The Price of Glory

by William H. Keith

  Grayson watched the surface of the water. The Thunderbolt stopped, then canted forward, as though examining the water as well. There was a rainbow slickness to its surface, as though something oily were coating the water.

  The 'Mechs in midstream suddenly thrashed about, churning at the water with their arms. "Fire!" Grayson shouted, as laser and particle beams instantaneously lanced across from the waiting mercenary machines. Meanwhile, the troops concealed under the overhanging rock had emptied twelve 50-liter drums of CSF onto the surface of the river.

  CSF, which stood for "Concentrated Synthetic Fuel," was the generic nomenclature for any of a variety of fuels. With far greater explosive potential than gasoline, and with a much higher burning temperature, several CSFs formed the basic combustible component of inferno warheads and the high-temperature jet in flamers.

  Laser fire flicked across the water, and the fuel flashed into flame. The resulting fireball that rose from the river's surface was sun-bright, rimmed with orange and shot through with swirling, stabbing vortices of black. The surface of the river vanished in a literal sea of flame.

  The Gray Death 'Mechs approached at a slow walk in line abreast, firing as they came. The enemy Wasp, Shadow Hawk, and Archer stood their ground, inferno at their backs, pouring fire into the oncoming mercenary line. Moments later, the Wolverine rose from the flames, fire still clinging to its legs, but its autocannon continued to hammer away at Bear's Crusader.

  Of the Thunderbolt, there was no sign.

  The trap had worked well, but now came the hard part. Grayson had hoped to trap a substantial portion of the enemy force on his side of the river, cutting it off from armored forces and at least one or two of their heavier 'Mechs. He had accomplished precisely that, but the four 'Mechs they now faced were capable of putting up a very tough fight, indeed. It was vital they they destroy as many as possible here, before the final confrontation. Grayson picked up the pace and closed in, lasers and PPCs blazing.

  32

  Duke Ricol's fleet of six DropShips landed late in the afternoon, descending out of a gray and drizzly sky. The Alpha, the DropShip Ricol had grounded at Helmdown, had lifted off from the port still disguised as a merchanter, then shifted course in time to join Colonel Addison's fleet on the final leg of its passage to the Vermillion Plains. Grayson was there to meet him, as was Captain Use Martinez.

  "You can't trust the man," Use was shouting as Ricol stepped down the ramp onto the muddy, rain-sodden ground. "I heard the entire story from MechWarrior Kent! The Kurita bastard wasn't at their rendezvous. He wanted the raid to free us to fail ..."

  "And would you care to hear my side of it, Miss?" Ricol said archly. He was dressed in habitual reds trimmed with black and gold at cuffs and collar. A laser pistol and power pack hung from his belt.

  Grayson gave a shallow, stiff bow, that was little more than a nod. "So just what is your side of things, Your Grace?" Could the man be trusted, or was this yet another plot within a plot within plot?

  "Duke Garth landed before I could even return to the Alpha," Ricol said, spreading his hand open for emphasis. "Actually, I thought at the time that the confusion would help us, but I was wrong. When we arrived at the port, there was a full platoon guarding each gate, and BattleMechs everywhere. An order had been posted, practically closing down the city. No movement in or out." He looked at Grayson. "You were lucky, my friend, to get away when you did.

  "At any rate, I had no radio and could not communicate with my ship. I returned to Deirdre's to decide on what to do. I considered using the starport transmitter facility to contact the Alpha ... or you ... or your troops, but thought better of it when I realized that the starport communications facility on Helm is staffed by ComStar Adepts—the same ones who run the planet's HPG.

  "Martial law was in effect in Helmdown and around the starport until late yesterday evening, until after yet another Marik DropShip grounded. I watched through binoculars from Gresshaven. That one had a general aboard . . . Kleider, I believe. At dawn this morning, the curfew was lifted and I was able to return to the Alpha. By that time, the only thing left was for me to come here."

  Use turned to face Grayson, her dark eyes blazing. "You're going to believe that?"

  "Evidently you're not, Captain." Ricol smiled. "I suppose you could check with someone in the city to corroborate my story . . . but then, that is rather out of the way now, isn't it?"

