"Runner!"
"Sir!"
"To Captain Martinez. At least two 'Mechs are closing on this position. Range eight, speed eighty.”
“Two 'Mechs! Eight-Eighty! Yessir!”
“Good! Go!"
Ramage looked up and down the line of the trench. Other soldiers crouched along its sinuous length every ten to fifteen meters, their weapons poking out beyond hurriedly erected front-cover masses of logs and rocks. Further up the hill behind him, and farther down in front, other slit trenches took advantage of the boulders, the low, scraggly trees, and whatever other scant cover the hill had to offer. In a few cases, the occupants had had time to create rough-and-ready bunkers, with logs and light armor plate covered with dirt providing overhead cover.
Eight kilometers, eighty klicks per hour. There was no arguing with the arithmetic. The two metal monsters would be on top of their position in one tenth of an hour— six minutes. The chances that Grayson and his pair of lances would make it back from Durandel in time were microscopic. Shadows loomed and moved with surreal menace deeper within the dust clouds across the valley.
Ramage tried to penetrate the murk. Three . . . four . . . six . . .
They were out in force. Ramage could make out a big, battlescarred Warhammer now, and a Thunderbolt close behind.
The enemy 'Mechs lumbered out onto the flat central field of the valley, stepping easily across the narrow, dry stream bed that marked its center. The half-glimpsed shadows seemed to be spreading out to left and right in a classic combat deployment. They must know we’re here, Ramage thought. They must know the DropShips are just on the other side of this hill, and it's right here that we’re going to have to hold them. They're sending their light stuff against us, while their heavies sweep around us and over the hill.
Straight into the LZ.
One soldier, a teenaged boy with a garish mixture of camouflage paint and dust smeared over his face, scrambled down into the trench, nearly knocking aside the makeshift flag that marked Ramage's battlefield position. He wore the green armband of a runner. Flags and armbands. Ramage thought ruefully. With the unexpected use of ECM jamming, they'd had to improvise quickly in order to keep their field communications open.
"Sir! Captain Martinez reports they have three Boomerangs on radar. And . . . and there's no sign of the Colonel yet, either."
Ramage glanced at the sky, trying to penetrate the high, hot haze. Boomerang spotter planes would explain how the enemy had known their positions. The trenches were well-camouflaged from the front, but it was next to impossible to shield them from aerial infrared cameras.
Stifling a sudden, half-crazed urge to smile and wave at the sky, he turned back to the runner. "Right. Take a message to Captain Martinez. At least eight 'Mechs, including heavies. Targets' range now . . ." He checked the rangefinder again. "Two kilometers, and closing. Main body seems to be deploying north and south, and may be getting ready for a double-flank run. Got it?"
The boy's forehead furrowed in concentration. "At least eight targets, with heavies! Two kilometers . . . main body deploying north and south. Maybe getting ready for a double-flank run. Yessir!"
"Go!"
As the boy scrambled up the back of the trench, Ramage chambered a round into his TK assault rifle. "Hold your fire, people," he commanded. "Flamers and SRMs, keep hunkered down until you have a target in range! I want you to shoot hot, tight, and close! On my word!"
There was a stir along the trenches as weapons swung slightly this way or that, as men keyed to the highest possible pitch began to chamber rounds or open the fuel valves on their hand flamers. These troops were his best, trained in his every trick of counter-'Mech warfare. He knew they would give a good account of themselves. He also knew that their chances of inflicting any serious damage on even one BattleMech lance under these conditions were virtually nil.
The BattleMechs loomed closer, their pace increasing, their strides longer. Now he could see the glint of sun on visors and upraised weapons.
Ramage raised his TK, searching for accompanying infantry. Here it comes, he thought.
8
ComStar had come into being during the 28th Century, almost three hundred years before. At that time, it was merely—merely!—an interstellar communications network stretched across most of human-explored space. Its founder and chief organizer was then-Star League minister of Communications, Jerome Blake.
