The Price of Glory

by William H. Keith

  An aide stepped forth. He wore a comset across his ears, its lights eerie in the dazzled darkness after the Phobos's miniature sunrise.

  "Yes, Your Grace!"

  "Now."

  "As you will, Your Grace!" The aide saluted, then touched his headset, murmuring into the slender mike wire suspended before his lips. The Duke and Rachan turned to another part of the viewport, where they could see the domes of Tiantan on the horizon beyond the star-port.

  "The city is fifty kilometers away," Garth said, more to himself than to anyone else in the lounge. "That should be . . ."

  A point of blinding, blue-white brilliance appeared against the nearest of the Tiantan domes. The flare was joined by another against a farther dome, then another, then two more. Each fireball wavered in the convection currents generated by its own heat, then expanded, with shocking speed.

  The ducal party watched, silent, transfixed by the sight. The interior of the lounge was frosted in blue light, then suddenly plunged into orange and crimson as fireballs erupted from the domes exploding into the night sky.

  The thunderclap roar reached the spaceport moments later, setting the DropShip's hull to rattling even harder than had the much nearer shock of the Phobos's launch. The explosions went on and on, as new sequestered stores of oxygen-rich air spilled into the hydrogen of Sirius V's atmosphere and ignited. Fires raged. No fire burned for long in the Sirian atmosphere, but so long as oxygen from the ruptured city domes lasted, isolated fires raged in blast furnace infernos. Smoke piled mountain upon billowing mountain into the heavens, red-lit and angry.

  Finally, the explosions had all died away. What remained of the domes were charred, broken eggshell fragments and rubble. There were also five short-lived and volcanic funeral pyres, glowing white-hot.

  Rachan turned to Lord Garth. "There will be survivors, Your Grace . . . mostly in underground chambers and in work areas and outposts in the surrounding region. I suggest that your people move quickly to place the new insignias on this DropShip."

  "The orders have already been given," the Duke replied softly. Who was this man whose mind could encompass such plans within plans?

  "Excellent. One Union Class DropShip looks very much like another, but the panels your artificers created should prove most convincing."

  "Yes."

  "I would also unleash your 'Mechs, Your Grace. The . . . shall we say . . . the final, finishing touch to our little drama. If there are any survivors in the area, by morning, they will be convinced that this was the work of the Gray Death."

  "Yes."

  There was a grinding rumble from somewhere far below decks as 'Mech bay doors slid open. A moment later, a heavy Marauder in a gray- and black-mottled camouflage scheme similar to that used on Grayson Carlyle's own Marauder during the past two weeks strode out across the spaceport. It was followed by a Shadow Hawk, a Wolverine, and a Rifleman.

  "Of course," Rachan added, smiling, "by morning, there may not be any survivors to care!"

  4

  The JumpShip Invidious began the maneuvers that would furl its sail. Two kilometers across and ebony-black to collect every photon for the starship's fusion-powered converters, the sail was nearly invisible save where it blotted out the stars and the searing, actinic brilliance that was Sirius.

  Captain Renfred Tor had begun the process by cutting the plasma thrust station-keepers and maneuvering the kilometer-long needle of his ship stern-first into the sail's thrust eye, the circular opening through which the Invidious directed the magnetically boosted plasma that held her in place at the local jump point against the gravitational pull of the star. Sirius's jump points were almost 67 AU out, but the star's gravitational field, though weakened by distance, was still very much in evidence.

  Grayson hung weightless on the Invidious's bridge, watching Tor direct the operation. Sweat beaded on Tor's forehead, or floated free as tiny, glittering planetesimals. A mistake in calculation or execution, and the extremely valuable jump sail could be damaged, or worse, irretrievably lost. With consummate skill, Tor brought the Invidious gently to rest with her tail spearing through the light sail's thrust eye.

  "Green," Tor said into the microphone that projected from his earpiece to a point just in front of his mouth. "Lock and furl. All departments, commence jump preparations."

  Captain Tor looked up across the plot table at Grayson. "Are you sure about this, Colonel?"

