The Price of Glory

by William H. Keith

  "Thank you, Khaled—I think. Davis, cut the man loose."

  Davis hesitated, then caught the look in Grayson's eye. He drew his combat knife from its boot scabbard and went to the back of Graff's chair.

  "What ... are you doing?" Graff said as he stood, rubbing his wrists. His glance shifted from face to face around the tent, and the uncertainty in his eyes was rapidly becoming sheer terror.

  "You are free to go." Grayson said. "You know nothing we need to know. We can't afford to take you along, not when our food is short, and we need every man free to fight. And despite the stories that are being circulated about me, I am not a bloodthirsty killer. You will not be executed." Grayson allowed himself to smile, though the effort turned his stomach. "At least . . . I will not be your executioner."

  Graff's eyes widened until the whites stood completely revealed around the brown of his irises. "You . . . you want me to go out there; in the middle of this camp? But if I'm seen ..."

  Grayson shrugged. "You might not be seen. At least, not right away."

  "I wonder how far he'll get," said Khaled, measuring Graff through narrowed eyes.

  "Wait . . . Carlyle! You can't do this! If your people catch me, they'll . . . No! Wait! You can't do this! It's not human! You know what a mob can do . . ."

  "Do I? Well, maybe I do. I've been accused of murdering twelve million defenseless civilians. For a man like that, a little mob violence is nothing. Get out of my sight! We'll let your former comrades-at-arms, the ones you betrayed, decide your fate."

  "No!"

  "There are a lot of people who liked Francine Roget a lot," he said thoughtfully. "And Sylvia Trevor. They were good people, and they died because of you. And there were the DropShips ..."

  "Wait! You don't understand!" Graff was pleading openly now. "You can't send me out there! They'll tear me apart."

  "Slowly," Khaled added. The single, cold, drawn-out word made Graff begin to shudder uncontrollably.

  "You don't understand," he said again. "It's true that I'm only a Captain in the Marik House Guard, but I'm also . . . much more!"

  "You haven't told me anything I care to hear, Graff. Out."

  "No! ComStar! I'm ComStar!"

  The word caught Grayson totally and completely by surprise. He had not been sure what revelation he sought to break from Graff, but of all possible revelations or confessions, he had not expected that one.

  Grayson stared hard into Graff's eyes. The man was purely, starkly, and openly terrified. There was no sham to his trembling.

  Somehow, Grayson made himself dissemble. He smiled. He let the smile grow into a chuckle, and then into a laugh. "You? A ComStar agent?"

  Clay smiled. "Maybe he wants to send a message just now, eh, Colonel?"

  "Look, Colonel, you've got to listen to me!" The words came tumbling forth now. "I was approached months ago by someone . . . someone very high up in ComStar! His name is Rachan, and he's a Precentor. A high-level one! Do you know what that means? He's a high-ranking administrator within the ComStar organization! They say he's a confidant of the Primus himself, on Terra! It was Rachan's idea to disgrace you ... to disgrace the Gray Death Legion!"

  "Why?" Grayson's lips formed a hard, tight line. "Why would ComStar want to do that?" He was genuinely baffled.

  "Yeah, what the hell does ComStar have to do with it?" Clay asked. "That bunch of superstitious cowl heads and their ..."

  "Gently, Del, gently. Let's not insult the gentleman. Tell us, Graff, what interest does ComStar have in us? ComStar's neutrality in inter-House disputes is proverbial."

  Graff looked from face to face, bracing himself. All of the MechWarriors had drawn closer, ringing Graff in.

  "It's . . . it's because there's a storehouse ... an old, old Star League storehouse, here on Helm someplace."

  "A storehouse," Lori said. "Of weapons?"

  "Weapons," Graff nodded. "And BattleMechs. And spare parts. Ammunition. Heavy equipment. Repair gantries. A whole Star League naval base storehouse, and it's someplace near Freeport."

  "Someplace," Grayson said. "In other words, you don't know where it is.

  Graff shook his head. "It's like this. There are records, old, old records from Star League days that talk about the naval depot here. It was actually located in Freeport."

