The Price of Glory

by William H. Keith

  For three centuries, the Star League base's fusion pile had remained quiescent as well, providing the trickle of power necessary to keep the library's memory alive, and to be ready to open the Eastern Gate when the proper code was received. There was always the possibility, however, that someone would come who did not know the code, and would simply blast down the Eastern Gate rather than use the computer to unlock the door. Even a wall of granite weighing ten million metric tons could not keep out a determined invader. Major Keeler, the engineer who had created the whole system, knew very well that a few properly set charges of plastic explosives or a determined application of heavy lasers would smash the wall down, or burn through it.

  He had, therefore, set other monitoring devices to watch over the integrity of the Eastern Gate, and other places throughout the complex. If the gate were ever smashed or the library destroyed, it would mean that it was not Star League personnel who had returned, but barbarians. Barbarians who must not be allowed to rifle the storehouse's treasures.

  Deep below the mountain, the fusion reactor was generating heat normally found only at the core of stars. As it grew hotter, an underground sea turned to steam, and an eons-old balance of geological forces was overturned.

  The crust of the planet moved.

  * * *

  Rachan could know none of this, of course. All he could tell was that the rumbling from beneath the mountain was louder now, with quake-loosened stones splattering down from the ceiling of the cavern in the darkness. The stones grew larger, as head-sized rocks broken fresh and jagged-edged from swaying cavern walls smashed to the ground around him.

  Desperately, one hand clenched in agony around his shattered leg. Rachan began to drag himself toward the opening in the wall. A searing, claustrophobic fear possessed him in the roaring darkness, throttling him with the same intensity as the fire searing his leg.

  A new sound ground through the dust and dark, the sound of stone splitting. As light burst suddenly down upon the ComStar Precentor, he looked up and shrieked.

  The Wall across the mouth of the river-carved cavern had been severely weakened when Rachan ordered that its support struts be cut. It had been weakened further by the movements of the Archer. The earthquake shattered the last of the aligned-crystal steel braces, and sent ten million tons of granite toppling into the cavern opening.

  The roar of tortured rock continued long after it had cut off the man's single, sharp scream.

  * * *

  The DropShip fleet accelerated at 1G, outbound from Helm. Under acceleration, Grayson could walk normally on the 'Mech Bay deck, talking to the tired and dirty men and women gathered there. All were exhausted, yet suffused with the flush of victory.

  Lori and Alard King walked with him. As they approached a group of refugees, a ComStar Adept named Larabee stepped forward, his robes still bloodied from the fight in the Star League cave.

  "Adept Larabee," Grayson said. "I heard that it was you who found Alard King and brought him to the ship. I was busy seeing to the boarding operations and hadn't heard the full story. I wish to thank you personally."

  The Adept took Grayson's hand and shook it. "My pleasure, Colonel. I was on my way toward your ships anyway, in a transport hovercraft. I found your people— King and five of your soldiers—making their way down the slope of the mountain."

  "Ha! It was more like we were clinging to the side of the mountain, waiting to die," King said. "The quake was going full-force then, and we couldn't even stand. He saved us, Colonel. I know damn well he saved Janice, that young corporal in charge, because she would have bled to death if we hadn't been able to get her back to the ship in time."

  Grayson looked the Adept in the eyes. "I ... I don't agree with what ComStar was doing on Helm, Larabee, but that doesn't lessen the importance of what you did, for me . . . and for my people. I appreciate it."

  Larabee studied Grayson's face for a moment. There was still an inner pain there, a bleakness that victory and rescue had not erased. "Listen, Colonel ..."

  "Yes?"

  "I don't want you to judge the Order by the actions of one man."

  "Rachan?" Grayson shook his head. "We'll probably never know the whole story. It's possible he was working alone."

  Larabee looked torn, indecisive. "I tell you the truth, Colonel. I don't know if he was working alone or not. It's almost impossible to believe that such a hideous, evil plot could have been concocted by one man, but neither can I believe that the Order to which I have dedicated my life is capable of such monstrous deeds!"

  "Whatever happened," Grayson said gently, "it is a failure of your Order's system. The power that ComStar wields, concealed by its mysticism ... it is enough to corrupt an army of men like Rachan."

  "I swear to you that I knew nothing of it, Colonel. I swear to you, too, that your name, and the name of your regiment, will be cleared! If the plot was something concocted by men high up in the ComStar hierarchy, they will not dare to admit it, for there are too many people alive who know what really happened. They will find other scapegoats for Tiantan . . . Kleider and Garth, to begin with."

  A fierce light burned in Larabee's eyes. "I will speak with my superiors on Terra. I think they will publicly support the . . . the theory that Rachan was an isolated madman, that Tiantan was his idea alone, but carried out by the Duke of Irian in exchange for the promise of loot from the Star League cache. You, Colonel, will no longer be considered a renegade."

  Grayson nodded. "That's . . . good. It doesn't much help the people who died on Sirius V, though. And it doesn't help Morley, Brodensen, Dulaney, or the others who died."

  "Never forget the living, Colonel. There are always the living."

