The Price of Glory

by William H. Keith

  He was grimmer, lonelier, and more isolated in a way that she could not touch or reach. Just before they'd boarded their 'Mechs, she had asked him to wish her luck. He had turned on her then, and she had seen agony behind his eyes. But she still did not understand.

  "Seven hundred meters. Closing," she heard now over the taccom.

  Lori began to switch the power systems of her Shadow Hawk to combat mode, checked her fire extinguisher automatics, and made certain the first of the autocannon reload cassettes was properly seated in her cannon's receiver. In seconds, she was too busy to worry about anything else.

  33

  The explosion smashed down on Alard King's body like a living thing, knocking the air from his lungs and leaving him gasping on the library floor. The shock wave had been transmitted through the floor of the cave and the deck of the library structure almost as though the deck had leaped up and hit him hard enough to knock him down.

  For a moment, all he could hear was the ringing in his ears. Only gradually did he realize that there was noise trying to push through the ringing, that the noise was growing in volume, an almighty roar magnified tenfold by the echoing enclosure of the cavern. He pulled himself shakily to his feet. Miraculously, the computer still ran, the screen now reading completion at 89 percent. Or was it a miracle? The League engineers must have known that they were building over an earthquake fault; they would have designed the electronics of their facility accordingly.

  The noise increased. Still dazed, King stumbled toward the door, which hung open now, the bearings smashed from their tracks.

  He blinked in unaccustomed light. The Wall was open.

  * * *

  Langsdorf's engineers had placed their charges in hopes of bringing down the whole wall, but ten million metric tons of rock had been beyond their capabilities, at least with so little time in which to work. Light spilled now through a gaping hole on the north side of the Wall. Rather than falling, the ancient granite of the wall had split along an old and invisible seam. Perhaps a quarter of the wall had crumbled, and was lying as a vast pile of black and grey rubble. The shaft of light flooding the room was harshly visible in the dancing motes of rock dust thrown up by the blast.

  Against the light, shadows moved.

  The shock of the blast had struck Janice and her troops as hard as it had King, but they had been braced and expecting attack. They lay in their positions just outside the pool of dusty light, arrayed in a semicircle, with their weapons turned toward the invaders. The roar of noise was the firefight erupting within the cavern. Heavily armored Marik infantrymen were spilling through the gap in the wall and clattering through the fallen rubble. TK rounds stitched through armor, flesh, and granite wall alike, erupting in miniature suns of destruction. Submachine gunfire lanced out of the darkness, grabbing at armored men and spinning them around, or slamming them down beside the dark, bloody forms of their comrades.

  And the invaders replied. Gunfire flashed through the darkness. A young mercenary soldier shrieked as an invisible hand lifted him from the cavern floor and hurled him backward, leaving him crushed, bloody, and still.

  King darted back into the library. The screen read 96 percent. Come on! Come on! He didn't know what would happen if he tried to stop the machine and remove the core. Perhaps nothing, or perhaps the attempt would cause him to lose everything. He gripped the edge of the table, watching the screen.

  There was an odd, double bang that filled the room and made him look up. Two small holes had been drilled through the library's walls, high up, near the ceiling. Two companion holes marred the wall on the opposite sides. Someone was adding long, keening screams to the roar of gunfire outside. King remained transfixed, watching the percentage of copied data creep with infinite slowness toward the magical, three-digits of completeness. Come on!

  There was a new sound, one that drowned out the screaming, drowned out even the hammer of gunfire. It was a deep, full-voiced thunder, and it came with the steady beat of someone knocking slowly to be let in. He looked out the library door again, and his eyes widened. The hole in the granite Wall was wider now, and something very large moved against the light outside.

  There was a chiming note from the computer. He hurried back to the table as the memory core rose silently from the desk top recession. He grasped the core and lifted it free. The screen now read: DATA COPY COMPLETE. DO YOU REQUIRE ANOTHER?

  "No thank you!" King shouted at the machine, though he knew the computer did not hear him. The shipboard computer could be set to make further copies, if required. This one copy would have to serve. Clutching his treasure before him, he stepped out of the library.

