The Price of Glory

by William H. Keith

  The Tech had already moved by that time, and his booted left foot was sweeping the air in a stiff-legged roundhouse kick that landed squarely behind the Marik soldier's ear. Grayson had been trained in hand-to-hand combat as an apprentice, but there had never been reason or time to sharpen his skills with much practice. It looked as though Alard King had had plenty of practice, for he moved with lighting speed and precision. The fight was over before it had even properly started. The soldier lay sprawled on the pavement, face down. Grayson picked up the man's sonic stunner, which lay close by, but dropped it when he realized it was still attached to its owner's belt by a wire-bound dummy cord.

  "Let's move it!" King's said, his voice low but penetrating.

  Grayson nodded. The disturbance had impinged on the crowd around them like ripples from a pebble thrown in a pond. Most of the civilians were crowding back and away from the two warriors and the Marik soldier's still form, while other Marik soldiers were forcing their way in against the flow. Grayson saw several guns already in hand and plainly in sight. The soldiers weren't close enough to see the unconscious soldier yet, but a few moments more, and they would be.

  "We'll split up." It would be safer traveling separately, Grayson decided quickly. One of them, at least, might be able to make the inquiries they needed. "Try to meet me at the skimmer lot in . . . five hours. We each wait an hour, and if there's no rendezvous, we make our own way back to the camp."

  "Right! Five hours! Wait an hour and then we're on our own!" Then the Tech was gone, fading into the crowd with a suddenness that startled Grayson. Not only was Alard King an ace Technician, but he seemed to be skilled in other arts as well. Grayson hoped King would make it as he himself twisted away into the crowd in another direction.

  "You! Stop where you are!"

  The new voice had the snap of authority behind it. Grayson didn't bother to look, knowing full well that the soldiers had spotted him walking away from the first soldier's body. He threw himself past the corner of a building, dodging through a deserted alleyway lined with refuse cylinders, a cool, dank semi-darkness leading down a slight hill toward the next main parallel street.

  "Stop! Stop!" came the shouts, but fainter now. The mouth of the alley opened ahead, bright with sunlight and the moving figures of civilians. A quick turn into that next street, and . . .

  Shadows moved against the light, blocking the way. One dropped into a crouch as the figure whipped a gun to bear on Grayson's chest.

  "Halt where you are, grounder!"

  15

  Veering suddenly, Grayson vaulted a garbage can, then dove directly toward the Marik soldier. A sound buzzed under his chest as something struck his left leg a numbing blow. "Watch out!" the standing man yelled, and then Grayson was rolling across the ferrocrete pavement in a tangle of legs and arms.

  He came up with all of his strength and mass behind the outthrust heel of his hand, smashing up into the jaw of the standing man and sending him sprawling back into the refuse cylinders in the alley. A plastic radio handset splintered on the walkway at his feet. Grayson spun and started to run, but his left leg nearly gave out.

  Marik soldiers were shouting from down the alley. Grayson noted quickly that at least two were down, caught by the sonic bolt that had nearly felled him in mid-flight. His own left leg tingled where it had caught the fringes of that beam. Forcing himself to stay on his feet, he hurried his way down the street and into the crowd with a lurching gait.

  There was no safety in the crowd, he knew. There were people all around him, farmers and laborers for the most part, all dressed as he was, but his limp made him stand out from the rest. If that weren't enough to give him away, then the wild-eyed look of desperation on his face would probably do it better. He was going to have to find a place to hide until the effects of the sonic bolt wore off.

  Following a side branch of the street he was on, Grayson came to a broad, ferrocrete plaza, with an open park beyond. Though the park was close to the center of Helmdown and its unexpected crowds, it would provide him with temporary sanctuary. There were people here as well, but not so many of them. Many were couples, strolling slowly or lying on the gray-green grass under spreading hostlepines, while they talked, read, or kissed. A low stone wall along the edge of a sculpture garden was occupied in various places by couples or solitary figures enjoying the shade from the surrounding buildings.

  Seated on the wall, Grayson felt he would not look out of place. Neither would the dragging limp of his leg, now tingling furiously with the pins and needles of returning sensation, mark him out. He leaned back and pretended to study the art displayed in the sculpture garden. Grayson knew little about classical statuary, though these looked like something he'd once heard referred to as Rim Worlds Neo-Realist. The forms seemed to represent either nude women or dying warriors, and they must once have been colored in realistic tones. That would have been in the days when the garden had first been opened, long before the nuclear death of Freeport and so much more of this world. The colors were faded now, except for bits and pieces, and the forms were waterstained, pollution-marred, and overgrown with moss and weeds. The shade trees that once had surrounded the garden had long since been cut down, and except for the half-hidden statues, the place had the look of an overgrown abandoned lot.

  A pair of soldiers hurried purposefully across the ferrocrete plaza from the direction Grayson had just come. He ignored them as he pretended to admire the statuary, but kept his head angled in such a way that he could watch the soldiers out the corner of his eye. The chances were that none of them would recognize him, for no Marik trooper had seen him except as a blur or a running form in the distance. Still, the man holding a radio, the one he had hit—and probably the man who had been crouching at his side as well—had gotten a good look at his features. If they were sharp enough, either of those two might recognize him.

  These were two different soldiers, however. They wore heavy black-purple clamshell armor and dark-visored combat helmets instead of felt caps. Each carried an assault rifle cradled uncertainly in nervous hands. They entered the park hesitantly, their helmeted heads turning this way and that. Twice the sun glinted from their visors as their gaze swept past him, but Grayson remained calm and unmoving. After a second, one of the troopers took his comrade by the arm, and pointed across the garden toward the buildings beyond. Then the two broke into a trot, parting waist-deep weeds as they zigzagged past still forms of nymphs and dying warriors in what they imagined was the direction of their prey.