It had been Blake's machinations that had preserved ComStar as a separate, and neutral, entity during the civil wars that tore the Star League asunder and laid waste to hundreds of worlds. Any one of the Successor State pretenders to the old Star League throne would have won a powerful advantage over its rivals if he, and he alone, could have controlled the hyperpulse generators that were the key to interstellar communications faster than the JumpShips themselves.
Blake established ComStar as a power in its own right by using a mercenary army to seize Terra in 2788 and to declare it a neutral world under the protection of ComStar itself. In a rapid round of negotiations and politics, he won guarantees from each of the Great Houses: ComStar would continue to operate as a commercial enterprise, one that was an absolute neutral in the on-going wars. Each of the Successor Lords could see the advantage to such an arrangement. If any one of the Successor States controlled ComStar, that state would soon dominate all of known space. If no one controlled ComStar, then all would have access to ComStar's unique—and invaluable—services. In almost three centuries, there had been various incidents of one or another of the Successor Houses attacking ComStar facilities, however. ComStar's inevitable retribution was to cut off all interstellar communications services to the world or worlds involved until the offender inevitably decided that it was better to respect ComStar's neutrality.
ComStar served well in its role of providing interstellar communications, but it had another, stranger side as well. After Blake's death, the organization had undergone a reorganization that many saw as the rise of a new religion. Its leaders now believed that ComStar held the key to the rapidly vanishing technology of the old Star League, that ComStar alone would be able to guide civilization into a path that could lead ultimately to peace and plenty for all. It was not long before the organization, its members, and its beliefs became shrouded in mystery, mysticism, ritual, and superstition. Most Techs outside of ComStar held the Order in some derision. Recite the words of Blake over a hyperpulse generator before enabling the transmit program? Ridiculous!
Yet only ComStar Techs, the Adepts of the Order, knew how to repair or run the hyperpulse generators. If they wanted to chant over the damned equipment, let them! Those same Technicians who laughed at ComStar Adepts might be just as likely to rely on one particular transit wrench because that wrench was "lucky," or "knew the job," or because its absence would "jinx the malfing job." In three centuries, so much had been lost to the devastation of war. Though men struggled to regain what they had lost, it was inevitable that ignorance and superstition should rise to fill the void.
Under the direction of the Primus and the First Circuit on Terra and, led by the administrative Precentors, ComStar held together what was left of the Empire of Man. Believing that they were a bastion against the abyss that threatened to engulf mankind, the followers of the Way of Blake grew and flourished and spread the Word of the Eternal, the Blessed Blake.
* * *
The Precentor searched the thronged ballroom until he found the stout and beribboned form of Lord Garth. He had been giving some thought to the crisis of the moment and had considered summoning Lord Garth to his private office aboard the JumpShip Mizar. In the end, he had thought better of it. In front of his own people, a high-ranking noble like the Duke of Irian deserved respect and deferral even from a ComStar Precentor, who, after all, held no noble title or other rank.
Yet, the power behind the Precentor is what gave him sway over such men as Garth—a power far greater than any mere titles or rows of campaign medals and ribbons. It was a power best u
sed in subtle ways, and the Precentor understood that fully. The steel fist within the velvet glove would never be anything less than steel, and he appreciated that the disguise of softness could make it even more potent.
The Precentor smiled and raised his glass of carved crystal to his lips. Overhead, the transparency of the ballroom dome looked out on wheeling jeweled splendor, as the stars seemed to sweep past the motionless Mizar. In fact, of course, it was the ballroom's unfelt motion that made the stars appear to move. The passenger DropShip in which Duke Irian's party travelled could be extended from the Mizar's central axis on a webwork of monofilament strands, counter-balanced by a second DropShip on the far side of the ship, with the entire structure set rotating in order to generate artificial gravity aboard the DropShips through centrifugal force. Short of using the main ship's station-keeping thrusters to accelerate at 1 G— impractical while the jump sail was deployed—it was the only way of generating gravity so that the assembled multitude could strut about in their jeweled and beribboned costumes rather than float helplessly. The thought of some of these fat toads (or their helpless and bedecked mistresses) thrashing about in midair broadened the Precentor's smile.