  "Conveniently for you."

  "Enough," Grayson broke in. "Captain Martinez, please be so good as to prepare the Phobos for lift-off. Coordinate the launch checklist with Lieutenant Thurston."

  Use looked at him for a long, deadly moment. "Yessir," she said at last, then whirled, and stalked off toward her ship.

  Grayson considered the Red Duke. If he had indeed attempted to betray them, if he was lying about his failure to muster his force for the rendezvous, Grayson was under absolutely no obligation to follow through with his own end of their bargain. True, Ricol's DropShips outnumbered Grayson's on the Vermillion Plain, but Ricol had no BattleMechs at all, and Grayson did. Assuming that something could be done to further delay the approaching Marik forces, Grayson would be within his rights to load what he could of the Star League treasure aboard his own ships and depart, leaving Ricol to negotiate with Langsdorf and Rachan. Alternatively, Grayson could keep the League cache out of Rachan's and Garth's hands by arranging to take the library records on board, leaving the Star League tomb forever sealed behind him.

  There was little Ricol could do about it, either, short of attacking Grayson. The Gray Death commander was reasonably certain that the Red Duke would not risk damage to any of his DropShips so far from the borders of Kurita space.

  "Well, Your Grace, do I trust you?"

  Ricol watched Grayson for a long moment. "Anything I say could be . . . prejudicial, Colonel. Let's say ... I am here to offer my services. If you want to avail yourself of them, the decision is yours. If you see fit to carry out your part of our agreement, that decision, too, is yours. And as for trusting me . . . well, Grayson Death Carlyle . . . even I wouldn't go that far!"

  Grayson watched Ricol for a moment more, then turned, pointing up the side of the mountain above them. "We found the cache, Your Grace, up there, where you see the Archer standing guard. There are fusion-driven prime movers in there, more than enough to load whatever you can carry aboard your ships. Munitions, spare parts, electronics, infantry weapons, CSF canisters, infernos, even Star League-issue uniforms. If you set your people to work immediately, I may be able to buy you enough time to get loaded."

  Ricol's brows lowered. "The situation is that critical?"

  Grayson shrugged. Exhaustion was creeping up on him again, and it was an effort to stand, to talk. "We have engaged the Marik forces three times. So far, we have taken no casualties among the Mech Warriors, though we've lost nearly fifty infantrymen and armor personnel. By rotating our most badly damaged 'Mechs through a field repair facility that we set up inside the Star League depot, we've been able to keep all eight of our 'Mechs running."

  "Eight 'Mechs! That's all you have?"

  "For the moment. Four more should be on line within the hour. They were in storage aboard my DropShips, and had to be broken out, powered up, and retuned.

  "At the moment, my greatest concern is for my people. They've been in combat almost continuously for the past ten hours, and are exhausted. Their 'Mechs are in bad shape, despite the repairs—most of which were purely temporary in any case.

  "Meanwhile, my opposite number on the other side of the hill must be reorganizing his forces for a final push through one of the passes. By this time, he knows just how strong a force I have, and knows how battered it must be. I believe he will move his entire force through one pass—probably the Drango Gap—hoping to meet me either in the pass or on this plain. I intend to oblige him."

  Ricol looked aghast. "Eight . . . twelve 'Mechs . . . against how many?"

  Grayson closed his eyes to concentrate for
a moment. The enemy Thunderbolt and Shadow Hawk had been destroyed at the Vermillion River, and his men had damaged the Wasp, Wolverine, and Archer. Probably not damaged badly enough, however. Those 'Mechs would be undergoing repairs at this very moment and would be back in the field in another hour or two. "Nineteen. Possibly twenty. We don't know yet if Colonel Langsdorf's Warhammer is in the field."

  "The odds are not good, my young friend."

  Grayson smiled weakly. "Well, there are ways and ways of calculating odds, Your Grace. The odds of my 'Mech force surviving are small. But the odds of us achieving what we want look good."

  "And what is it you want?"