  Grayson studied again the network of colored lights floating in the holographic projection well of the chart tank beneath the transparent surface of the table. The stars of near space were plotted there, each in its proper position relative to the others, each with its identifying name and grid reference. Two lines, one green, one red, zigzagged through three-dimensional angles. Each began at the white gleam identified as Sirius, but the two pathways diverged. One angled sharply down toward the familiar G2 system of Graham. The other stretched upward toward the point marking Pollux.

  "We're technically violating our contract if we disobey Duke Irian's orders."

  "I know, Ren," Grayson said, uneasy. "But there's something just not right about this." His suspicions had first been aroused when their relief on Sirius V had turned out to be, not Jake Hawkings's 15th, as promised, but Duke Irian himself and his personal guard. Not that there was anything wrong there, but . . .

  Then, during their passage from Sirius V to the Sirian zenith jump point, the Phobos had passed within close radio hailing distance of a squadron of four Marik DropShips heading the other way, in-system. The Phobos's call and ID had been ignored.

  Once the DropShips had docked with the old, ex-merchant freighter Invidious, Grayson had opened a beamcast channel to Sirius V, hoping to verify the unexpected order to proceed to Marik. Perhaps one of the Duke's staff would be willing to tell him more? That never happened because Tiantan's com beacon, the transmitter for the carrier wave that would have patched him directly to the Duke's communication network, was unaccountably silent.

  Technical difficulties, perhaps, Grayson had thought. Equipment was always breaking down, and in the aftermath of the invasion, technicians and comreptechs would have their hands full, keeping city services functioning smoothly. Remembering the sullen looks on the faces of some of the civilians, he knew that sabotage, too, was a possibility.

  One way or the other, the silence worried him. Something was going on back there, something involving the Duke and the unilateral changes in the Legion's contract orders. The Invidious's ComTech had finally managed to open a channel to the Duke's DropShip Gladius, but with remarkably unhelpful results. What they were told was that the Duke and his entire staff were busy and could not be disturbed. All was secure in Tiantan, and the Legion's orders stood.

  What is going on? Grayson wondered. He remembered Lord Garth keeping his eyes unfocused somewhere beyond Grayson's shoulders. As if I didn't exist, Grayson thought. He suppressed a shudder. That sort of thinking would get him nowhere.

  "I suppose we are technically in violation of our orders," he continued after a moment. "But we're not violating our contract. Helm's only four jumps away from Marik. We can still go to the Admin capital. We'll just take a little longer to get there ... by a little more roundabout way."

  "You have a reason? The Captain-General could be waiting there to pin medals on us." Tor chuckled. "God knows, we deserve 'em! You've done a right smart job of mopping up on Liao along this border, old son!"

  Grayson folded his arms, the motion setting him adrift, and moving slowly beside the chart table. "You want a reason? Let's just say I'm the suspicious sort. My father always told me that those were the kind of MechWarriors who lived the longest." He reached out and grabbed hold of a stanchion, arresting his drift. "Let's just say I'll feel better—we'll all feel better—after I've seen the landhold and checked in with the people there." When Tor didn't reply, Grayson continued. "Damn it, something strange is going on, Ren! Half our people are back on Helm, and I don't like being this spread out . . . exposed and v
ulnerable!"

  "You think someone's going to attack Helm? Or us?"

  "I don't think anything, right now. I just want to rejoin the rest of our people. We'll decide what the next step is after that. We'll stop at Helm for a week or two, let our people unwind, get the equipment patched up. Then we'll see about this summons to Marik."

  "O.K. You're the boss," Tor said, but his voice was disapproving. "For once, though, I'd enjoy knowing that we weren't acting on one of your hunches!" He glanced up at a vidscreen that showed the activity aft along the long, slender length of the JumpShip. The sail had collapsed in a circular mass of accordion folds, guided by nearly invisible guide struts and monofilament cables. Hatch sections had closed over the sail, sealing it from the stresses of hyperspace as the manned work pods that had supervised the process returned to their storage bays in the Invidious's hull. Sirius shone due aft, illuminating the blocky rear edges of the JumpShip's complex and convoluted skeletal frame.

