There had to have been Draconis agents in on it from the beginning. Stefan would have been one of Singh's men, hired by Singh's agents. He, and others like him, could have spread information about the pact with Oberon among Sarghad's citizens and infiltrated the ranks of the Royal Guard. The formation of the Trellwan Lancers and the Lancers' early victories must have disrupted the fragile web of intrigue at first. But the Duke had managed to subvert even that by having the unit turned over to Guards control, with the officers like himself, Lori, and Tor arrested or killed.
Grayson nodded to himself as the pieces of the puzzle clicked together. The Combine would win everything — a friendly base of operations deep within the Commonwealth's Cis-Peripheral sector, a new source of ground troops, water, and supplies, and a staging area for secret strikes against the heart of Commonwealth space. The plot had to be Ricol's. Which also made him the man who had planned the death of Durant Carlyle.
Almost as an afterthought, Grayson scanned the computer listings for a Lieutenant Vallendel, the Marauder pilot named by Lori as the one who had ambushed his father. Sure enough, Grieg Vallendel was listed as a mercenary MechWarrior who operated independently within the Draconis Combine and who was last known to be working under contract to Duke Ricol. He usually fought in a black and gray Marauder.
That confirmed the plot by Ricol and Singh. And it gave Grayson three names in the list of those who had killed his father Duke Ricol, who had planned and ordered it; Lord Singh, who had carried it out; Lieutenant Vallendel, who had committed the actual murder.
He kneaded at his forehead with stiff, hard fingers. He hated Ricol, hated the entire Draconis Combine with an intensity he was only beginning to discover. In his thirst for vengeance, he wanted them all dead, dead at his hands. Grayson vowed again that he would fight them until they were... unless they killed him first.
"Hey... you!"
His head shot up, one hand stabbing for the key that would blank the screen. The Tech was standing several meters away, hands on hips, a black scowl on his face. There was another man with him, an older, gray-haired officer draped in a cloak.
"S-sir?"
"Who did you say sent you down here?"
"Major... uh... Major Kraig, sir."
The gray-haired man threw back the flap of his cloak. Beneath it he wore a black, Combine infantry major's uniform. Fear rose gibbering in Grayson's throat. He knew what was coming.
"I am Major Kraig," the man said. "I gave you no such order, young man. I've never seen you before in my life."
"Let's see your ID," the Tech said. Behind the two, the astechs gathered in an uneven line across the door. Several of them, Grayson noted, wore holstered pistols, though none carried anything larger.
Grayson was not armed. He'd decided not to carry a weapon because he'd had no way of knowing what Combine military policy toward Trells carrying guns might be. If it had been against the rules for Green Coats to carry guns and he'd been caught with one, his expedition would have ended before it began. Now, without a gun, the only way he would be able to get past that line was to catch them off guard. He turned and walked toward them, reaching under his tunic for an imaginary passbook.
"It wasn't your direct order, Major," he said as casually as he could manage. "It was one of your officers, a Captain... uh..."
He launched himself, low and fast, diving past the Tech and directly at the knees of the smallest of the astechs behind him. He collided with the man in a tangle of arms and legs, rolling into the open door, then bounced to his feat and ran into the passageway. A chorus of shouts to halt rose behind him, then he heard the sharp crack of weapons fire in the air above his head. He ran faster, twisted down a side passageway, and kept running.
Grayson's immediate concern was to put as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible. After that, perhaps he could lose himself among the other Trell Guards in the Castle. Even that would only buy him a few minutes time, he knew. The Castle would be sealed off and all Trells seized for interrogation. The question was, just how many minutes did he have? Grayson had entered the Castle through the Vehicle Bay. Could he reach it before the doors were closed?"
* * * *
Renfred Tor gestured with his Gunther MP-20. "Move aside, mister. I'll take her up."
