by Andrew Keith
Of course, McCall remained too much a rebel to adopt the complete Legion dress uniform, even on the Day of Heroes. His kilt and sporran made him look more like one of the locals than a member of the Gray Death, but that was a point of pride on which he wouldn't compromise. McCall was a native of the planet Caledonia, right here in the Isle of Skye, and had been a card-carrying member of the planet's Jacobite Party until circumstances had forced him to seek a new life as a mercenary. He'd been with Grayson Carlyle almost from the beginning, and his record over the years was more than enough to justify McCall's occasional eccentricities.
Much had changed in thirty years with Grayson Death Carlyle. When McCall had first joined up on Galatea, the mercenary clearinghouse world, Carlyle had been a youngster barely out of his teens. His handful of BattleMechs and cadre of infantry trained in radical new anti-'Mech tactics had just survived a desperate struggle against House Kurita on the remote world of Trellwan. McCall hadn't been too sure of the scratch unit's prospects, but Carlyle had been the only commander willing to hire a maverick with a checkered past and a reputation for more independence than most officers liked to see in their troops.
The fighting on Verthandi and afterward had led both men to reassess their initial wary views of one another. Grayson Carlyle had proved to be a genuine tactical genius, with a flair for doing the unexpected and turning hopeless situations into incredible victories. And Davis McCall, stubborn, independent, outspoken, had stood firm beside Carlyle in every battle. Unquestioning loyalty was something McCall didn't offer very often, but Carlyle had earned it a dozen times over.
Now the Gray Death Legion was no merc understrength company. It was a mixed regiment today, with five full companies of BattleMechs and a substantial force of infantry, armor, and aerospace support. There were more men drawn up this morning on the large parade ground behind the Residence than had shipped out to Verthandi during McCall's first mission, and half the Legion was currently off-planet defending the Tamar frontier against a rumored Clan attack. The mass of officers and men in their somber dress grays made an impressive block, framed on either side by the more colorfully dressed troops of Glengarry's Planetary Guard in their kilts and light-colored tunics. Behind them an honor guard of four BattleMechs, the recon lance of the Gray Death Companions, loomed, over the parade ground like huge monuments to the vanity of men.
McCall took a last look across the parade ground, then turned his critical gaze toward the reviewing stand. Senior Legion officers, members of the Governor General's staff, and a few selected dignitaries from Dunkeld filled most of the seats. His glance stopped as it met the piercing, dark eyes of Major Gomez Cristobal de Villar, another of the Gray Death's long-service veterans who had risen to senior rank. De Villar had once led the Legion's recon lance and doubled as the resident expert in explosives and demolitions. Today he was commander of the First Battalion and Chief of Operations on Grayson Carlyle's staff, acting CO in the colonel's absence. The saturnine MechWarrior from Bolan gave McCall a thin-lipped smile that still showed a hint of the old recklessness that had made him a Gray Death legend.
The man who had once relished living on the edge had mellowed quite a bit since the days when he'd enjoyed playing with live explosives just to see the startled looks of his fellow Legionnaires. Marriage, and the three children that had followed, had helped de Villar set down solid roots. One of those children was in the current cadet class, and another was attached to Colonel Carlyle's personal staff as an aide. The third had died on Sudeten.
De Villar's wife, Freya, sat beside him. Also there was her brother, Master Tech Major Alard King, another of the old Legion hands. To King went the credit for the Gray Death's success in copying the old Star League library core back on Helm. Older and grayer now, King was still a top technician who frequently grumbled about the administrative duties that fell to the Legion's ranking support services officer. He still preferred to get down and dirty with his men instead of being chained to a desk. As for Freya, she had joined the Legion after Helm, recruited by her brother as one of the unit's scouts. Though she still held a commission as captain, these days she devoted most of her time to her husband, rarely appearing at Legion functions. She would be reliving some bitter memories today, McCall thought. Enrique de Villar, the youngest of her sons, had been taken prisoner by the Clans, but had died under interrogation rather than reveal what he knew about the unit's evacuation plans.
