Decision at Thunder Rift

by William H. Keith

  Grayson thought about this for a moment. The attack on the Castle had been so methodical, so carefully timed and planned. It didn't fit the typical slash-and-run tactics of bandit raiders. The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. The pirates had had to plan and execute the capture of Tor's ship by intercepting it at one of thirty possible navigation and power bank charging points between Oberon IV and Trellwan. They had to transfer the men and material for the attack to the Invidious once they captured her — never an easy task in deep space — and then equip the DropShip with the extra weapons that had surprised and devastated his father's Phoenix Hawk. All of that had been timed and coordinated with what was happening on Trellwan. The pirates must have convinced or bought the astech Stefan's help (and probably others) in bypassing the Castle's security system so that a commando force could get in.

  There'd been dozens of them, a company at least, and probably more. It seemed they'd been divided into numerous small units, each assigned a different target within the Castle. Grayson remembered the sight of them entering the Control Center, and knew with cold certainty that those were not native troops. They must have been brought in from elsewhere, probably on another freighter DropShip that had grounded at the port some hours before. That part of the operation had demanded careful preparation and precise timing to allow it to be carried out just as the Carlyle's Phoenix Hawk approached the Individous' DropShip. The entire scheme suggested a major military operation — and an expensive one. Grayson was sure there was more to it than a mutiny against Oberon by a handful of his own pirate warlords.

  Unbidden, the memory of his attacker's face returned to Grayson. That lean, dark face with the trim mustache and beard. The too-bright eyes, the eyes of a fanatic. Grayson believed he had seen that face before, but where?

  An important part of any apprentice MechWarrior's training required him to become familiar with other MechWarriors. Not all of them, of course, but the important ones, the brilliant ones, the successful mercenaries and warleaders who had carved names for themselves across the battlefields of a thousand war-torn worlds. Was it in the computer files of known warriors he'd studied in Trellwan that Grayson had seem that dark face? Was it that of a MechWarrior? A ground forces officer? He covered his eyes with one hand. Think... think!

  He opened his eyes, blinked into the light, stood and breathed deeply, but the man's identity did not come to him. Grayson knew, though, that if he had seen that face while studying the computer files, the information he needed would still be there in the central computer in the Castle. Somehow, he thought, somehow he was going to have to get back inside the Castle.

  11

  Grayson had lost track of time since he'd left Berenir's house with the thought of contacting Mara. Not wanting to attract unwanted attention to his offworlder origins, he'd left his wristcomp with Claydon.. And, on a world where it took the sun fifteen standard days to crawl from one horizon to the other, it was impossible to guess the time.

  Whatever the hour, he was hungry and dead tired. Resting on the ledge had restored him somewhat, but he was certainly in no shape to attack anybody — certainly not a 75-ton armored giant. At the moment, the need for money overshadowed his need for vengeance, indeed, overshadowed every other need. It would get him a place to sleep, something to eat, and perhaps a bottle of dye for his tell-tale hair.

  Grayson wasn't entirely sure how he was going to go about getting his hands on some local currency. Mara was his only friend, and she seemed out of reach. His only possession was a stolen hovercraft that would get him arrested the moment he tried to sell it. The local Militia frowned on attempts to procure and sell military hardware.

  Emerging from the cavern near where he'd hidden the hovercraft, Grayson began rummaging through the open-topped cockpit and cargo area, looking for something he might turn to his advantage.

  Three candy bars stashed in an underseat compartment were put to immediate service. There seemed to be little else of value, except for a metal toolbox crowded with ratchets, spanners, drivers, and various other tools for mechanical repairs and maintenance. They did not seem to be marked. If he could find a pawn shop or even a mechanical tech's supply house in Sarghad, he might be able to sell the tools for enough money to buy him a meal and a room for at least one sleep period.

  His only other alternative was robbery, which seemed even less promising. Unless he was able to threaten his victim with a large wrench, Grayson wouldn't be taken seriously as an armed robber, and he had no stomach for striking innocent people down from behind.

