The Price of Glory

by William H. Keith

  Grayson stood in the open, leaning against his Marauder's foot and lower leg. Helm's sun had dropped low enough that the valley was now in shadow, though the sky was still light and hours remained before sunset. Delmar Clay came up alongside.

  "Colonel?" He spoke softly, as though afraid of being overheard. "I've got a real bad feeling about all of this."

  "Yes, Del?" Grayson had felt it, too. There was something wrong here . . . but what?

  "Look . . . you know that usually, during a truce, the troops sometimes'll swap stuff. Tobacco. Gum. Spares. You know."

  Grayson nodded.

  "If there's nothing to trade, at least they trade news. God, Colonel, soldiers are the most news-hungry creatures in the universe. They always want to know whatever the other guys knows . . . Who's your CO.? What's happening on Atreus? What kind of punishment details do you guys have? Stuff like that."

  Grayson exhaled. That was it.

  "It's all wrong here. I went up to two of their MechWarriors and five PBIs. Not one of them would talk to me. They ignored me, like I wasn't there. The ones farther off . . . and the officers, they watched me, and I could see their fingers twitching on their guns . . . but the guys I talked to acted like I wasn't there."

  "He's right, Gray," said Lori as she and Janice Taylor approached from behind. Janice's face was still smeared with gray-green camouflage paint, and she looked tired.

  "Janice just came in through the lines," Lori continued. "She was telling me that they let her past, but there wasn't any of the usual bantering or joking that you hear during a formal truce."

  "It was scary, Colonel," Janice said. "You know, I've been asked for dates by Liao soldiers during a truce . . . asked to cook breakfast . . . asked to give up soldiering and become a kept woman . . . but those people out there act like we're . . . we're zombies or something!"

  "I think you've put your finger on it," Grayson said. "They're behaving ..." Grayson's eyes widened as he saw the implications of what he was saying. "My God, they're acting like we're outlaws!"

  Though civilized warfare followed certain codes strictly observed by each side, there were always those who chose not to obey the Conventions of War. The half-barbarian raiders from beyond the Periphery, the pirates and bandit kings who looted worlds for water or transuranics or machine tools, the occasional renegade mercenary who exacted revenge on an unfaithful employer or won a campaign by destroying a foe's JumpShip . . . All those could be lumped together into the amorphous group known vaguely as outlaws. Civilized folks had no dealings with such animals. More, they were fair game for the adherents of civilized warfare anywhere. The rules of "civilized" warfare, including formal truces and honorable dealings in negotiations, simply did not apply.

  "Outlaws," Janice said. "God, no wonder they won't have anything to do with us."

  "Worse," Delmar said. "What if they decide to terminate the truce . . . unilaterally?"

  "I was just wondering about that," Grayson answered.

  "O.K. Janice, you go back to where the unit is gathering and pass this on to whoever is in command there now.”

  “Lieutenant Dulaney."

  "O.K., good. Tell him the Marik people may think we're outlaws, and to be ready for a surprise attack. Hell, be ready for anything! Keep someone tuned in on the taccom frequency. Have someone organize stretcher-bearers for the wounded. Have them ready to move. Most of our vehicles should be rounded up by now. Tell Dulaney that priority goes to the wounded on the vehicles."

  "Yessir!"

  "Lori, Del . . . same drill. Round up the Mech-Warriors. Have them unobtrusively move to their machines, and be ready to move. Uh . . . better have half of them go ahead and mount up. Make it fire lance. Command lance stay outside your 'Mechs like nothing's happening, but be ready to jump, fast. The recon lance is still up the hill?"

  "They're working on Trevor's Wasp," Clay said. "Trying to patch on the leg."

  "She may have to abandon it. Have someone walk, walk, mind you, up there and fill them in. Nothing by radio. They'll be listening. Right? Move!"

  The trio vanished into the gathering shadows, leaving Grayson by himself. Though he was a member of the Legion's command lance, he elected to climb into his Marauder just the same, in order to monitor a wider selection of radio frequencies than were available in the small, left-ear headset he was wearing.

  There was nothing on the radio frequencies, and that worried him, too. It was as though the Marik forces already had their plans worked out and were simply awaiting the signal to put them into operation.