They are so useless, all of them . . . Well, not entirely useless, perhaps. Even Garth had his uses, which would continue to be true for some time. The Duke had already failed badly in one minor way, however, and had to be brought to account for that. Too, Garth needed a reminder of who really was in charge of this project that he seemed to think was his. Indeed, it was for just such a discussion that the Precentor had considered summoning Garth to his room.
But no, this was the time for the veiled fist and the soft approach. Later, should Garth prove stubborn, there would be time enough to lay bare the naked steel behind the Precentor's words.
He approached the Duke, the smile still playing at the corners of his hard mouth. Garth's face went pale. Good, the Precentor thought. He does fear me still. I will give him more reason than he dreams . . .
The Precentor's bow was curt, obviously a formality and nothing more. "Your Grace."
"Rachan." Garth's voice was weak, with the hint of a stutter. His eyes looked bleak, as though he already regretted his liaison with the Precentor and those he represented.
So much the better. Such men could be more easily twisted to one's will. "I have news, your Grace," Rachan said.
Gathered around Garth were an obscenely fat merchant from the minor trading house of Mailai, half a dozen minor functionaries, and a gaggle of young women wearing makeup, plumes, jewelry, and little else. Garth's eyes flitted uneasily around the group. "Can it wait?" he said.
"No, Your Grace."
The Duke took another swallow of the blue liquid in his glass, then handed the empty crystal to a servant. "I'll come." Mustering his dignity, he stepped past the Precentor and led the way across the glittering floor toward a curtained alcove where the two of them could speak in private.
"What is your news, Rachan?"
"Communications have reached me from our station here." In private, the Precentor quickly dropped the perfunctory "Your Grace." There was no advantage to undermining the man's own authority in front of his people, but it was an excellent way of reminding the Duke of whose was the greater power. Rachan gestured toward the transparency overhead, beyond the silvery gleam of the Mizar. Somewhere beyond lay the world of this star system. Garth's own duchy, Irian. The Mizar had stopped here en route to Marik, which lay one jump deeper into the Free Worlds League, and it was here that Rachan had been informed of events that could twist the current crisis in directions unforeseen. "Yes?"
"The hyperpulse station on Irian has relayed a message from my agents on Helm." Not our agents. My agents. "They sent it under a Priority Alpha code, so great was the importance attached to it." He sipped again at his drink, enjoying the obvious turmoil behind Garth's fat, blank features. "As I warned you, Grayson Carlyle has not gone to Marik. He is at Helm . . . now."
"Helm! But . . . but . . ."
"I warned you that not all men jump when you command them. He disregarded your order to proceed to Marik. You should have foreseen that."
"It shouldn't matter. There are still two full companies of 'Mechs on Helm, as well as the air and space forces. Carlyle will not get past them."
"Fool!" The time had come to remove the velvet glove. "My agents report that two of Carlyle's lances— two lances—interrupted eight of your 'Mechs in the destruction of Durandel. All eight of your 'Mechs were destroyed. Apparently. Carlyle's force suffered no damage worth noting."
Garth's mouth made gulping motions, as though he were struggling for air. "He can't evade the rest of my forces there ..."
"He can and he has. My sources report that your field commander there is moving against Carlyle's DropShips now. Your forces, however, are outclassed in this. There are not enough BattleMechs on the planet to run a fox like Grayson Carlyle to ground, even if the move against his transportation succeeds. A hard, stand-up fight could wreck your garrison forces completely. Grayson Carlyle is a . . . capable fighter."
"We couldn't cover every eventuality, Rachan! We couldn't! All I could spare for the Helm operation were two depleted regiments! An understrength battalion! You said it would be enough for the job at hand."
"Pardon me. I said it was adequate for the job of destroying a civilian community and rounding up the Techs and MechWarrior recruits who lived there. I said nothing about facing Carlyle's seasoned warriors!"
"All the rest of the forces at my disposal are here, or on Marik, waiting for him."
"Obviously."