  Grayson nodded. "I've heard. And chances are, it's still someplace close by. There was no way for the local garrison commander to ship so large a cache offworld."

  "You've heard?" It was Graff's turn to look surprised. He seemed to fold back into himself, his sudden animation failing. "Well Colonel, your military intelligence is better than I gave it credit for."

  "Is that all you can tell us? That Marik wants to find the League storehouse?"

  "It's not just House Marik. That's what I'm trying to tell you! It's ComStar!"

  "So what's ComStar's interest?" Lori asked.

  Graff shrugged. "ComStar has access to old records . . . including Minoru Kurita's reports on the Helm raid."

  "The reports to the Council back on Luthien."

  Graff nodded. "The Council on Luthien could accept his report at face value, for they weren't actually here to put things together, you see. But when ComStar researchers read those reports, they had plenty of time to wonder. That cache must have been huge! Where could so many BattleMechs, so much war materiel, be hidden? ComStar maintains armies too, you know, to defend its own interests. Such a large, secret installation . . . that is of enormous interest to ComStar.'

  "Hmm." Grayson studied Graff intently. "All very interesting. But none of it explains why this Precentor you mentioned wants to disgrace my regiment."

  Graff hesitated until McCall said, "Come, laddie, speak up, or will ye be takin' tha' walk we mentioned a wee bit ago?"

  "It was Rachan's idea ..."

  "So you said."

  "You, Colonel . . . you and your people, were in the way."

  "Of what?"

  "Of ComStar. This planet, Helm, is divided into administrative districts. Your contract with Janos Marik specified that the landhold of Durandel would be yours in exchange for your service to Marik."

  Grayson nodded. "Yes."

  "As Lord of Helmfast, you are, in effect, the governor of the whole stretch of territory from the Araga Mountains southwest to the sea. Governor, in fact, of everything on this part of the continent, except Helmdown itself, which is a special reserve of the Duchy of Stewart, under the planetary title."

  "I am familiar with the legal aspects, Graff."

  Graff shrugged. "Precentor Rachan was bringing his plan along. Durandel was to have been given to Garth for . . . oh . . . services to the Commonwealth. Helmfast had been vacant for some years, its last landholder gone . . . disgraced. Perhaps that was ComStar's doing, too. I don't know. Rachan had been maneuvering for a long time to get the legal title to Helmfast."

  "Which would give him legal title to the lost cache."

  "Mostly it was a matter of timing. Rachan figured that it might take years, perhaps decades, to find the lost cache. It has to be within a few tens of kilometers of the ruins of Freeport—has to be—but he didn't expect the search to be easy. It could be anywhere in an expanse of thousands of square kilometers. One guess is that it's in the Dead Sea Flats. That vast, empty depression was filled with water until quite recently. It's possible that the mining efforts to create a hidden chamber for storing the weapons resulted in the sea's draining into cracks in the bedrock. Another possibility is that the cache is still buried under Freeport, but deep under meters of ferrocrete and steel, where it can't be found. It would take years of drilling and probing just to check all the possibilities in just that one location. And there were other cities in the area. You see what a task it is? Rachan expected the search to take years."

  "And when he found it," Clay said, "He'd need a small fleet to move it. That meant the cooperation—and the silence—of the Lord of Helmfast."

  "He figured I wouldn't be cooperative."

  Graff s
miled wanly. "You were studied quite closely, Colonel, for some time before the decision was made to disgrace you. It was determined that your personality was not . . . suitable to their purposes. Lord Garth met their criteria perfectly."

  Lori tossed her head. "Well, Garth is a lot fatter than Grayson ..."

  "He is also more malleable . . . and he has a certain handle that allows others to manipulate him."

  "Which is?”

  “He is greedy.”

  “Ah."

  "In any case, Helm was to have been given to Garth, not you. But in order to get you and your Legion out of Durandel ..."

  Grayson closed his eyes. "The ... the people on Sirius V .. . Was that for real? Or is it just a story that's been circulated?"