  The signal came less than ten minutes later when a white star flare arced high above the Phobos's hull. Instantly, machine gun fire erupted from the woods, slashing into a small group of Legion troopers who were moving across the valley with three wounded men slung between them in blankets. At almost the same instant, the Mark BattleMechs opened fire. Multiple laser bolts hissed and burned in rapid succession past or into Grayson's Marauder. He was returning fire an instant later, PPC bolts searing back down the valley into the enemy Archer that had opened fire on him. The range was nearly three hundred meters, long-range combat targeting of medium lasers. Grayson's heavier PPCs scored twice as blazing beams of charged particles tore into the Archer's heavy armor.

  Graff's Assassin, Grayson noted, was nowhere about. Probably still aboard the Phobos, he thought. He wouldn't dare show himself outside now!

  "Colonel!" Francine Roget's voice cut in on the tac frequency. "Colonel, they've jumped us! Five heavy 'Mechs are on the west side of the slope, driving toward our position!"

  Damn! There'd been no time to organize a proper watch to keep track of all of the Marik BattleMechs. The valley was too large, the trees too thick. Five of them had slipped away in order to jump the already badly damaged recon lance 'Mechs.

  "I'm on my way, Francine!" he said.

  "Colonel! What's happening! They're breaking the truce!"

  "Lieutenant . . . didn't you get word by runner? He should have been up there by now!"

  "No, sir. No word! Everything was so quiet ..."

  Too quiet. Too goddamn quiet! Had Marik troopers watched, then killed the messenger as he climbed the slope? Had that been the signal to start the attack, once they knew the Legion was becoming suspicious?

  Grayson guessed that he would never know. For now, though, the failure of the message to get through was threatening the recon lance. It was already a 'Mech short and had one 'Mech crippled. With all three badly damaged from the fight earlier in the day, the recon lance was the weakest part of his whole command. Now it was they who had not received word that the Marik forces might be planning a sneak attack!

  He opened the power governors wide on his Marauder and urged his 75-ton mount into a lurching, two-legged gallop toward the west ridge. Missile fire arced in from the north, splintering trees behind him and sending chunks of rock and metal rattling from his upper hull. He did not reply, but concentrated instead on the placement of each of his Marauder's, massive feet as it began leaning into the slope of the hill.

  Flashes of light, dazzlingly brilliant in the fading daylight, flared and sputtered along the skyline of the ridge. He saw Roget's Panther standing against the sky, loosing bolt after bolt from her particle beam weapon at unseen assailants on the far side of the hill.

  Rockets struck the ridgetop, sending black gouts of smoke and earth skyward. For a moment, a laser beam from downslope played against Roget's 'Mech, which was outlined by luminous particles of dust in the air, refracted and scattered by the Panther's armor. The light show sent dazzling beams and streaks of blue-white light chasing across the sky, broken by the moving shadows of the Panther. The vision, inexpressibly beautiful and horrifying at the same time, lasted only an instant. Then an explosion slammed against Roget's 'Mech, and the 35-ton Panther stumbled back of the crest of the ridge.

  "Roget!" Grayson yelled into his mike. "Get your people off that crest!"

  "I can't!" Her reply was faint over the searing hiss of st
atic. Her antennae or her transmitter, or both, had been damaged. He could barely hear her over the roar. "I can't leave Sylvie!"

  Sylvia Trevor must have still been up there trying to get her 'Mech functional. Missiles were raining onto the ridge now from at least a dozen launchers. The Marik infantry must have trained shoulder-launched missiles on the recon lance's position as well as five BattleMechs. Implosions tortured the landscape as mortar fire began drapping from the sky.

  Grayson was halfway up the hill when a Marik Centurion rose to face him, battle scars carved gruesomely across its torso. He recognized the machine that he had exchanged fire with earlier in this longest of days, and triggered a burst of PPC fire at it.

  It skipped aside as he fired, unleashing its own laser and autocannon salvoes at the same time. Tracking quickly, Grayson snap-fired a laser at the lighter machine, then pushed ahead. He didn't have the time now to exchange shots with a suicidal Centurion pilot.