  He decided to try to sell the tools, then perhaps make his way to the spaceport and find Captain Tor. Failing that, he might be able to get a job as a hand in one of Sarghad's agrodomes. He didn't care what the job was. All he needed was to keep alive on a hostile planet while he planned his revenge on the Marauder pilot That desire was rapidly becoming the central driving force of his existence.

  Leaving the skimmer behind a warehouse on the outskirts of the city, Grayson walked toward the hub, carrying the toolbox. He wasn't certain how to find what he wanted, and feared asking directions. His mud-smeared, scarecrow appearance wouldn't help his chances of getting a straight answer, and he didn't know enough about Trell culture to guess where a pawn shop or tool supply house might be located. After some thought, he decided that his best chance was to try the Streets of the Merchants. With feet aching in his too-light boots, he stumbled in the general direction of Sarghad's business quarter.

  Twice he became lost, straightening out only when he realized he had reached the Hub. There were the Palace Gardens, the domes of the Palace showing above spreading, cobalt shrubs alive with short-lived flowers. If he could just reach Mara, every problem would be solved! But the green-coated soldiers still paraded inside the main gate, and the streets were thick with Palace Guards and the brown uniforms of the Militia. If he were to try scaling the three-meter fence, they would cut him down before he made it to the top.

  No, the Third Street of the Merchants was back THAT way. He would try to find Mara later.

  * * * *

  Singh stood just inside the gaping Repair Bay doors. As he watched the troops fall into formation, thunder boomed incessantly from the mountains above the Castle. He had four full companies, about 300 men under his direct command, as well as five 'Mechs. Two companies manned the perimeter at the spaceport. The remaining two were here, weapons and body armor red-gilt in the warming sun, their ground effect transports idling in dusty rows nearby.

  Behind the ranks of faceless, armor-masked troops towered the five 'Mechs of the battalion. Lieutenant Vallendel's Marauder was the lead BattleMech, of course, and would head up the actual fighting, but he was in overall command.

  He, Harimandir Singh, in command of a five-'Mech Lance! It was a singular honor that the Duke had bestowed on him. Covert operations such as Code Dragon were too sensitive, too delicate to be given into the hands of a relatively junior MechWarrior like Vallendel. It made Singh proud that the Duke had entrusted this fighting force into his care, that he had placed Code Dragon under his command until it was time for the Duke to make his own appearance. Singh savored the heady rush of power.

  Four smaller 'Mechs flanked the Marauder: a Stinger, a Locust, and the pair of Wasps captured during the battle with Carlyle's Lance. Singh was less certain of their pilots than he was of Vallendel. The Lieutenant was one of the Duke's experienced warriors, hand-picked for this mission, but three of the pilots of the four 20-tonners were green, and three were mercenaries picked up on Sigurd in Hendrik's confederacy. Those three didn't know the full extent of the Plan, of course. Nor did they realize that they would die soon, sacrificed to the Plan once the Duke arrived to take charge.

  Sergeant Mendoza, the Stinger's pilot, was the only one with any experience, having spent a good many years piloting 'Mechs in the service of the Duke. That one would go down fighting when the time came. Sing's dark eyes narrowed at the thought. It might be best to end his career with an assa
ssin's blade first, to prevent unnecessary complications. That would be a pity, but in this game of stroke and counterstroke, secrecy was so essential that even Vallendel, even Singh himself, might be sacrificed to preserve it If the Commonwealth detected even a hint of Code Dragon, the mission would fail. Singh knew that failure was one option the Duke never tolerated.

  The Wasps were piloted by Sigurdian mercenaries, privates Enzelman and Fitzhugh, and the Locust by a Corporal Kalmar. All three were painfully inexperienced, fresh from their apprenticeships on one of Hendrik’s worlds, but they seemed competent enough. They'd joined the unit on Sigurd just before the expedition had left to rendezvous with the Mailai freighter.

