the double to retrieve an orange rescue blanket that had been folded on the floor of the welldeck. Grayson took it from him, walked over to the girl, and draped it over her shoulders. Aware of all eyes upon him, he was careful not to touch her. "It's okay," he said, "put your hands down. We won't hurt you. I promise."

The spell was broken, as his impromptu unit began cheering and capering in the street. They had captured a 'Mech intact! Grayson had to shout now to be heard above the clamor. "Sergeant!"

The man snapped to attention. "Sir!"

"Detail two men to guard that 'Mech!" He put the safety back on the pistol, but tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. "I'm going to borrow this, if you don't mind.”

"Yessir!"

"Now I need someone to take me and the prisoner to your headquarters. I'd better talk to your bosses before this make-believe goes any further!"

* * * *

Lord Harimandir Singh contemplated the ruin of his career. How could it have happened? Five 'Mechs and two companies of troops had stormed a defenseless city, and what had been the outcome? One 'Mech destroyed. Another captured. A third limping into the Repair Bay with fused pedal servoactuators and the right-leg jump-jet electronics melted into scrap, the liquid-mercury fuel core leaking great silver globbets that dripped down the leg and scurried across the deck like mice. Hell, his chief Tech, pursed his gloomy features and shook his head. The Waspmight need an entire leg replacement. The damage was severe.

And 32 of his troops had not come back. Stragglers were still checking in, though, and so perhaps the final butcher's bill might not be that high.

Three 'Mechs down out of five and ten percent casualties in his battalion. What the bloody hell had happened? It could only be that the local forces had had some help. The crippled Wasp'spilot had reported that the indigs were organized differently from the way they'd fought during Singh's initial probe of the city's defense just a few hours before. Was it possible, he wondered, that their earlier inept defense had been a ruse to draw him into a trap?

He quickly rejected that line of thought No commander would throw lives away on such a slender chance. Anyway, it would be harder to get professional troops to act stupid than the other way around. Besides, Vallendel's Marauderhad smashed through the light assembly of armor and ground troops that had met him on the north rim of the city. There had been nothing different there, no new strategy or secret defense to turn the tide against the attackers. Most of those troops had scattered and fled through the city streets without even firing a shot

No, it was more likely that King Jeverid had brought in mercenaries to stiffen his defenses, but Singh couldn't fathom from where these forces had come or when they had arrived. And where had they been during the earlier attack? Or during the attack on Carlyle at the Castle? It was possible that a mercenary training cadre was operating in the city and that Jeverid possessed at least one competent as fighter unit. Though that might explain things, Singh wouldn't feel comfortable until he learned who these mercenaries were.

Briefly, he considered withdrawing from the Castle to the ship or abandoning Trellwan entirely. But that would contradict the Red Duke's Plan, not something a member of the Duke's entourage ever did lightly. No, he must consider this a setback, but the Plan would still succeed. It had to. If it didn't, even after all these years of faithful service, it might be HIS head on a pike above the parade ground. The thought was not comforting.

Singh would contact his agents in Sarghad and learn what he could. Perhaps, in the end, it would work out best if there werea mercenary unit in the city. Mercenaries could always be bought. Some of history's most splendid victories were the result of carefully timed changes in a selected Merc unit's loyalties.

* * * *

Grayson Death Carlyle enjoyed being the hero. Forty hours after the end of what was already called the Battle of Sarghad, he was a guest at the Palace, having been fussed over by grooms and servants, attended by the Palace physician, and received a spectacular change of clothes. He checked the fit of the trim Guards Lieutenant uniform in the wall-sized mirror in his suite. Not bad, he decided, tugging the short jacket into place. The ornate gold chasing and piping across the dark green, triple-looped aiguillette and the ceremonial sword were a bit gaudy, but it wasn't bad at all.

He and his female prisoner had been taken to the headquarters of General Varney, Commandant of the Sarghad Militia Military District. The girl had been hustled away into the depths of the building for questioning, but the lieutenant who was officer of the day had been less certain what to do with Grayson.

Here was a young man dressed in rags and caked with mud and grime, armed with an automatic pistol and leading a MechWarrior prisoner in a blanket. The man claimed to be a stranded member of Carlyle's Commandos, and the soldiers with him claimed he had just single-handedly won the Battle of Sarghad. The officer quickly realized that immediate and confident action was called for. He called his superior officer. Let HIM decide what to make of it all!