  There was a further, shattering roar from the Wall, and King held up one hand to protect his face from splintered, hurtling shards of rock. The gap in the Wall was opening further.

  The light spilling through the opening was blotted out by something large stepping through the enlarged opening. For just a moment, it looked like a, a gigantic, primordial, insectoid monster come to claim its cave and prey. Then it shifted in the backlight, and King recognized it even as the powerful spotlight mounted on its shoulder came on, bathing the interior of the cavern with light.

  The Archer took a step forward into the cavern . . .

  * * *

  Grayson studied the 'Marik Mechs spreading out on the plain on the far side of the river. The odds were not so great as he'd first feared, though they were certainly bad enough. In all, he counted sixteen 'Mechs in the enemy line. That meant that at least four of those hit in earlier battles had been too badly damaged to join the Marik line now. That Archer at the Vermillion River, for example, had been savaged before it had finally managed to make its way back across the steaming river. Not bad . . . but not good enough.

  One of the 'Mechs, a Warhammer, remained well behind the others. That will be Langsdorf, Grayson thought.

  Grayson could make out a cluster of vehicles close beside the distant 'Mech. Who? Langsdorf's staff? Rachan? Garth?

  They’re getting closer. We’re almost at the end.

  How long would their twelve 'Mechs last against sixteen? There was no way to answer that question. In fact, the question was largely meaningless, for numbers alone could not give a true picture of the relative power of two opposing forces.

  A more accurate image could be drawn by comparing the total weights of two opposing forces. Grayson had long since used his Marauder's computer to tally the figures for the 'Mechs he saw arrayed against them. The figure he'd come up with was 795 tons. The total weight of his own force was a respectable 649 tons, which gave Langsdorf only a narrow 16-to-13 lead.

  Even comparing BattleMech weights did not always indicate which side had the best chance to win. There was a concept, known as "CLG" among MechWarriors. The letters stood for "Combat Loss Groupings," and it referred to the fact that in 'Mech combat, 'Mechs of a single unit often received critical levels of damage at about the same time. For example, a twelve-Mech company might get into a firelight and battle for an eternity, in combat terms—as much as three or four minutes—and while they would take hits, none would appear seriously damaged.

  Then, several more minutes into the battle, a 'Mech would be knocked out of action. Almost immediately, another would be lost, then one or two more. Within the space of thirty seconds, half the combat strength of the company would be gone. This was because it took a set space of time for even light 'Mechs to accumulate enough damage to threaten them, and it was likely that several 'Mechs in the unit would be brought to the same point in about the same time. Further, once some 'Mechs had been lost to one side, the enemy could concentrate more weapons on fewer targets, accelerating the rate of damage among the survivors. Grayson had heard one story of a company entering combat, fighting valiantly for five minutes without losses, then falling apart within thirty seconds. There had been, he'd heard, only three surviving 'Mechs in that company.

  Mech Warrior commanders knew about CLG and tried to keep close tabs on the damag
e sustained by their people's machines. A good commander was one who realized when a particular battle became hopeless and withdrew before CLG began taking its toll.

  In this battle, CLG was already working against Grayson's force, and there was not a thing he could do about it. Two of the team's 'Mechs—McCall's and Clay's—were so badly damaged that only a few more hits apiece would knock them out completely. Once they were gone, the odds of 16 to 13 would drop to something closer to 8 to 5. Grayson's own Marauder would not take many more hits, and the enemy was certain to concentrate their fire on the mercenary leader. How long would it be before 8 to 5 became 2 to 1? Or 3 to 1?

  Yet, these crucial numbers said nothing of what was burning within Grayson's mind.

  He was going to die. He knew it with a calm certainty that would have belied the numbers and odds even if it were the Gray Death outnumbering the Marik forces by almost 2 to 1.

  The enemy 'Mechs were splashing across the broad, shallow Vermillion River now, as hovercraft whined across farther upriver. There were Marik troops upriver, too, watching, Grayson knew, for a repetition of the CSF in the water. That was all right, because he had not expected that trick to work twice.