  "My senior Tech is gathering data," Grayson said. "There is a Star League library under that mountain, and I have reason to believe that is what brought ComStar here. The Marik forces . . . they're just puppets. It's ComStar . . . or a renegade ComStar Precentor . . . who is our enemy here."

  "I've heard of such libraries," the Duke said thoughtfully, "though very, very few have survived . . . and none of them are intact. It would almost seem that there is a deliberate campaign to vandalize them. Of course, most were destroyed in the earlier wars."

  "I'm beginning to think you're right about the deliberate destruction," Grayson said, grinning wearily that Ricol seemed to be on the same track of thought. "Anyway, I intend to buy my Tech the time to copy that library and get that copy safely aboard one of my DropShips. I do not expect to have the chance to board myself. Langsdorf's forces must be kept a safe distance from the DropShips. If I can get some of my MechWarriors out, too ... all well and good. But right now, those library copies have absolute priority."

  Ricol nodded agreement. "But will you do something for me?"

  "What?" he asked.

  "Arrange for additional copies of the library to be made ... as many as your Tech has time and material to make. When we leave here, I will carry the library with me as well."

  * * *

  They waited on a flat and muddy river plain. From the mouth of the valley a kilometer ahead, a small host was emerging in line-abreast formation. 'Mech after steel-armored BattleMech. Twelve 'Mechs waited south of the river to meet them. Some of them—DeVillar's Griffin, Tracy Kent's Phoenix Hawk, the Stingers piloted by the raw trainees Gary Brodenson and Jason Morley—were in perfect condition. But McCall's Rifleman still trailed debris where it right arm had been blasted away, and Del-mar Clay's Wolverine could barely stand, its internal structure starkly visible through the craters in its chest and sides. The other 'Mechs showed varying degrees of wear and tear, from Grayson's Marauder with heavy damage to its torso, to Lori's Shadow Hawk with most of the damage patched and repaired.

  "Private channel, Gray."

  "You've got it, Lori."

  "Gray . . . it's no good. We can't make another attack."

  "What do you suggest?"

  There was a long silence, as though she were studying the advancing Marik force.

  "I don't know, but look, if we board the DropShips now, we could launch before they got here."

  "Duke Ricol is still loading, Lori. And Alard King isn't back yet from the library. We've got to hold a little longer."

  "Damn Duke Ricol. And damn the library!"

  "Do you suggest we abandon our 'Mechs? Run?"

  He was answered by another silence. Was she arguing the question inwardly, one way or the other? "No," Lori said at last. "Of course not. But Gray . . . there's no way out."

  "No, there isn't." He paused, considering. "Some of you may be able to get out. If . . . two . . . maybe three 'Mechs follow me, we could hold them long enough, just long enough, for the rest of you to board ship and go."

  "Grayson Death Carlyle ... if you are suggesting that I leave you to face all of them!”

  Grayson chuckled. "The thought had crossed my mind, Lori, along with the thought of knocking you unconscious, tying you up, and tossing you aboard the Phobos like a side of frozen meat. But you'll notice I didn't suggest it."

  "It's a damn good thing you didn't, or you'd have to take me on, along with our friends over there. I'm in this with you, you idiot!"

  "You always did show terrible judgement, my love."

  There was another long silence. "Grayson," Lori said softly. "I love you."

  "And I love you," he said, but the endearment was almost matter-of-fact as Grayson studied his instrumentation. "Range, nine hundred meters, and closing" were his next words.

  * * *

  "Company, sir!"

  King looked up from the computer console. The Special Ops corporal, Janice Taylor, had leaned into the library door with the warning. The TK assault rifle clutched in her hand was pointed at the ceiling, a fresh magazine of caseless 3 mm rounds rammed home, a second 80-round magazine taped upside down to the first to allow her to change quickly when the first ran dry.

  "What is it?" He had found the Star League computer easy to activate, easy to understand. Its long-dead programmers must have assumed that its operators might not have the same grasp of programing mechanics as they did. Step-by-step instructions had led him to connect the half-meter-long memory core to a slot that opened in the desk beside the terminal on his command. The pressing of a key had started the copying process. On the screen, characters spelled out:

  * * *

  Program: Copyall Complete: 23%

  As he watched, the figures changed to read "24%." He had tried to imagine just how much information, in bits and bytes, was being manipulated silently within the library computer's framework.