  It was not, perhaps, the most skillful or best trained of 'Mech lances, but it would be more than adequate against the pathetic popinjays defending Sarghad. That single skirmish on the outskirts of the town earlier had proven that. Imagine, armored personnel carriers piled high with troopers, driving straight up to the guns of a battle-hungry Marauder! It had been a slaughter, and the city's defenders would be thoroughly demoralized by now. What's more, Vallendel had brought back prisoners, from whom Singh had learned the precise location of the Royal Family's battle shelters under the Palace.

  His forces had only just returned from Sarghad, and he could see that the men were tired, then- formation less than rigidly perfect Whether the troops were tired or not, Singh intended to continue to push the indigs with all he had, as hard as he could. They would not know a moment's respite until the Plan's second phase.

  Parts of the city were still sending up twisting coils of black smoke where fires raged among those barbarian shacks and hovels. Singh knew it was time to strike again, before the indigs could recover from the first raid so recendy over.

  It was a shame, perhaps, that the Shadow Hawk, that had been put out of action to critically weaken the Castle's defense was not yet repaired. What an armored force THAT would be. Four lights led by a Hawk and a Marauder team! Well, no matter. The captured Hawk would be repaired by the time Duke Ricol arrived. In the meantime, the force Singh had would be more than adequate against the Sarghad rabble.

  He raised his hands, shouting above the distant rumble from the mountain rift. "Men! Soldiers in the service of the Red Duke! This is the climax to our part of the Grand Plan!" Of all the troops before him, only Lieutenant Vallendel knew the plan's details, of course, but all could share in the excitement and pride of playing their part in a great scheme.

  "Word has been dispatched to our Lord, notifying him of the successful completion of the first phase. When he arrives to begin the second phase, our part in this glorious project will be completed... nobly and honorably so.

  "For now, we have this world at our feet!" I know you are hot and tired, that you have been fighting hard, but now is the time to strike again, without mercy!" Singh gestured toward the city sprawled on the plain below the Castle, helpless and inviting in the bloody sunlight.

  "Lieutenant Vallendel and Sergeant Mendoza will lead the main ground forces! Their mission is to engage and obliterate the enemy ground defenses wherever they may be found. Our three Sigurdian allies, meanwhile, will attack designated targets within the Sarghad palace itself!"

  He paused, eyes narrowed. It was a calculated risk, of course, assigning the attack on the palace to three youngsters... outsiders, at that. But the important part of the operation was to destroy the local defenses, and it didn't really matter whether they got through to the Royal Family or not. At worst, an attack on the palace would create a useful diversion and spread panic and hopelessness among the defenders. At best, Code Dragon's timetable might be advanced by several days. He had weighed the dangers and possible advantages, and decided to take the gamble.

  "You three are to attack Sarghad, destroy local Militia and Guard forces where you find them, enter the Palace, and take the Royal Family hostage. With Jeverid and his advisors as our prisoners, the rabble will surrender to us, and we will hand them over to the Duke when he arrives, a neatly wrapped present, tied up in diamond monfilament!"

  The obligatory cheer went up at this obvious place for cheering, making up in volume what it lacked in spontaneity. Singh gestured again, this time toward the rows of pikes erected along the Castle parade ground outside the Repair Bay doors. The round, brown-encrusted objects impaled on the tip of each pike were already shrivelled in the dry, sand blasting air of this world. Bared teeth gleamed below empty, staring eye sockets.

  "Soldiers! Behold your enemies! So will fare all those stand against us! So will fare the enemies of the Duke! Hail, Duke Ricol! Hail, victory!"

  Again the cheers, this time with nervous overtones. Everyone in the ranks knew that the third impaled head from the right belonged to Sergeant Proller of Company C. He'd been in charge of securing the passageway in the Castle leading from Central Control to the Vehicle Bay. Somehow, he'd become lost. By the time his squad had reached their objective, the surviving defenders had secured a number of air cushion transports and escaped toward their perimeter at the spaceport.