The cluster of men and officers on the DropShip's bridge watched Tor with a mixture of shock, fear, and anger. Five of his men had spread out across the bridge, their assault rifles at the ready. Meanwhile, the black-clad sentry who had been standing outside the bridge door groaned and rubbed the back of his head where one of Tor's men had brought him down with a gun butt
The man in the pilot's position was a Tech wearing a black and red dragon-insignia armband, and the deck officer's elevated chair was occupied by a Combine Naval Lieutenant Commander. The man in charge, however, seemed to be the civilian dressed in ornately inlaid and gilt-edged clothing. That one had the fat and sallow-skinned look of a merchant, Tor thought, unless you looked at his eyes. The eyes were cold and dark, with just a hint of an Oriental's epicanthal fold, and they had the look of one used to command and authority.
Tor had seen that merchant before. It had been long ago, on Drovahchein II, in the Erit star cluster. He'd known him as Proctor Sinvalie, of House Mailai.
"Yes, we do know one another, you and I," the merchant said, smiling. He stepped forward, and Tor swung the machine pistol to cover him. They'd ordered all their captives to drop their sidearms on the deck when they'd entered, but that merchant's cloak and tunic could hide an arsenal.
"That's far enough. Keep your hands where I can see them!"
The merchant's hands appeared below his deep, loosely-draped cuffs, spread-fingered and empty. He smiled easily, but his eyes were diamond hard. "Easy there, friend. Surely we can come to an amicable agreement, can we not? We have so much to discuss..."
"We've got nothing!" Tor was confused, and not a little frightened. The merchant had a self-assured air about him, a deadly cunning evident in his smile, his mannerisms, and the cold, hard light behind his eyes. "How the bloody hell did YOU get here?"
"I arrived with Duke Ricol, of course. His mission here is, shall we say, of great interest to my masters. As was yours."
"You arranged it so Ricol could take my ship! You arranged it with Hendrik's people!"
"Actually, I arranged things with a faction plotting against old Hendrik, people who, will find political advantage in the destruction of the Trellwan Pact They had the data on your jump series, of course. I introduced them to Ricol's man, Singh. It was necessary to have some of Hendrik's warriors involved to make this little charade... more convincing. We couldn't be sure some of them wouldn't be captured."
Sinvalie turned to the Combine commander. "This is Renford Tor, Captain — a business partner of mine. He was Captain of this vessel.
"I AM the Captain of this ship, and you damn well better believe it!" Tor gestured again with the gun. "You will obey my commands, starting now."
"Of course, of course. Don't get excited, friend. Ah, may I produce some identification?"
The MP-20 hovered within centimeters of the merchant's nose. "Slowly. Very, very slowly."
The man's smile deepened, and he reached inside the folds of his thickly draped outer tunic, then brought forth a square of translucent plastic. Tor found himself looking down through layers of color to symbols that floated unsupported within the square's depths.
"ISF, Captain," the man said. "My name... my REAL name, is Captain Yorunabi. Perhaps you've heard of us? We are the investigative arm of the Draconis Combine."
Tor felt totally out of his depth. The ISF was well known, with an evil reputation that extended far beyond the Combine's borders. "I know you, yeah. Kurita's secret police."
"As you wish. I can tell you, Captain, that I am on a highly important mission, that I must get to Luthien as quickly as possible."
"That is NOT where we're going," Tor snapped.
"Captain, please. I underst
and you are upset over the requisitioning of your vessel. Frankly, you have shown considerable resourcefulness in taking it back." Yorunabi flourished the card. "I think you will grant that I am... shall we say... in a position to reward you well? Take myself and my companions to your starship, and from there, guide us to Luthien. Think, Captain. This one commission could pay you and your crew enough for you to retire in comfort! Such an oportunity does not enter a man's life twice..."
All Tor's life, it seemed, had been a struggle for one more cargo to earn just enough money to pay his expenses or to bribe the next customs agent. The payment this ISF man was offering him for a single passage would make Tor wealthy. His men, he saw, were looking at one another rather than at their prisoners. The offer was tempting. What chance, after all, did the rebels have? Or Grayson Carlyle?