Grayson had been passed rather quickly up the line of command from the lieutenant to a captain to a major to a colonel to General Varney's chief of staff and finally had been introduced to the General himself. None of these Militia officers had quite known what to do with him. The story was spreading through the city that an offworlder, an officer of the garrison that had betrayed Trellwan, had stayed in Sarghad and organized the heroic defense of the city.

Grayson was rapidly becoming a political issue. In the end, the army officers did the safest thing. They gave him food and much-needed sleep, brought in a doctor to tape up his ribs and attend to his reopened head wound, and presented him early the next work period to King Jeverid's military council. By the end of the period, he had had a private audience with Jeverid himself and been invited to stay in the palace as a guest of His Majesty while preparations were made for the victory celebration.

As he examined his new Guard's uniform with continuing wonderment, Grayson was still not sure whether he was supposed to be an actual member of the Palace Guard now or not. He had, not been formally inducted into anybody's army, but the uniform had been ordered at His Highness' command so that he would look the part, at least, of a hero. Bureaucratic details, the King had said, could be fussed with later.

It was amazing, Grayson thought, how quickly official government policy could be reversed. Before the battle, offworlders of any type had been persona non grata. Had he been caught by those troopers who had chased him through the alley, he would have wound up in Sarghad's prison, at best. Trellwan's constitution protected its citizens from unreasonable search, seizure, and imprisonment without cause, but his rights as a presumed hostile non-citizen would have been decidedly limited. Now, however, he was the Victor of Sarghad, the valiant Commonwealth officer who had triumphed over the common foe. The King's publicity ministers had worked overtime the night before, preparing the story for newshcets and vid broadcasts today. And tonight, there was to be a formal ceremony and dress ball at the Palace Reception Hall honoring his service to Trellwan.

The door chimed, breaking into Grayson's thoughts. Opening it, he was startled to see the elfin face and wide, dark eyes of Mara.

"My love," she said, pulling her arms around a bewildered Grayson. He had expected to see her at the celebration, of course, but not before. It struck him oddly, too, that she greeted him as "my love". Never, not even during their stolen moments of lovemaking, had she ever called him that But the thought was soon forgotten.

"Mara, how did you get in here?"

"I bribed old Salin to let me come up," she laughed. Salin was the Assistant Court Chamberlain, charged with overseeing Grayson's sartorial preparations for the banquet "I wanted to see you, wanted to have you to myself for a bit before the party began." She clung to him. "I've missed you, Gray. I heard you were trying to reach me. I'm so sorry you couldn't..."

His eyes feasted on her. If this were part and parcel of being a planetary hero, he was all for it. Mara wore a gown fashionable in Sarghadese society, an airy thing of shifting, opaque colors that turned transparent where it clung to her body. He held her close and smiled, knowing he would not arrive on time at the Reception Hall.

That evening, the pleasures of being a hero evaporated somewhat when Grayson realized he didn't have the faintest idea of what he was doing here. People he had never seen before bowed and smiled, nodded and smiled, asked after his health and complimented him on his victory. About all he could do was smile and nod and mumble something in return, as the currents of the crowd gendy washed him into its center. This was, he learned, the premier event of Trellwan's social season. Everyone who was anyone was there.

King Jeverid, was, by tradition, the last to arrive. When he finally made his entrance on the raised stage at the end of the Reception Hall opposite the stairs, the presentation began. Grayson felt even more out of place as he mounted the crimson-carpeted stairs to the King, accompanied by the flourish of the orchestra playing a triumphal march and a pair of sword-bearing Guards officers on either side of him. He'd already met the King privately, of course, and his own choreography in these precedings had been elaborately explained and rehearsed. Still, Grayson struggled with an almost unendurable premonition that he was about to trip over his own ceremonial sword.

Jeverid acknowledged him with a nod and murmured, "My son." The King seemed ancient, his skin parchment, his eyes dull. Jeverid's frail body seemed lost in the crimson cloak that was draped across his shoulders.

"Your Majesty," was Grayson's formal reply.

"Your valor has won for Trellwan a great victory," Jeverid intoned. "What's more, our strategists have determined that the object of the attack on this palace was almost certainly our capture or murder. We recognize your bravery, young Grayson, and the fact that you have single-handedly saved the Royal House of Trellwan."

"I had the help of your soldiers, Majesty."

Grayson's reply had not been in the script, and the King's advisors stirred uncomfortably. "Oh, yes. To be sure, to be sure," replied the monarch of Trellwan. "As a token of our gratitude and appreciation, young Grayson, we award you the Order of the Crimson Star."