  The living. Ramage was alive, barely, recovering now under the ship doctor's care. Clay had his arm in a sling, but was happily reunited with his wife and son. Janice Taylor was alive, and Lori. Grayson reached out, putting his arm around her waist, drawing her close. Lori is alive! he thought joyfully.

  "Yes, there are the living," Grayson repeated. "And for that, we have to thank you, Adept Larabee. We cannot repay you."

  "But you can. Alard King explained to me your suspicions concerning ComStar during the ride to your ship." Larabee looked down at his hands. "Perhaps I can settle some of my own doubts on that score if I know you are carrying out your original plan . . . allowing that library data to be spread across the stars." Larabee turned his hands, examining them. "I just wish I knew."

  "Knew what?"

  "I wish I knew whether, by helping you, by helping to spread that data ... I will be helping to make up for the evil done by one, mad renegade of my Order ... or whether it will make of me the renegade ..."

  Epilogue

  Grayson never did learn whether Adept Larabee became a renegade fighter or a renegade. As the man had promised, the First Circuit, ComStar's inner council, did declare Precentor Rachan an outlaw and disavowed his actions. They claimed that the tragedy on Sirius V was the result of a madman's megalomania and the corruption of a small clique of Marik nobles and officers.

  During the year following the nightmare of Helm, Grayson heard isolated bits of information about the incident from various sources. It was discovered that Garth and Kleider, for example, were behind a plot to overthrow Janos Marik. Their connivance at Sirius V, it seemed, had been part of a plan to discredit Janos Marik by discrediting the mercenaries he had hired against their wishes. The rift within Marik's staff would have resulted in civil war and a chance for Garth, Kleider, and several of Kleider's brother officers to seize the Captain-General's power. The plot failed when unknown sources—widely suspected, but never proven to have been ComStar agents—alerted Marik to the plot, which allowed him to react with loyal elements of his army. In the clash that followed, Garth was captured, tried, and executed. Kleider escaped with a handful of 'Mechs and men and was not seen again.

  Grayson and Duke Ricol had parted company at Stewart, where the Deimos and the Phobos were reunited with Captain Tor and
the JumpShip Individious. As promised, Ricol had shared the booty from Helm with Grayson. There were 'Mechs enough to fill out three full combat companies, plus spares and repair materials enough to fully refit the A Company 'Mechs damaged on Helm. Afterward, the Red Duke vanished toward the Kurita frontier.

  "I imagine we will meet again as enemies, I'm afraid," he said in parting to Grayson. "It is inevitable, I suppose. And . . . who knows? Perhaps things will change. I can always use a good mercenary regiment in my employ, with a commander I can trust."

  "Perhaps, Your Grace. I'll have to think about that one."

  The library data was copied . . . and copied again. Captain Tor used his old merchanter's contacts to find people who would transport those copies along the trade routes, scattering the old Star League library files among the stars.

  There was no way to tell whether the effort would be worth it. Though Grayson had recognized the importance of the library, as had Duke Ricol, how many of Tor's merchant friends and contacts took the memory cores in order to sell them? How many found that no one was interested enough to buy them ... or even to take them when offered free?

  That was beyond Grayson's power to control. He had done his best in trying to disseminate the data as widely as possible. If mankind was to benefit from the lost Star League treasure, it would have to prove its worthiness by recognizing the value of the data. Perhaps, the rediscovered farming methods, old genetic manipulation techniques, and long-lost manufacturing processes would one day make a reappearance. Perhaps man's lot would improve, and the long, dark slide into feudalism and technological ignorance would be arrested . . . even reversed.

  But it might be centuries before any such change. Man—and his ignorance—covered one hell of a lot of ground.

  * * *

  Grayson floated in weightlessness in a lounge aboard the Invidious. The stars shone with crystal and unwinking clarity through the chamber's transparent panels. The ship's jump sail had already been retracted, and preparations made for the first jump toward Lyran space. There was talk about a new contract in service to Katrina Steiner. The Gray Death's reputation had grown on Helm, along with its strength in 'Mechs. On Galatea and elsewhere, there would be more recruits waiting to join the Legion.

  Lori stirred in Grayson's arms, and he drew her closer. There were advantages to being regimental commander, he thought. The ship's lounge, with its magnificent view of space, could be locked at his command. An hour's privacy was a treasure without price aboard ship. His lips found Lori's, and they kissed in a long and deep embrace while drifting in the afterglow of their lovemaking.

  "What are you thinking?" she murmured in his ear.

  He smiled, and squeezed her closer. The movement set them turning, very slowly.

  He had been so certain that he was doomed to die . . . that there was no way out, for him or for his regiment. Though the conviction had not left him, it no longer held him prisoner. His . . . what was it? Call it luck ... or destiny ... it had brought him so very far from Trellwan . . . Yet were not luck and destiny his to make and shape for himself? They were not outside forces to be waited on . . . or relied upon. Not as he relied on the people around him.

  He smiled, remembering the words of the old, old warrior's song:

  Home is the regiment, the price of glory high.

  We stand with brothers at our sides

  to pay that price, and die!

  The blood of comrades cries to us

  long after glory's passed:

  “Home is the Regiment, our family and our own!"

  He clung to Lori. "I was just thinking," he told her, "how good it is to be home."

  The End