Standing beside Alard King was another familiar figure, someone McCall would never have expected to see here. Charles Bear, the big Amerindian from Tau Ceti II, had left the Legion soon after the reassignment to Glengarry. Having dreamed all his life of performing the traditional act of bravery of his people, counting coup on an enemy in battle, Bear had finally achieved his goal on Pandora. Afterward he had simply retired, accepting from Grayson Carlyle a huge estate in the Glencoe Highlands in the southern uplands of Scotia. He withdrew there to live as a recluse, seeing no one, apparently content to leave the old life behind. Bear noticed McCall's look and gave a curt nod of acknowledgment, his face expressionless. McCall couldn't help but wonder what was going on behind those blank eyes. What memories did these ceremonies stir in the big man's heart?
His quick visual survey finished, McCall took his own seat near the podium and gave the signal for the ceremony to begin. To a fanfare by the Legion's band, the junior cadet Mech Warrior, Harrison Gates, walked to the podium. It was traditional for the newest 'Mech pilot in the outfit to begin the Day of Heroes with a short introduction of Colonel Carlyle or, in this case, his surrogate.
"Legionnaires!" Gates said, looking nervous but trying to cover it with loud enthusiasm. "Colonel Grayson Carlyle and his lady have been honored with a summons to Tharkad, and so cannot address us today. But the colonel's son and heir is here to represent his father. I'm proud to say that Alexander Durant Carlyle and I serve together in the Cadet Company, and though I've only been a member for a month I have already come to respect Alex Carlyle as a fine MechWarrior, a dedicated legionnaire, and, I hope, a new friend. I give you . . . Cadet Alexander Durant Carlyle."
The younger Carlyle stepped to the podium, pausing to shake hands with Gates and say something too quietly for McCall to hear. Alex looked every bit the soldier in his crisp dress grays, and McCall gave a quick, approving nod. Despite the young man's problems back at Brander, he carried himself like a born leader. Once he overcame his current difficulties he was sure to go far. Watching Alex slip the memory chip of his speech into the electronic tele-prompter on the lectern, McCall was reminded of the young Grayson Carlyle, masking his personal doubts behind an aura of confidence and ability back on Galatea. Now Alex was speaking, his voice quiet and even, his words all the more forceful for the calm authority of his tone.
"Today, by the old Terran calendar, is the first day of April," he began. "Twenty-eight standard years ago on this date the Gray Death legion fought a series of battles on the planet Helm that ended in a retreat from that world, but it was in no way a defeat. On that day, the Gray Death recovered an important Star League computer core while holding off superior forces sent by House Marik in a treacherous attempt to crush the Legion. The unit then withdrew to successfully escape from the planet's surface."
Alex paused to look around the gathering before going on. "The battles on Helm showed the Gray Death Legion at its finest. Betrayed, we refused to surrender. Pressed to the limits of endurance, we did not abandon the knowledge of the Star League to be destroyed or misused by our enemies. And, outnumbered, we still fought on. That is what it means to be a part of the Gray Death Legion.
"Many good men lost their lives in the fighting on Helm, and others have died fighting for the Gray Death before and since that fateful day. My father chose to set aside this anniversary of the struggle on Helm to honor those heroes who have fallen in the service of our Legion. Their names and their deeds will live in our hearts forever, whether they were foot soldiers or MechWarriors. And though it would be impossible t
o recount all their stories here today, we can remember them all, honor them all, as the heroes they proved themselves to be."
As the speech rolled on, McCall's eyes were on young Carlyle, but in his mind he was seeing other men and women he'd been proud to call his comrades. Delmar Clay had been his lance mate and best friend before the last battle on Sudeten. And Isoru Koga, the ronin MechWarrior driven out of Kurita space by the false accusations of a rival in his old regiment. Koga had perished in 'Mech-to-'Mech fighting with his old enemy, delivering the attack that destroyed his opponent's machine while his own life trickled away from a mortal wound in his gut.