  "I don't know, sir, but we can hear people working on the other side of the Wall. Corby thinks they may be setting explosives."

  King sagged back in the seat. No! It was too soon!

  "I'm afraid I have no advice to offer," he said. "If it comes to combat, that's your department."

  "I've deployed my people around the cavern, and we're watching. But if there's a large force out there, I can't promise to protect you here. This building is more exposed to fire from that doorway than I'd like."

  He gestured at the screen, which now read "28%.”

  “There's no way to hurry this," King told her. "Do what you can, and keep me informed."

  "Yessir." Janice vanished back through the door, and he heard her calling orders to her troops a moment later. He wondered how long eight men and women could hold out against whatever was beyond the Wall. He touched the uncomfortable pressure of the flare pistol in his belt, thinking, That's no defense. You'll just have to get the job done . . . and get out!

  His eyes met those of one of the two Techs in the library room. They were scarcely more than teenagers, and both looked scared.

  "Go on, you two," he said. "There's nothing more to be done here. No, wait—" His words stopped them as they started toward the door. "If something happens to me, get this core back to the DropShips. Promise me! It is vitally, vitally important!" So many have died for it already!

  The youngsters assured him that they would, and vanished.

  King wondered if he would ever see them again.

  * * *

  "Range eight hundred meters. Closing."

  Lori tried to analyze Grayson's voice through the faint hiss of static on the taccom's general frequency. The other MechWarriors had been completely silent ever since they had assumed their places in the line. She had had better luck determining the other warriors' moods than Grayson's. They, like her, had reached the absolute limits of their endurance and their abilities. Before they had mounted their 'Mechs, Lori had heard Sharyl saying over and over, "He can't make us do this ... he can't make us do this ..." Even the normally jovial Davis McCall had been stonily silent, the pain stark in his eyes. Something seemed to have broken inside him with the near-dismemberment of his beloved Bannockburn. Delmar Clay had tried to argue Grayson out of the attack.

  "We've lost, Grayson!" he had said. "We simply don't have what you're asking of us! Look at them!" Clay had pointed at Burns's infantrymen standing sullenly beside their vehicles, which
were spread out in a long, ragged line ahead of the 'Mechs. "They're burned out! At the point of collapse! We still have time to pull back aboard the DropShips ..."

  Khaled had said nothing, but Lori had seen him looking off toward the mountain valley and shaking his head. Koga had been as imperturbable as ever, until Lori caught him striking his right fist hard against his left palm in an unguarded moment. Seeing the fury in his expression, she had approached him. The impenetrable mask had dropped silently into place once more. "Vengeance cannot always be answered," he had said, and without further explanation, walked away toward his Archer.

  Vengeance against whom? Lori said to herself. Of all the old hands of the unit, Bear alone seemed unaffected. She had spoken to him before they'd boarded, but his response had seemed to come from a great distance, as though he were removed, on some higher, colder, and far-distant plane.

  It was a different story among the newly fielded recon lance. The two recruits showed widely differing attitudes, with Gary Brodenson frankly terrified and Jason Morely passionately announcing that he could not wait to come to meet the enemy. DeVillar was grim, at one point, having joined Delmar's questioning of Grayson's orders. Tracy Kent was ecstatic over having regained her BattleMech once more, though the approaching Marik army had sobered her.

  "He's not going to . . . going to make us stand to the last, is he?" Tracy had asked Lori. "I mean, what if he's down, but the rest of us are still fighting?"

  "Then we carry on without him," Lori had said. The words had come with savage, inner pain. She could have chided Tracy, reminded her of duty, of honor, but she added, simply, "We'll have to see when the time comes, I suppose. But you'll do fine."

  With the possible exception of Bear, who came from a culture markedly different from her own, Lori could identify with all the different responses she found among her comrades. Yet, it was Grayson, of all people, who puzzled her the most.