  "Oh, it's quite real. Lord Garth was in charge of that aspect of the operation." As Graff saw the expression hardening on Grayson's face, he grew more agitated. "That wasn't me! I ... I told you! I was a Captain in the Guard! Rachan approached me almost a year ago. He told me about the cache and asked me if I would help him. I was . . . flattered. ComStar Precentors rarely have dealings with merc Guard Captains!"

  "And what, exactly, did he want you to do?"

  "I was to join your regiment as a MechWarrior. The contract assigning the Helm landhold to you and your regiment had not been signed at that point, but Janos Marik and his staff had been discussing it. Rachan didn't want that to happen. But if it did, he wanted someone already in your regiment, someone who could keep him informed of your movements, your plans."

  "A bloody spy," Clay began. "As well as a traitor."

  "I'm no traitor! I was in the service of ComStar . . . for the good of humanity."

  "Ah, it's the good of humanity now!" Grayson said. He was suddenly angry. "Millions of people slaughtered . . . and it's for the good of humanity!"

  "That wasn't me ..."

  "Wasn't it? I wonder ... I happen to remember that last day on Sirius V. You had the duty, on patrol in your Assassin. "

  "Well . . . yes ..."

  "And you swapped around with Vandergriff," Lori said, her eyes widening. "There was some comment about it, I recall . . . that you would prefer standing sentry-go to enjoying the fleshpots of Tiantan."

  "Why did you want to stand duty that night?"

  Graff compressed his lips and shook his head. "I didn't blow up that dome."

  "No, but two sentries were found dead, killed at close range by laser fire and vibroblade. Do you remember?" Lori shook her head slowly, as if she couldn't quite believe what she was saying. "We questioned you about it because it happened on your watch, but we assumed it was the work of Liao soldiers who didn't want to turn in their arms. But there was someone else there that night, wasn't there? Someone who had to steal a pair of hovercraft in order to move in and . . . and what, Graff? Plant explosive charges on the domes? Charges that could be detonated once we were away, but before most locals would realize that we had gone ... to make it look like we had done the deed?"

  Grayson said. "They had to get past you, didn't they?"

  Graff nodded, his expression one of lost misery.

  ' 'And you stand there and claim you didn't kill those people? The responsibility was yours!" Grayson turned from him in disgust. "Del! Get him out of my sight!"

  "No!" Graff cried. "You promised ..."

  Lock him up in the stores tent, Del."

  "Yessir. C'mon, you."

  As Clay took Graff by the collar and hustled him from the tent, Lori stood up and walked around the table to Grayson.

  "It still doesn't help us, does it, Gray? I mean . . . knowing who and what we're up against. I don't see any answers."

  "I wonder ..." Grayson said absently.

  "It's late," she said. "Or early, rather. Daylight in another couple of hours. Why don't we get some sleep."

  Grayson shook his head. He had pulled a small, black computer clip from his jacket pocket and was looking at it thoughtfully. "You all go ahead. Get some sleep."

  "What's that?"

  "Something I picked up tonight. You go on," he told her. "I've got some studying to do."

  21

  Lori found Grayson four hours later, after two infantrymen on perimeter guard told her that he had checked out a hovercraft and was last been seen heading down the road toward Durandel. She had taken a skimmer herself and followed.

  When she found him, Grayson was sitting inside the ruin of the briefing room in Helmfast. The ceiling was open to the sky, and shafts of early morning sunlight sliced through the gaps in roof and wall, brilliant in the mist of plaster dust that Grayson's activity had stirred up during the night.

  He had maneuvered the hovercraft inside the room through the hole in the south wall. A pair of power cables snaked their way from the idling generators in the rear of the powerful little vehicle across the rubble-covered tiles. Then he had connected a pair of large computer display screens to a terminal and to the impromptu power supply aboard the skimmer. As Lori watched, it seemed that Grayson was intent on bringing up the magnification on the orbital maps he had displayed on the computer screens. He would study one or another of the maps closely, then tap out new commands on the keyboard in front of him. While he typed, the display on one of the screens would shift, change, or suddenly expand as he increased the magnification factor.

  A charred piece of wood fell with a clatter when Lori brushed against it, and Grayson spun suddenly, obviously startled. His eyes were sunken and shadowed by exhaustion and had a wild look about them.