  In fact, Grayson was all out of tricks. There was nothing left but a last, forlorn charge.

  "Range, 500 meters," he said. "Up weapons! Prepare to attack!"

  He wondered if anyone would follow the order to charge. There had been so much grumbling when he'd held his final briefing an hour before, and there were dark looks on some faces, questioning or confused or simply scared expression among others. Was this the final measure of a combat commander's skill, whether or not his troops would follow when he gave an order that amounted to suicide?

  He checked his rear screens. The line of vehicles winding down from the cache continued to move, fat and vulnerable. The DropShips remained on the plain five kilometers away, hatches open, taking the treasure aboard. As yet, there had been no word from King, no white flare over the mountain to indicate that he had come through safely with the library memory core. Where was he? The Star League 'Mechs be damned . . . where was King?

  The Marik BattleMechs opened fire. Explosions gey-sered up in the wet ground, and a long, ragged line of missile trails arced swiftly overhead. Grayson wondered what would happen if he gave the order, and no one followed? For one thing, Lori might live, which he so desperately wanted.

  There was no chance that the Marik forces might take prisoners, not while they believed the Gray Death was responsible for the massacre at Tiantan.

  There was no way out. The Gray Death Legion would end . . . here.

  Grayson opened the general command frequency again. "Forward!"

  He engaged his Marauder's drives, and the damaged machine lurched forward, its primary pusher links rattling in their casings, charred circuit wiring dangling from a gaping hole high on its starboard flank.

  Fire from the enemy forces swept across the flood plain, converging on him and him alone.

  * * *

  King yelled and threw one hand over his eyes, while the other still clutched the memory core. The Archer fired its right arm laser, the beam lancing past King and into the library building.

  The library did not so much explode as burn. The walls softened, folding in one another. Intense heat consumed it, melted it, and weird shadows chased one another across the floors and walls of the caves. King stumbled forward, away from the heat. Around him, the battle had stopped. The appearance of the lone Archer had been more than sufficient to stun the battling soldiers into motionlessness. One by one, the soldiers on both sides rose to their feet. Weapons clattered to the floor as the Marik soldiers began to assume control of the situation, and the Gray Death mercenaries surrendered.

  More figures made their way into the cavern, following the Archer's trail of flattened debris. There were more soldiers, wearing the gray and purple body armor of Marik Guards. There were also ComStar Adepts, six of them in their robes and hoods, walking carefully with their skirts raised above the rubble.

  And that could be none other than Rachan. He bore his authority like a cloak, and even in the semidarkness of the cavern, his physical presence was as commanding in its own way as that of the 70-ton Archer towering above him. Though Rachan's eyes were invisible against the brightness behind him and the glare of the searchlight overhead, King felt his gaze upon him. The Precentor raised his arm, and pointed a bony finger at King. "You. You have what I want. Bring it to me."

  Somehow, King found his voice. "Why? So you can destroy it?"

  Rachan's laughter surprised him. "You cannot possibly understand the import of what you hold, mercenary. Bring it."

  King took a step forward, the memory core seeming very heavy in his arms. He stopped again. "You're wrong, Rachan, I do understand Star League knowledge, preserved for three centuries . . . it's priceless, invaluable ..."

  "I represent the ComStar Order, my son. The data you hold will be safe with me. Trust me."

  "This knowledge could be the deliverance of mankind!"

  "Bah! You don't know what you're saying, youngster! Deliverance or damnation, pure knowledge is not as important as the uses to which it is put. Bring that memory core to me!"

  "No."

  "Soldiers!"

  "If your soldiers fire," King warned, "they might hit this!"

  "Fool! You don't understand, do you? It doesn't matter to me in the least whether that cylinder you hold is preserved or not. If I can save a copy for ComStar's files, well and good. But my mission here is to destroy that library!"

  "Like you destroyed twelve million people at Tiantan?"

  "Be quiet!" In the dying light of the fire behind him, King caught a glimpse of Rachan's wild and contorted face. He was breathing heavily, his hands twisted into trembling claws.