  "All stations," a voice announced over the bridge intercom. "Sail stowage maneuver complete. All stations, report readiness for jump to Navigation."

  Captain Tor touched a control, and the green pathway across the stars, the one running through Pollux, zigzagging through five jumps to the Marik system, winked out. The red path, eight jumps angling down to the orange gleam of Helm, remained. "Navigation," Tor said into the microphone at his throat. "Jump route via Graham is confirmed. You have my command: jump when ready."

  Moments more passed in silence. "All stations," a voice warned at last from the ship intercom, sounding throughout the kilometer-long complexity of the Invidious and within the paired DropShips fastened leechlike to the needle-slim backbone between crew area and reactor core. "Prepare for jump."

  The voice began counting off the seconds. Grayson spent the time seeking out the pinpoint of light that marked Sirius V, but at this distance, the world was lost in the glare from its primary. What's going on back there? he wondered. And why?

  Just as he was thinking that maybe a side trip to Helm would answer those questions, there came the sickening lurch and blackness of jump.

  * * *

  The world known as Helm was not a pleasant one for man. Fourth planet out of a mild, K4 sun, it lay on the outer fringes of its star's habitable zone. More than half its surface was locked beneath glaciers kilometers deep. Vast stretches of what had once been ocean floor were dry and bare, with much of the world's water now locked in Helm's icecaps.

  Much of the land that remained was either mountainous or arid desert. Between the relentless, endless seas of ice to north and south, ice-capped mountains thousands of meters high girdled Helm at the equator.

  Yet life had evolved on Helm ages before, in an epoch when Helm's star was brighter and warmer. Life had continued by adapting to the cold. The planet had been discovered and colonized by men probing out from New Hope and Tania Borealis late in the 22nd century. The principal city of Freeport had grown up around the star-port on a bluff overlooking the salt flats of a dried equatorial sea. For a time, Freeport had served as a Star League naval base, then as a storehouse for Star League weapons. In 2788, however, Minoru Kurita unleashed fusion firestorms over Freeport and the other major settlements on Helm in an attempt to destroy or seize those stores. Within a single rotational period of 26 hours, the population of Helm was reduced from over one hundred million to a handful of starveling wretches huddled around campfires in the wilderness. Kurita learned that the weapons stockpiles he was seeking had already been transported elsewhere and departed.

  It took three centuries for the planet to even begin to recover.

  By the 31st Century, Helm was part of the Duchy of Stewart. Settlements had appeared once more in scattered clusters among the valleys and plateaus of the equatorial mountains. With its small population and non-existent industrial base, Helm was ideal as a land-hold for MechWarriors in the service of the Free Worlds League. Between 2958 and 3025, Helm had served as landhold for several Marik Warriors or Warrior families, who hired or pressed local families into service to build the fortresses that marked their titled grants. In 3025, the last of those grants reverted to House Marik when the leaseholder defected to House Liao, taking his BattleMech company with him.

  Then, in 3027, Janos Marik offered the largest of Helm's landholds to Colonel Grayson Carlyle in exchange for the Gray Death Legion's services against House Liao. Helmfast, the Castle in the hills above Durandel, had been a stronghold for the planet's military governor in Star League days, and had served several times since as landhold for various Warriors and their families. The practice of landholds was a common one in the neo-feudalism that had risen across the Inner Sphere in this era of continuous war and faltering technology. By taking charge of the landhold on Helm, Carlyle became Marik's "man," sworn to serve Janos Marik when summoned to do so. The arrangement worked to the benefit of both parties: Carlyle and his people had a home, and Janos Marik had a new combined arms regiment. The Legion's standard was to be raised above the long-vacant fortress above Durandel. It was understood that other men-at-arms would eventually be granted holds of their own elsewhere on the planet, but for now, Helm belonged to Grayson Carlyle.

  Grayson and his entire staff consisting of Lori, Ramage, Captain Tor, and Tech Master Alard King, floated in the Invidious's control center. Helm's sun shone in the main viewscreen, two hundred million kilometers distant.