Blake and Sharpley had died in action on a pair of obscure Kurita frontier worlds during the War of 3039, while Sharyl, the tech-turned-MechWarrior from Dahar IV, had decided to move on after the conflict had wound down. The only active MechWarriors out of the original band were Grayson and his wife Lori, Tracy Kent, de Villar, and Major Hassan Ali Khaled, away with Second Battalion on far-off Borghese.
Other names, other feces came to mind. Tough old Ramage, who had commanded the infantry in the early days, then moved on to become weapons master before McCall, had died as he had lived, fighting, watching Grayson Carlyle's back in the middle of a savage clash with the Clans on Pandora. And Renfred Tor, the merchant JumpShip captain who had been one of Carlyle's first companions. He was the only one of them who had died in bed, leaving a daughter to carry on the family business. As captain of the old Invidious, Katrina Tor was the Gray Death's senior ship captain. Like Khaled, she was away with the other half of the Legion.
And there had been so many others. Sometimes these Day of Heroes remembrances made McCall wonder why he stayed with it. A mercenary's life was a grim one, filled with danger and discomfort and the certain knowledge that unending war would surely claim every comrade, if not today, then perhaps tomorrow. Once McCall had seen nothing but the glory and the honor. Now he knew better. He had lost his first BattleMech, an eye and an arm, and countless people he had once called friend.
He closed his eyes for a moment, still seeing those others. Sometimes he thought of giving it up, like Bear. He was fifty-five years old. The life of a Mech Warrior was for young men who still had the reflexes and eagerness of youth. It had been almost two years since McCall had piloted a BattleMech in combat, though he still got in cockpit time in the trainer 'Mechs he took out against his cadets. These days he often wondered if he could still measure up in a real battle.
It was a life that was slipping out of his grasp, but it was still the only life Davis McCall knew.
* * *
"The Day of Heroes is a day of remembrance," Alex Carlyle was saying. "Not to mourn lost friends, but to celebrate their deeds and keep their memories alive. For as long as there is one member of the Gray Death Legion who remembers his comrades from days past, those legionnaires will remain a part of our grand tradition."
He stepped back from the podium, giving way to Cadet Gates again. As Alex took his place in an empty chair between McCall and de Villar, he heard an insistent beeping from the latter's wristcomp. De Villar frowned and touched a stud on the device.
"It is not normally the custom for civilians to address the Legion on the Day of Heroes celebrations," Gates was saying. "Today, at the suggestion of Colonel Carlyle, we are relaxing this tradition to permit the Governor General of Glengarry to join us. His Excellency, Governor General DeVries ..."
Alex studied de Villar, only, half hearing the cadet's introduction. The major's frown deepened as he listened to the voice being transmitted through his wristcomp to a tiny speaker adhering just behind his ear.
Then de Villar rose abruptly, touching McCall on the shoulder. Without hesitation, the Caledonian rose too and followed his superior off the platform. Alex watched them leave with a sense of foreboding. Only the most urgent problem would prompt any of the Gray Death's watchstanders to interrupt these solemn proceedings.
Alex wasn't the only one to notice the two majors leaving. A faint stir passed through the crowd and the Governor General paused before taking his place at the lectern, his eyes narrowed. Then he stepped forward, as if dismissing the interruption.
Roger DeVries was tall, silver-haired, and distinguished, with a thin gray mustache that made him look all the more aristocratic. He gave a half-bow as he gazed out at the assembled legionnaires. When he began to speak, his words were measured and smooth, but delivered with a grave dignity.
"Soldiers of the Gray Death Legion," he began, "I cannot convey in words my pleasure at being here with you today, saluting your fallen comrades and remembering the past deeds that have made yours one of the premier mercenary units in the Inner Sphere. Your colonel has honored me by permitting my attendance. But while we remember the past, let us also look to the future, to what we can do to forge new hope and new prosperity for the world of Glengarry."
Alex Carlyle barely heard the Governor General. His mind had traveled far from the parade ground podium, was focused instead on McCall and de Villar and on a hundred questions about what kind of crisis might have called them away.