Jeverid gestured, and a steward brought him a flat, velvet box and opened it. The King then lifted from the box an ornate starburst on a red loop of ribbon. Grayson advanced, knelt, and bowed his head while Jeverid placed the ribbon around his neck. The starburst was mounted with a small, red stone that caught and reflected the overhead light.

"Rise, Carlyle, Defender of Sarghad," said the King, setting off an echoing roar of applause from the crowd.

Jeverid set a hand on Grayson's shoulder and drew him close, speaking above the noise. "A couple of my generals want to talk to you, m'boy. Seems you impressed 'em with your... ah... tactics."

"I'll be delighted to help in any way I can, Majesty."

"Good, good. Go enjoy yourself now. They'll find you later."

15

 

The audience was ended, and the agony of the formal reception began. Grayson endured more matronly women, junior officers venturing their opinions on anti-Mech tactics, and the inevitable social hangers-on who wanted to talk with the Court's newest light. It was almost a relief when the ball began. The art of the formal dance had not been one of the social graces instilled in him by his apprenticeship training with the Commandos, but Grayson had acquired enough basic skill to blend in with the colorful crowd. Formal dancing on this world, at least, was little more than graceful movement to slow music, with a girl held in a comfortably close embrace.

And then it was Mara in his arms, a sweet-smelling armful wearing that magical translucence that left so little to the imagination.

"I told you once before you wouldn't be leaving me yet," she whispered in his ear as they glided across the mirrored floor, their movements matched by the movements of their own inverted reflections.

The comment stung unexpectedly. His staying on Trellwan was the result of so many tragedies – Griffith, Riviera, Ari... Dad...

"I wish it could be under happier circumstances."

"Pooh, don't be so gloomy!" she pouted. "I'm just glad you're here, and that you're here to stay! You belong here,... with me."

"Oh?"

"You do your new uniform quite proud, Gray," she whispered, then leaned closer to whisper how they might spend the rest of the evening after the reception.

He forced a smile and drew her eloper, but there was a strange emptiness where his feelings for Mara had formerly been. What was wrong with him? The passionate fire of his last meeting with her had been wiped away by all that had happened since the first attack on the Castle. Grayson recognized that he had changed, starting with the dulling of his desire for Mara. The girl had been a pleasant diversion before the Pact with Oberon, but he had been willing enough to break off their relationship when he had learned the Lance was leaving this sand-miserable world for Tharkad. There could never have been any thought of her coming with him to share the life of a warrior. He'd known her well enough to realize she would never leave the comfort and privilege of Trellwan's Royal household. When he'd awakened to find himself marooned on the planet, Grayson wanted to see Mara because it was possible her influence could rescue him. Though such a mercenary attitude had brought on some nagging guilt, it had been his only ray of hope.

A tap on the shoulder and a murmured invitation from a Guard Colonel interrupted Grayson's darkening thoughts. Mara was reluctant to let him go, but she whispered another steamy proposal and scaled it with a lingering kiss.

Then Grayson followed the guard out of the Reception Hall, down a carpeted passageway to a richly furnished study. The room was dim, lit mainly by the greenish glow of native chaggawood logs burning in the fireplace.

Three men awaited him there. General Varney he knew, white-haired and immaculate in his plain brown uniform with the red tabs of the Militia at throat and shoulders. General Adel he had met briefly earlier. He was younger, with a black mustache that contrasted the silver at his temples. Senior Commandant of the Palace Guards, as well as Chief of Staff for His Majesty's Military Council, Adel's full-dress greens showed more gold than green.

The third man in the room remained seated by the fireplace. Grayson recognized the hawk profile of King Jeverid.

"Thank you for coming, son," said Varney. "We have a proposal to make to you.”

“Yes, sir?"

Adel lowered the drink he'd been sipping. "Carlyle, we'll get right to the point. We want you to organize a 'Mech Lance to be incorporated into the Palace Guard. We want a combat company of ground troops trained in anti-Mech warfare. Can you do it?"

Varney looked sharply at his Guard counterpart. "I believe the idea is for the Lance to be under joint command, in a department of its own, General."

Adel nodded, his expression pained. "Yes, Varney, yes." Then, he turned to Grayson. "Well, Carlyle? What do you say?"

Grayson said nothing at first. With the eyes of all three men on him, he felt he wanted to hide. "Sirs... Majesty... I don't really know what to say. I'm not sure I have the experience to..."