  More shots were slamming home into Grayson's Marauder. Blue electric discharges danced and snapped from his Marauder's hull into the ground as his instruments went wild under the momentary surge of an electrical overload. Another PPC bolt struck him from behind. He heard a grating crash from behind his head as a chunk of his rear armor was torn away. Lights flashed on his console, warning of damage to his electrical system and the loss of two of his heat sinks.

  This was damage he couldn't ignore. He pivoted his Marauder on the hillside. The enemy's Warhammer stood fifty meters downslope, stepping from behind a boulder. In a flash, he realized that the Centurion must have been bait, that the Marik had expected him to engage the Centurion in order to destroy the machine he had damaged earlier. In doing so, he would have exposed himself to a crippling, close-range attack from the rear. His decision to move on had upset the Marik pilots' timing, but they had gone ahead and sprung their attack anyway.

  Though the Warhammer was still at long range, Grayson fired on it, more to discourage it from coming closer than in hopes of damaging it. Then, closing his eyes to better sense the input from the neurohelmet through his middle ears, he leaned the 'Mech into a spinning turn, ducking as he moved. PPC charges flared brightly overhead. Three quick steps and he had closed the range on the Centurion to thirty meters and brought the enemy machine between his Marauder and the distant Warhammer. He discharged his own PPCs then, one after another. Great, flaming holes opened up in the Centurion's torso armor. A strike in the left torso must have landed squarely in the Centurion's ammunition stores of 5 cm SRMs, because the first flash of light from Grayson's PPC shot was followed by a much brighter flash of exploding ordnance . . . and then another . . . and another . . . and another. Rockets arced skyward on aimlessly twisting trails of white smoke. A final explosion gutted the Centurion's torso, blasting away huge chunks of armor and leaving the machine's hull a flaming skeleton, an empty framework of struts and half-glimpsed masses of machinery behind the remaining fragments of armor plate. For an instant, Grayson held an image, burned into his brain, of the Centurion's pilot smashing wildly against the inside of the plastic transparency of his cockpit. Then another explosion sent a gout of flame hurtling into the air, fragmenting the cockpit into tiny, glittering slivers as it burned a gaping hole between the 'Mech's shoulders. Burning wildly, the 'Mech fell forward to the ground, its fall marked by a dense contrail of black smoke.

  The pillar of smoke boiling from the wrecked Centurion formed a screen almost at once. Turning his back on the enemy Warhammer, Grayson resume his race up the slope.

  There he found disaster.

  Trevor's Wasp lay sprawled on the ground, its left leg still missing, its head crumpled as though by a multi-ton swing of an armored BattleMech foot. Vandergriff's Commando had exploded. Nothing remained but scattered limbs and a hull as torn and gutted as the Centurion just dispatched by Grayson. Francine Roget had her Panther fifty meters further along the slope, firing gamely at the 'Mechs that were closing in on her. Through the smoke, Grayson could make out the monstrous forms of the damaged Thunderbolt and Wolverine, as well as three smaller 'Mechs. Roget scored hit after hit on the advancing army until the Thunderbolt reached her position and raised one massive, black fist.

  Grayson heard Francine's scream over the taccom line as the fist descended.

  BOOK II

  13

  For Grayson, the retreat from Cleft Valley was a nightmare of pain, loss, and the knowledge of total defeat. Not since the night of his father's death in a Kurita surprise attack had he known such desolation.

  The BattleMechs of the Legion's command and fire lances, the 'Mechs that had had warning, were able to regroup below the western ridge. The Marik 'Mechs had come thundering toward them from three sides to meet the unerring fire of the now thoroughly aroused mercenaries. Twice they had charged, and twice their charge faltered under that hail of laser, PPC, and missile fire. With several of their 'Mechs limping or showing blast-cratered scars and metal wounds leaking smoke, the Marik forces drew back to the valley where the Drop-Ships maintained silent vigil.

  In that respite, Grayson got his troops away.