Tor remembered his interrogation, the biting cold as Singh battered him with questions. He remembered Grady, Moran, and Lathe, and his own bitter guilt at having left them behind, the pain at learning they'd been killed. What chance? What chance? The machine pistol wavered, its muzzle dropped toward the deck...
. . . then whipped upward in a grey blur, smashing Torunabi's cheek with a red-smeared slash that tore a scream from the fat man's throat.
With the toe of his boot, Tor nudged Yorunabi, who lay rolling and moaning on the deck. Then he gestured to his men. "Take these characters below... number one hold. Strap them in and watch 'em." He brought the MP-20 around to cover the pilot and deck officers. "You go, too. I'll take us up."
His men cleared the Combine men from the bridge, and Tor proceeded to check out the ship. There already were prisoners below — Trell soldiers who were being taken elsewhere for their technical expertise,. Among them was General Varney. Vamey and his Militiamen had agreed to join Tor's crew readily enough, once the plan was explained to them.
Then Tor was able to sit down again at the familiar console, letting his hands run across the instruments. Everything was set and ready, the hydrogen tanks topped off, the fusion pile hot and running. A computer display showed that the DropShip was scheduled for launch at dawn, a little more than three standard hours from now.
They'd not come aboard a moment too soon. He pulled out his hand transceiver and clicked it on to another little-used frequency. "Ready... ready... ready," he said.
Then Tor sat back to wait.
28
As Grayson entered the Vehicle Bay, the insistent clamor of the Castle's general alarm began its raucous shrilling. Men and women broke into trotting runs this way and that, NCOs and warrants bellowed orders, and a squad of black-uniformed Combine infantry began forming up on the ground outside the hugh double doors. His first thought of seizing a hovercraft in the Bay and making off with it into the near darkness outside wasn't going to work. He'd be burned down before he got 50 meters.
They'd be rounding up the Trells next. Grayson looked down at his green dress uniform and grimaced. The only thing to do was to stop being a Trell. He made his way back into the Castle's heart, moving through familiar passageways in the general direction of the Repair Bay. What he needed was to find... ha!
A solitary Draconis soldier was hurrying toward him down the hallway, his laser rifle slung behind his shoulder. The man paid no attention to the Trell Green Coat who stood aside with proper deference to let him past, but seemed bent on hurrying up the passageway toward the Vehicle Bay. Grayson's foot swept out and caught the soldier across the shins as he trotted past, and the man went down in a clatter of rifle and cumbersome backpack power unit.
The soldier came to his knees with a snarled, "You clumsy bastard..."
Then Grayson's foot caught him just below the point of his chin, his head snapped back, and he clattered to the floor once more, his anger scattered into darkness. Grayson felt for a pulse, but found none. He hadn't intended to kill the man, but his own fear and anger had charged that kick to the man's throat. The soldier's neck appeared to be broken.
He dragged the soldier into an adjoining room, a small storage area for office forms and clerical supplies. Working swiftly, he stripped off the man's uniform and replaced it with his own, struggling to shrug the heavy power pack onto his shoulders and get the straps adjusted securely. As a final touch, he crouched beside a metal shelving case stacked with ream upon ream of requisition and supply forms and tipped it over across the soldier's body on the floor. There was a ringing crash, then a silence broken by the rustle of skittering papers. That should at least cause a bit of confusion if the trooper's body was found. Any delay at all would win him a few precious, extra minutes.
Next he checked his laser. It was a Marx XX Starbeam, a Combine model he knew from weapons texts but not by personal experience. Still, it shouldn't be too difficult to figure out. Beam intensity would be controlled there. Power on by pulling down the handle on the backpack. A grip safety under his hand. It looked as though he could work it. Checking both directions before he stepped out of the storeroom, Grayson then moved at a trot toward the Repair Bay.
The Shadow Hawk was there, standing upright on the repair platform.
The 55-ton 'Mech dominated the cavernous Bay, a vast, humanoid shape of gray and rust-streaked metal and faded paint surrounded by the metal scaffolding that had been raised around it.