9
Glengarry, Skye March
Federated Commonwealth
1 April 3056
The Planetary Defense Command Center was buried deep beneath the rock and earth of Castle Hill, a reinforced ferrocrete bunker that served as the military nerve center for all of Glengarry. Normal access was severely restricted, with a single elevator shaft connecting the underground warren with the complex of buildings and barracks that made up the outer works of the Castle Hill fortifications. There were a number of emergency exits, tunnels carved through the rock to distant, well-hidden doorways, but these were intended for use only as a last resort.
The buried chambers that made up the command center had been designed to coordinate the efforts of entire armies engaged in planetwide campaigns, back in the days when Terran colonies were still capable of the kind of mass warfare become virtually obsolete in this day of BattleMechs and small, elite strike forces. Guarded jointly by the Gray Death and their opposite numbers in the Planetary Guard, the chambers were packed with the high tech instruments of modern warfare—detection gear, bank after bank of computers, battle simulators, communications consoles, and all the rest.
As the elevator doors snapped open and Davis McCall followed Gomez de Villar into the Combat Coordination Room, a pair of Guardsmen in kilts and powder-blue tunics gave crisp rifle salutes. Because most of the Gray Death had Been relieved of watchstanding duties so they could attend the Day of Heroes ceremony in person, the usual complement of Legion armored infantrymen was not present.
The technical posts in the CCR were being filled by volunteers from the crew of the Legion DropShip Medea, with the ship's captain, Lieutenant David Longo, acting as Officer of the Day. The Medea was currently grounded at the Dunkeld spaceport. Together with her sister ship Io, the DropShip had taken heavy damage in a recent raid against the Jade Falcons, and both ships would require extensive refitting at the dockyards on Skye before they could re-enter service. The Medea had been cannibalized to get the Io spaceworthy enough to make the voyage, and was slated to be patched up and sent to Skye when Use Martinez returned.
So Lieutenant Longo was temporarily a captain without a ship, and seemed pleased at the chance to serve the Legion in some other capacity until it was time to leave for Skye. He looked relieved, though, to see a higher authority to whom he could turn things over.
"Report," de Villar rasped as McCall and de Villar crossed to the central well, known fondly as the Snake Pit, which served as the master coordination position for all activities in the CCR. McCall noticed that one monitor, muted now, was carrying the newstrans from the ceremonies topside. At the moment, however, no one in the chamber was paying attention to it.
"No further voice messages, Major," Longo replied, looking up from his position in front of the main monitor. "We had the routine report that the Antelope was inbound under thrust, then the warning call. Multiple tra
ces, positively ideed as JumpShips, no transponders, potentially hostile. Nothing more since then, except an open CAT feed."
The battalion commander sank into an empty chair, jabbing a finger at the technician manning a nearby console. "You—Communications. What's the time lag to the Gray Skull?"
"Twenty-eight minutes, Major," the commtech stammered.
"So long? Damn . . ." De Villar frowned more deeply than before. "Well, I guess there's no help for it."
The time lag in communications over interplanetary distances was something ground-based soldiers tended to forget. Because it was impossible to maintain a hyperspace field within a significant gravity well, JumpShips had to remain a long way out from a star. Moreover, magnetic fields also had a way of disrupting hyperspace transitions, and so most jumps were made between specific jump points at an appropriate distance from the star's zenith or nadir poles. The Gray Skull was at Glengarry's nadir jump point, just under four astronomical units away, and it would take signals moving at the speed of light almost thirty minutes to cross that void. With an hour between transmitting a signal and receiving a reply, an ordinary conversation was impossible. The only practical way to communicate was by sending long blocks of information or instructions, then hoping the situation didn't change so radically in the meantime that everything in the last transmission became invalid.
"Are you getting anything useful from the CAT?" De Villar asked Longo, sounding irritable. That was a sure sign of his concern, McCall thought. As a young lance leader, De Villar had been volatile yet seemingly impervious to doubts or fears, and these days he rarely revealed any kind of emotion openly. If his mask was slipping this much, McCall assumed it meant that de Villar was plenty worried.