  The infantry went first, with the seriously wounded crowded aboard a trio of cargo skimmers, and the rest walking or piled onto the turtle backs of a small menagerie of scout cars, hovercraft weapons carriers, and APCs. The fire lance moved with the column, providing cover from enemy infantry or AeroSpace Fighter raids. The command lance remained in place, a rear-guard against further Marik treachery.

  No more came, however. It seemed that the Marik forces—Graff and Colonel Langsdorf included—were content to allow the Gray Death to escape. At least for now.

  The problem was that the Gray Death Legion was in serious trouble. All of their reserve 'Mechs, and much of their infantry equipment and heavy weapons, had been aboard the two DropShips. At least three-quarters of the Techs who had returned with the Legion from Sirius V, all of the ship's personnel, both ships' doctors, and most of the regiment's logistical personnel had been captured. Even the regimental cooks had been taken.

  Nor did the Legion have any food beyond a few days' worth of emergency rations aboard various 'Mechs or vehicles. It was certainly not enough to feed the survivors for more than a short time. There were both wild and domestic animals on Helm, but it would take time to find them, to hunt or gather and slaughter them. The meat would have to be processed, a way found to preserve it. Salt? Was there salt? Salt for preserving meat could be found along the shores of the dry sea bottom some fifty kilometers to the south, but ways would have to be found to separate sodium chloride from the various other salt compounds that encrusted the rocks along the long-dead beaches there.

  And water. What would the survivors use for water? There were springs up in the hills, and the Araga River wound its way through the wooded valley where most of the Legion's survivors were already encamped. Grayson knew that an encampment of hundreds of people uses huge volumes of water, and can easily ruin what it does not use through poor waste management or hygiene. Water was not a serious problem, at this point, but it was another worry in a growing list of them. The water in the tanks aboard the Deimos and the Phobos would have lasted for months, and the recyclers continuously produced more from wastes and the moisture in the air.

  And ammunition. The infantry was down to a few tens of rounds per man for some weapons. Just after a major battle, special rounds such as inferno warheads were vanishingly scarce. The shortage ran right up to the projectile weapons of the various 'Mechs. Grayson himself had fired fourteen "rounds" of a hundred 120mm shells each. That left him with eleven ammo cassettes—enough, if he conserved his shots, for one battle. He had already checked with Davis McCall and found that the Bannockburn, the Scotsman's Rifleman, was down to six cassette rounds—600 shells—for each of its autocannons. And the way a Rifleman went through AC ammo . . .

  And the wounded. Fifteen men and women, including Captain Ramage, were too seriously wounded to walk. Without a doctor, without medical supplies, antibiotics,
plasma, or blood, without even clean bandages, their chances for survival were not good. Another twenty-one had less serious wounds, but their fighting efficiency would be impaired unless they could be treated, and soon.

  Grayson almost yielded to the impulse to call Langsdorf and ask for terms. The only thing that stopped him was the chilling knowledge that, for whatever reason, he and his men were being treated as outlaws. To surrender would not mean the usual repatriation by an employer, or a ransom posted by a patron. To surrender to Langsdorf would most certainly lead to a trial for some crime or crimes for which the Legion had apparently been found guilty already.

  What crimes, though? And who was accusing them? The Legion had fulfilled their contract to Janos Marik on Sirius V! Why were the Marik forces now persecuting them?

  Outwardly, Grayson had remained calm. He'd given the orders that set the column moving rapidly toward the north until the sophisticated D2j tracking system aboard McCall's Rifleman informed them that the last of the Boomerang spotter planes had returned to the Marik encampment at Helmdown. Presumably, they were now leaving the task of shadowing the column to ships or satellites in orbit. Grayson had then led his people into the forest that blanketed much of the land fringing the North Highland Plains, and begun moving toward the northeast. In the foothills of the Aragayan Mountains north of Durandel was the Valley of the Araga, the river valley to which he had directed Lieutenant DeVillar and the rest of the survivors from Durandel. The place was well-hidden and secure. There they could rest and make their plans.

  No matter what the outward show, Grayson carried with him a growing certainty of his own failure. What he had dreaded for so long had now finally come to pass. It was inevitable that a 24-year-old regimental commander would eventually come face to face with his own limitations through errors of judgement so serious they brought the entire regiment to ruin.