  It was time. At Lord Singh's shouted command, the ranks of men filed into their transports, which rose on dust-churning cushions of air and drifted with shrill keening down the slopes toward the city. Ahead of them, the five 'Mechs strode with lumbering, deadly purpose.

  * * * *

  Grayson became aware of the attack as the mournful ululation of a siren rose above crowds of people gone suddenly motionless. Then came the dull whump of distant explosions, and the street crowds began to scatter and run in all directions, shrieking and wailing.

  Another attack? Only a few hours had passed the last one — barely time for the raiders to reach the Castle and return!

  He stepped to the side of the street as green and gold-clad Guards clattered past at double time, their weapons held at port arms and their faces terribly young beneath visored, gold-edged helmets. Grayson could tell by the sound of the explosions that those were SRMs — short-range missiles — probably 'Mech-launched. What chance did these boys have against BattleMechs?

  There was a sharp hiss overhead, an instant's glimpse of a white contrail arowing from the sky, and the iron fence by the Palace grounds across the street vanished in black earth and hurtling chunks of ferrocrete. Grayson fell on his face and clutched at the pavement, as falling debris rattled and bounced around him. When he looked up, the street was littered with twisted bits of iron and rubble, and a steaming crater interrupted the curve of the fence.

  He considered the hole for a moment. My way in, he thought, and then thought again. Mara would be on her way to a shelter by now. He had no idea where she would be, and so wandering around the Palace grounds during a battle would only get him shot.

  The Wasp emerged from a hub street several hundred meters from Grayson's position. It was a sleek and elegant-looking machine, manlike in its movements and painted blue-white with black and yellow trim. Four antennae spiked back from its head like pricked ears, two on either side, giving it the look of an alert hunting animal. That head was scanning now, sweeping up and down the street. BattleMechs had nothing so crude or vulnerable as windows in their cockpits, of course, but the recessed scanner strip under the protective brow overhang gave the head the look of a visored space helmet. Its weapons included an SRM pack tucked into the hip of its left leg, and a medium laser that the 'Mech swung in its right hand with deceptive, disturbing ease.

  Wasps were most frequently used as 'Mech unit scouts. They were fast, relatively light-armed and armored, and extremely maneuverable. With the fusion-heated jump jets tucked into legs and angular back-mounted packs, they could leap up to 180 meters — six times their own length — firing down on ground targets from the air or gaining a clear view of the surrounding terrain.

  Even lying flat on his belly, Grayson recognized the machine. Though an eye had been painted over the scratched-out clenched-fist insignia on the front of the left leg, 'Mechs — especially the much-painted and battle-worn ones — were as unique as ind
ividual humans. This was a Carlyle's Commandos Wasp, captured during the battle that had stranded Grayson on Trellwan. His trained eye searched for new damage, but detected none. It was possible that Mendelson had abandoned the machine during the evacuation, rather than lost it in battle.

  Who was piloting it now, Grayson wondered? It might be a rookie, an apprentice next in line for a newly acquired BattleMech. Or, it could just as easily be a battle-experienced Mech Warrior who had lost his own 'Mech in combat. Whoever it was seemed to be handling the machine well enough. The movements were smooth, and the rapidly striding walk was natural and confident.

  The Wasp was bearing down on him. Grayson forced himself to remain where he was, unmoving. Of all the panicked people now fleeing the invading 'Mechs, he alone had actually piloted one, and knew what it must look like to the warrior inside the cramped confinement of that tiny head. A person lying unmoving on the pavement would go unnoticed, appearing as nothing more than a stationary blur of heat-color on the IR scan. Only if he moved, or looked as though he were readying a weapon would the lightning fall...

  The ferrocrete danced and jittered under him.Wasps weighed only 20 tons, the lightest class of 'Mechs, but the alternating pedal pressure of 20 striding tons slammed the ground like vast pile drivers. Those long-extinct giants of old Earth known as elephants weighed only a third what a Wasp did, and this present-day monster bore that weight on two legs.