Grayson appraised the 'Mech with expert eyes. From the look of things, they'd been remounting its backpack and autocannon, both of which had been removed to facilitate the trap that had nearly killed him and wiped out his entire assault force in this very room. The backpack housed the 'Mech's primary heat exchangers and the cockpit's life support systems, as well as mountings, ammunition, and the control circuitry for the 90 mm autocannon that was now set in the rest position, aiming straight up. The back unit could be removed for maintenance and repair operations, but the 'Mech would not be fully combat ready without it. The BattleMech certainly looked combat ready now.
The Shadow Hawk was a 'Mech of older design, and had a transparent canopy much like that of an atmospheric aircraft. Console screens gave the pilot a full range of IR through UV vision. In practice, however, the pilot generally relied on his eyes rather than the 'Mech's optical sensors, with a holographic heads-up display to project targeting information and combat intelligence above the console. The canopy was open now, and Grayson could see someone — possibly the pilot or a Tech running a final check — moving about in the cockpit
Though the alarm was silent, troops were forming up on the Repair Bay deck, with officers pointing and yelling orders. They had gathered a milling herd of green-coated Trells at gunpoint into a far corner of the room. The round-up had begun.
Grayson thought fast. The Bay doors were open, but with all those soldiers lined up near the opening, he'd be stopped or shot down before he got very far. His eyes travelled back to the Shadow Hawk. He had piloted that 'Mech several times during his training. It had been Lieutenant Hauptman's machine, and Grayson could still make out the name "Hauptman" in faded script across the leading edge of the 'Mech's left foot He had spent a good many hours piloting Hawks in the simulator, too. If he could get into the 'Mech's cockpit, he would have a good chance of escaping.
There were several potential problems, however. The 'Mech might not be as combat ready as it looked. Worse, the neural impulse helmet could have been set for the parameters of another pilot, and would have to be quickly reset if he was to have complete control. The only way to find out was by sitting in the cockpit lumself.
Perhaps the biggest dilemma was one of tactics. Once Grayson started climbing the ladder up the side of the scaffolding, some NCO or Combine officer was certain to see him. Without some kind of diversion, he would never make it higher than the Shadow Hawk's knee joint.
* * * *
Lori set her jaw and shifted frequencies. "All units, I have the signal. Let's move!"
The Locust lurched forward, its flat-clawed feet grappling for purchase on the sandy bank as it scrambled to the top. On either side of her, the Wasp and the Stinger cra
wled out of the wadi and stood upright. On both flanks, the hovercraft weapons carriers hummed into life on the rim of the arroyo where the Wasp had carefully set them moments before. Then they began drifting toward the spaceport on eddying clouds of dust
"Just a fast raid," Lori reminded her command. "In and out No duels! Let's see if we caught them napping!"
They had maneuvered through the wadi to within three kilometers of the spaceport, which left a long, open firelane through which the various machines had to move. The 'Mechs thundered forward at their top speeds, which quickly put the Locust well into the lead. Dust raised by their charge and by the fans of the hovercraft swirled and billowed to create a screening cloud.
Lori brought her laser to bear on the nearest of the Combine DropShips, targetting on a laser turret in the vessel's bulging flank. The sky was just light enough for her to pick out her target optically, and the flash when the turret exploded was dazzling against the twilight
White smoke trails arced and twisted through the sky from the pair of missile-firing hovercraft. Flashes of light erupted among the grounded ships, across the curved roof of a barracks, across the side of a storage shed. The cracks and booms of exploding rockets rattled across the field.
"PBIs at 270!" Lori recognized Enzelman's voice in the Wasp. Garik tended to get shrill in battle as the adrenalin started flowing, and his emotions came through even the electronic filtering.
She shifted her imaging sensors, and saw a twinkle of movement. PBIs — MechWarrior slang for "Poor Bloody Infantry" — were boiling out of the stricken barracks. Many wore only bits and pieces of uniforms in the still-cold chill of early morning, but they all appeared to be armed.
"O.K.," she transmitted. "Don't worry about them. Go for the storage tanks at 180. Hit "em!"
Decision at Thunder Rift Page 24