"Ha!" The King's exclamation startled him. "You've got a damn sight more experience than anyone else on this planet... except for those bastards sitting up there in the Castle."

"We need your help, son," Varney added. "We're helpless without trained soldiers and the mobile firepower and armor to back them up."

Jerevid turned to Grayson full face, and his eyes flashed as he spoke. Grayson realized with some surprise that there was more to this king than a dull mind in a frail body. The King spoke with animation. "Varney here tells me you outfought those 'Mechs practically bare-handed, because you knew how they worked, how their drivers would think. That's what we need here."

"But Majesty, what about 'Mechs?"

"What about 'em? We have two, thanks to you. There's the one you captured and another we can repair. And anything more you capture is yours!"

Grayson considered the potential of a 'Mech Lance consisting of two 20-ton 'Mechs. Typical Lances contained a mix of 'Mech weights and types, ranging from 20-tonner lights to the heavies like Shadow Hawksand Marauders.A Locustand a Waspmight last all of 20 seconds in a stand-up fight against a Marauder.With luck, that is.

"Just what is it this 'Mech Lance is supposed to do?"

Adel took another sip from his glass. "The withdrawal of Carlyle's men has left us wide open to bandits like Hendrik." He pursed his lips judiciously. "I'm not going to comment on just what it was your people were trying to pull with that Pact we've heard so much about."

"Then don't," said Jeverid.

"Yes, Majesty. Be that as it may, the Commonwealth garrison is gone, and our enemies are here. We expect them to continue raiding us for supplies and perhaps to send out a call for reinforcements

"You dealt them a terrible blow, Grayson. Our scouts report they only have two serviceable 'Mechs left now, with another damaged and another being refitted in the Castle. Why, with your skill and a pair of 'Mechs of our own, the Guard could cripple those bastards, make it so they'd never send another expedition to Trellwan again. We need a 'Mech unit of our own if we're going to protect ourselves and our sovereignty. Without it..." He shrugged expressively. "We might as well sign ourselvesover to Hendrik. We're helpless."

A Locustand a Waspagainst a Marauderand a Stinger,plus a Shadow Hawk,once the enemy repaired the machine that had been crippled before the attack. That meant a combined combat tonnage of 40 tons against 150. And perhaps against more if the bandits were able to repair that leg-damaged Wasp.One-to-four odds, near enough. What the hell, Grayson thought wryly. All in a day's work... Assuming, of course, that he would be able to find and train someone to pilot the second 'Mech. He could not simply recruit some likely private from the ranks of the Guards and turn him into a MechWarrior. Piloting that much metal required training-honed skills and talent that few possessed and that even fewer could apply.

Something told him these men did not want to hear about stats and specifications, or the problems of recruiting. More emotional protests tumbled forth. "Sir, I'm afraid I'm in way over my head here. Look, I'm 20 standard years old." These people expected the impossible!

"You've piloted 'Mechs before, haven't you?" This from Varney.

"Yes, but I've never had one in combat What happened out there was just luck. And I certainly wouldn't know how to lead a unit." That wasn't exactly accurate, Grayson knew. His training as a MechWarrior included leadership and small unit tactics. If he was to follow in the five-meter stride of his father, he would have to know how to lead men. He had been trained for the role he'd been expected to play in the event his father had been killed. But dammit, things were happening loo fast

Varney said, "Son, we have the statements of the men you led in the battle for the city. When an entire GEV detachment had been cut to pieces, you were the only one there to DO something. You rallied those trooops, and you knocked out a 'Mech. That's not easy, and it wasn'tluck!"

The reality of what these men were saying was gradually penetrating Grayson's consciousness. They wanted HIM to be a 'MechWarrior. More, to build a MechWarrior Lance from scratch and lead it in battle. The protests gibbering in his mind were being outweighed by the single fact that more than half his life had been directed toward a single destiny – the cockpit of a BattleMech. It was an opportunity he was not likely to encounter again. Would neverencounter again if he were unable to buy or beg passage offplanet. Without a 'Mech of his own, his chances of joining a 'Mech unit were virtually nil.

Excitement stirred within him. Perhaps there was something to Mara's conviction that he belonged here. With scant hope of getting off planet for years to come, maybe there was a place for the Victor of Sarghad here on Trellwan after all!

Those one-to-four odds were unattractive, but not totally discouraging. The Locustwould be a start, and with planning and a little luck...

"Tell me more," he told the generals, and the King leaned back in his chair, his old face creased by a satisfied grin.