  King had sensed the sudden and uncomfortable stirring among the Adepts standing behind Rachan. He knew that, like him, they were Technicians. They were trained . . . disciplined. Though he could not see their faces under their cowls, King suspected they must be young . . . and, therefore, idealistic. Was that idealism directed toward an ideal of service to Order or to the race? Or was it a fanaticism twisted around the solitary figure standing in front of them?

  King decided to take a chance. He raised his voice so that the Adepts would hear him. "Did you know? Did he tell you? It was Precentor Rachan who planned the murder of twelve million civilians on Sirius V!"

  “Quiet!”

  "We heard it from a Marik Captain!" King went on, barely missing a beat. "He did it so a Marik Duke could legally take this planet away from Grayson Carlyle! Is this the man you follow?"

  "Precentor," one of the hooded men said. "What this man says cannot be true ..."

  "Fools! All of you!" Rachan's voice was wild now, closer to a scream than to words. He vaulted on top of a pile of rubble close beside him. In the light of the Archer, something flashed in his hand, a small and wicked-looking laser pistol. "What does it matter ... a few worthless lives? They were expendable! You are all expendable!"

  The laser fired wildly, stabbing. Janice Taylor shrieked in pain, falling backward several meters from King. A young, red-haired soldier standing at her side screamed with her, but in rage, not pain. He dropped to the ground, rolled to the left, and came to his feet with a TK assault rifle in his hand. Gunfire erupted from the weapon, spraying wildly toward the Marik soldiers.

  Blood gushed from the Precentor's leg as he pitched back off the mound, the laser pistol flying from his hand. Marik soldiers scrambled for cover as the boy with the TK stood in the open, his face twisted with rage as he swept the rubble at the Archer's feet with a hail of explosive rounds.

  King was already moving, but so was the 'Mech. As the shots rang out, it stepped forward, one hand coming up in ponderous slow motion, its target the red-haired boy with the wildly stuttering rifle. King could hear Janice Taylor's voice, raw with pain. "Nik . . . Nik! It's O.K.! I'm O.K."

  King fumbled with one hand und
er the memory core.

  As a senior Tech, he had a MechWarrior's understanding of BattleMechs, of how they were designed and how they were assembled. He could look up against the spotlight on the Archer's shoulder and make out the curve of the cockpit's armored screen, could see the cluster of stubby snouts just to the right of the insectlike face where an Archer's IR and scanning gear are mounted.

  His right hand came up from under the memory core, clutching the flare pistol that had been tucked into his belt, and concealed by the core. He took three running steps toward the looming Archer, took aim, and fired. White light burst against the 'Mech's cockpit.

  "Run!" King shouted. "Everybody run!"

  The mercenary soldiers were already falling back into the darkness of the cavern. A Marik soldier rose from where he had dropped to the floor, and brought up his rifle. Gunfire crashed in the cavern again. A mercenary returned the fire. Bullets sang off the 'Mech's armor and the partly shattered granite wall.

  The red-headed boy named Nik threw his rifle aside, stooping to help the wounded Janice Taylor. Another soldier joined him, and together they helped her to her feet. King dropped the empty flare gun, put his head down, and ran as hard as he could. The Archer's IR gear—and its pilot's dazzled eyes—would clear in seconds.

  It was less than seconds before the three mercenaries had plunged into the sheltering darkness of the tunnel. King did not think the lone Archer would pursue them into an unknown labyrinth.

  Behind him came the roar of gunfire.

  * * *

  Grayson's Marauder set off alone against the Marik army. Behind him, the BattleMechs under his command stirred or stood still as their pilots watched, dazed by mind-numbing battle exhaustion. It was not mutiny so much as it was the complete breakdown of men and women pushed too hard, and too far.

  Then a second 'Mech began to move. McCall's shattered Rifleman started forward, wires and twisted strands of myomer sheathing still dangling from the gaping hole where one of its twin-cannoned arms had been mounted. In the next instant, Delmar Clay's battered Wolverine was moving out, with Lori close behind him. Then the entire band of twelve 'Mechs was moving forward, a ragged, battered line, to meet the enemy at the Vermillion River.