  "Lori! What are you doing here?"

  "I might ask the same question. Grayson, what do you think you're doing?"

  He gave her a thin, tight-lipped smile. "Learning some things, for one thing. Graff told us more than he knew."

  "He was holding something back from us?"

  "Oh, no. I think he was scared enough that he was telling us everything he knew. No, I meant that literally. He told us more than he, personally, knew about."

  "How did he do that?"

  Grayson pointed to one of the maps displays.

  "Remember how the map works?" She nodded, but he continued talking anyway. His words were slurred to the point where, at first, she thought he had been drinking. Then she realized that he must be at the point of utter and complete exhaustion. "We can key in the desired magnification at the terminal and study any part of the terrain we want. We can increase the magnification a tenfold step at a time and zoom in to where we can resolve objects about a meter across."

  "Grayson . . . why don't you come and get some sleep?"

  He continued as though he hadn't heard her. "This"— he indicated the left-hand screen—" is the map that was here in Helmfast . . . remember?

  She nodded.

  "It's out of date, based on data recorded . . . oh . . . three centuries ago. Things have changed a bit since then. For one thing, the Dead Sea wasn't dead." He used a screen pointer to indicate the pale green body of water south of Durandel, running hundreds of kilometers almost to where the Nagayan Mountains hooked to the east.

  "It's shallow," Lori said. The difference between the two bodies of water on the photographs was startling. The West Equatorial Sea was mostly a deep, royal blue, except for the light-green or green-blue streaks where sandbars rose near the surface along the coastland or surrounding islands.

  "Calculating the Equatorial Sea at sea level, what we call the Dead Sea Flats, and what they called the Yehudan Sea 300 years ago, lies at almost 200 meters above sea level." Grayson slipped the pointer to a gray patch on the Yehudan Sea's western shore. "That is Freeport, before Minoru Kurita came calling. And yes, I've looked for the original Star League weapons complex. I think it must be inside a number of monstrous warehouses north of the city, but I can't tell for certain. Obviously, the cache would have been hidden from orbital observation."

  "Obviously."

  "Right here"—the pointer moved again—"is a river. The Vermillion River.”

  “It's red."

  "Pretty muc
h. There's some kind of pollutant, or maybe algae or some other plantlife that grew very thickly along here." He indicated the coastline near Freeport. "It concentrated in the river enough that they named it the Vermillion.

  "Now, Vermillion empties out of the Yehudan Sea at the site of Freeport. It flows this way, toward the west, and vanishes . . . here."

  "Vanishes?"

  "Goes underground. Watch." He typed in new commands. In response, the river flashed into extreme magnification, so that the view looked like a photograph taken from an aircraft only a few hundred meters up. The river wound across a level plain crisscrossed by the dark ribbons of ferrocrete highways. As it approached the mountains, it gradually sank into a deepening valley, until it took a sudden twist and vanished under a massive boulder.

  "Rivers don't generally flow toward the mountains, Lori," he said. "But this is a special case. The Yehudan Sea is quite a bit higher than the West Equatorial sea over there. The mountains between them are raw and new, the result of mountain-building along the border between two tectonic plates, I imagine. As the plates collide, they're in the process of punching up these mountains. That means the area is not entirely stable. There must be earthquakes here from time to time, really big ones."

  "Interesting. But so what?"

  Grayson returned the left-hand view to the first magnification. "Now. Look over here." He indicated the right-hand map display. It showed the same view as the first, but changed. The area of the Yehudan Sea was cast in ochers, grays, and the stark white swirls and splotches of mineral incrustations.

  "This is the copy of the map I took from the mobile headquarters van last night. The program notes show that it was made by a DropShip—the Assagai— in orbit over Helm five days ago."

  "Before we got here."

  "Right." Grayson used the screen pointer again. "Here's Freeport ... in ruins, of course, courtesy of Minoru Kurita. Up here is Durandel . . . not in ruins yet." His voice sounded brittle. Lori knew what he was thinking: that aerial view of Durandel was of the village before the Marik forces had come.