Garth showed new determination, one fat fist smacking into his open palm. "The units stationed on Marik can be shifted. They will be shifted. We can still trap Grayson Carlyle . . . and exterminate him!"
Rachan drained his glass, then studied the emptied crystal, rotating it against the light provided by the drifting stars. "Exterminate him or not as you will, Garth, but the man and his mercenaries must be neutralized, one way or another. The operation on Sirius V was not enough. You must finish the job."
"It will be finished, Precentor, I promise you!"
"I don't want promises, Your Grace." Rachan judged it was time again to observe the amenities. "What I need now are results. Results that you have promised ..." He held out one hand, palm up, and closed his fingers into a fist. "To me! If you wish to share in what we have discovered, you must do your part!"
Garth closed his eyes and nodded. "Believe me, Pre . . . Rachan, I want it as badly as you. This is a delay, nothing more. Within days, I can have the better part of three regiments on Helm. Grayson Death Carlyle and his whole band of mercenaries will not be able to face such an army as that!"
Rachan nodded, satisfied. Garth was his creature, of that he was certain. "Very well, Your Grace. But do not fail us." It was good to remind the man of those who stood behind Rachan. "Those with me do not tolerate lack of faith ... or failure. Especially failure."
"I understand."
* * *
Surging up out of the dust-filled valley, the House Marik BattleMechs struck, laser beams and machine gun fire probing the Gray Death infantry defenses. As Ramage had expected, their lightest 'Mechs took the center, smashing forward against the infantry hiding in trenches and rough-made bunkers, while the larger, heavier 'Mechs flanked the infantry positions to north and south.
Ramage's men held their fire until the last moment, then unleashed a barrage of short-range anti-Mech missiles and laser bolts and billowing plumes of orange flame, seeking weak points in the armor of their gigantic targets.
Ramage did no shooting. There was no enemy infantry on the field as yet, and his assault rifle would be exactly as effective against BattleMech armor as so many wads of paper hurled by hand. What he could and did do was to direct those troops within earshot, pointing out possible weak points in armor, leg joints, and motivator arms, encouraging his men with a steady stream of invective, steadying those who wavered with either encour
agement or curses, depending on the individual's personality.
The 'Mechs in the enemy's van strode across Ramage's trench lines without slowing. Short-range missiles arced up from a dozen emplacements, striking armor in flares of light that scattered great chunks of metal across the hillside. The Locust paused once, the medium laser slung from its chin turret pivoting down and around to seek out the launch site of a stinging swarm of SRMs. White light flashed, dazzling even through the dark-tinted visors that Ramage's troops wore, and then dirt, smoke, and fire boiled from the shattered log roof of a hidden emplacement. Now the Locust was striding forward again as Ramage's men began to turn small arms fire against the machines. The air was filled with the sigh and ping of hurtling rounds and ricochets. Once, something heavy smacked Ramage squarely in the center of his padded armor jerkin, then rattled off the top of his boot. He spared the object with a glance. It was a 10 mm rifle bullet, its nose mashed almost flat where it had struck the side of the Locust fifty meters away.
Sounds of battle erupted sharply up the ridge both to the north and to the south. The flanking forces going over the top, Ramage thought. They'll have us surrounded pretty damn quick if we don't do something about it.
The Gray Death's line was crumbling. There was no way for unsupported infantry to do any more than slow these monsters. If looked as though the enemy commander had already evolved a plan to nullify Ramage's defensive line by pinning his infantry with a few light 'Mechs, and sending the heavy stuff around to the rear.
It was time to go.
Ramage reached into the bulky holster at his hip and withdrew a flare gun. Breaking open the breech, he inserted a 35mm red round, snapped the gun closed, aimed it at the sky, and fired. There was a dull thump, and the red star rose in a hissing arc that fell out over the valley and slowly drifted toward the ground. Here and there, isolated clumps of men began falling back from their positions. The signal, prearranged as they'd taken their positions, was the order to fall back to a second line of defense along the crest of the hill.
The Price of Glory Page 8