  "Whoever they are," King said slowly, "they don't care who hears them."

  Alard King had joined the Legion on Galatea after their return from Verthandi. He was an expert Tech, who had last served with Steiner's Lyran Guard, but had left for Galatea after a "minor disagreement" with his company commander. He was Grayson's senior Tech now; as Tech Master, he was in overall command of all of the Legion's technical personnel.

  King looked across the plot table at Grayson and the others. He was holding a speaker to one ear, but the babble he was listening to was coming from the general bridge speakers as well. Most of the sounds were unintelligible, broadcast in battlecode, but occasionally a voice could be heard in plain speech. "DropShip Two down, Rapacious!" one excited voice cried. "No resistance, Sector Five!"

  "Rapacious, " Tor said. "I know that name. That's a Marik ship."

  "Let's get a current listing on her," Grayson said.

  The Invidious's Captain spoke to a nearby aide, watched over her shoulder as she tapped out his request at her computer console, then turned back to the others.

  "Fifth Marik Guards," he said.

  "That's a regular Marik House regiment," Lori said. "What are they doing here?"

  Grayson said nothing, his eyes on the orange brightness of Helm's sun on the viewer.

  After jumping in-system at Helm's nadir jump point, they had realized instantly that something was seriously wrong. The combat frequencies were jammed by radio traffic, much of it in battlecode. It was immediately clear that at least one other starship was already in system, presumably at the system's zenith point and blocked from the Invidious's view by the system's sun.

  "It could be a sneak raid," he said. "Kurita or Liao raiders could have jumped in ... or pirate raiders. Maybe a Marik DropShip might have been passing through, and heard a call for help."

  Ramage's eyebrow crept toward his hairline. "That's asking a bit of coincidence."

  "More's the point," Tor said. "What would raiders want here? Helm is a hell of a long way from anyone's borders, and there's nothing there that any snap raider would want."

  "Since when do the Kuritans need an excuse for smashing a planet?" Lori asked.

  "Ren's got a point," Grayson said. "Invasions . . . even snap raids, are expensive. They wouldn't pull one without a reason." He shook his head. "But this doesn't feel like a raid."

  "Pirates?" King suggested.

  "Not this deep in Marik space. And not without something damned valuable to make it worth their while."

  "Which makes those Marik ships," Lori said quietly. "Are they attacking our settle
ment? And why?"

  "The Marik curse," Tor said.

  "Eh?" Grayson said. "A rebellion?"

  "What else could it be? Any time you look at them, the Free Worlds League is more than halfway to total anarchy. Maybe a rebel faction has finally gone over the line and started a civil war."

  "Possible," Grayson said. "But the question remains . . . why Helm? What can they possibly want here?"

  "And what's happening to our people down there?" Lori added.

  The Invidious carried 240 people—her own crew of 20, plus one 'Mech company, one infantry company, a Tech platoon, and reserves. More than seven hundred of the Legion's men, women, and children remained on Helm.

  Grayson's hands curled into fists. What was happening here had something to do with the strange events on Sirius V, of that he had no doubt. But what was happening, and what was the connection?

  They had to find out, and fast. If they had indeed fallen into the midst of a revolution or power struggle within House Marik, the people they'd left behind on Helm were in grave danger.

  "Ren," Grayson said. "How long to recharge for jump?"

  Tor consulted his wristcomp. "Once our sail is unfurled—125 hours, if we push it. Otherwise, make it 175."

  "And there's been no sign that they've spotted us?"

  "Not yet. Speed-of-light propagation will take awhile to send them the news that we're here, but from the sound of things . . ."

  He jerked a thumb toward a bridge speaker that had been babbling in static-ridden and unintelligible code for the past several minutes. An excited voice cut in, speaking in the clear. "Attention, unidentified DropShip bearing oh-oh-seven, vector three-one-one! We have not received your authority codes or ID transmission! Please identify! Please identify!"

  "It sounds like sheer chaos down there. I think there's a good chance we dropped in unnoticed."

  "O.K. Proceed with recharging the drives. Lori, pass the word. Deimos and Phobos will both be going in.”