  Grayson didn't move, but continued to survey the park. He wasn't sure how intelligent was the search being mounted for him, but he was taking no chances. A moment later, two more armored and helmeted soldiers followed with slow deliberation along the trail of the first two. Grayson couldn't tell for certain whether all four were working together, but it was a possibility he could not afford to discount.

  He decided to stay put for a while.

  A man walked up to a spot on the wall some five meters from Grayson and sat down. He was an old man wearing the tunic and boots of a laborer, and holding a knobbed walking stick in his veined, gnarled hand. His beard was white, his scalp bald, but his eyes were clear and remarkably blue. As Grayson looked across to him, those blue eyes caught his. There was no recognition on either side. Grayson had never seen the man before, but he did detect a flash—the merest suggestion—of comradeship. Or was it simple curiosity?

  The man's eyes tracked back across the park in the direction the soldiers had gone, then back to Grayson. He shrugged then, as if to say, It's a strange world.

  With that brief eye contact to lead him on, Grayson decided to venture further. He stood up, gingerly putting his weight on the hit leg, happy to find that the numbness and tingling were almost gone. He walked a few steps over to the old man, then sat down again. "Good morning."

  " 'Morning to you, young feller." The man's voice was clear and strong.

  "I'm new in town," Grayson said. "What's with all the soldie
rs?"

  "Them? Some sort of flap with the new landholder, they say. They came in a week ago and took over. I hear the landhold at Durandel's been leveled."

  "I've . . . heard that too. But why?"

  "Beats me. I don't care for politics, myself. 'Long as the new landlord keeps the peace and keeps the tax collectors off my back, I'm happy." The man's eyes narrowed. "Wouldn't be that those soldier boys were after you, son, would it?"

  "Not that I know of. Why do you ask?"

  "Oh, I don't know. You come in here, limping . . . like maybe someone had nabbed you with a tingler. Then you sit there showing a truly remarkable interest in these perfectly awful sculptures while the Captain-General's best line troops go racing past. I don't know. Call it a hunch. Or a wild guess."

  Grayson decided to change the subject. "What's all this about papers and a document center?"

  "You are new in town. That's the first thing these johnnies did when they came in. Everyone has to have papers, like this." He reached into his tunic, fumbled with an inside pocket, then withdrew a flat wallet. Opening it, he withdrew a single, folded sheet, printed on one side. "Actually, this is all there is. Paper ... not papers. Name . . . date . . . birth . . . mother . . . father . . . occupation . . . the usual bureaucratic dreck. You don't have yours yet, eh?"

  "First I've heard about it."

  "Might explain why those soldiers yonder were interested in you . . . but then, they weren't after you at all, were they?"

  Grayson rubbed his leg. The numbness and tingling were nearly gone. "Well, I'd better get a move on."

  The old man watched him with a keen, lively intelligence. "You'd better, eh? And where to?"

  Grayson smiled. He could picture himself telling the gentleman that he was setting out in search of the resident Lyran Commonwealth spy!

  "Oh, just a guy I have to see. Business."

  "Ah. Business. Well, you find any business in this town, you come back and tell me." His eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a smile. "The again, if you don't find any business, you might want to tell me, too. Mebee I can help."

  Grayson had the strange feeling that the man was laughing at him. His words made no sense, probably the maunderings of an old man on the verge of senility. Nodding toward the gentleman, he stood up. "Yes, well, I'll see you later."

  "Yes, I daresay you will."

  His confrontation with the old fellow left Grayson shaken. The trip into Helmdown had been so carefully planned, but the man's careful banter, his apparent or pretended knowledge of Grayson, was unsettling. Grayson abandoned any attempt to look the part of a Helman farmer and hurried back toward the center of town. Hogarth Street was not far from the Council House, and he found it easily after consulting one of the electronic maps positioned at strategic corners throughout the town. The crowds were thinner there, though plenty of people were still about. Grayson wondered if so many strangers were in town because they had come to get papers, or because they were curious about all the Marik soldiers from the DropShips. Perhaps it was both.

  The name of his contact was Jenton Moragen, whose Moragen Emporium was reputedly one of the most respected mercantile firms in Helmdown. Though not large—the company's personnel register recorded 52 people on its payroll, including those working offworld— it had been an important part of Helm's economy under Moragen's great-great-grandfather, almost two hundred years before.

  According to Grayson's informant, it had been Moragen's grandfather who had begun to act as a conduit of information from Helm to the Lyran Commonwealth. Jenton was merely carrying on the family tradition, both as businessman and as spy. Little enough happened on

  Helm to warrant the attention of Katrina Steiner or her officers on Tharkad, of course, but there had been occasions for Moragen to show his usefulness. Once, when agents of the Draconis Combine had been showing an unusual interest in Helm several years before, he had written up a report for transmission to Commonwealth space, then thoughtfully sent a copy to the District Office of the Captain-General.

  The Marik aide who had told all of this to Grayson had laughed. "Jenton is an old friend of our governor there on Helm. Listen, you want to get to know the governor, go ask Jenton to introduce you. They'll sucker you into a game of three-handed trovans and clean you out!"

  Grayson found the Moragen Emporium without any trouble.

  Posted over the door, with its tack-welded electronic lock, was a notice that could be read from clear across the street: CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE MILITARY GOVERNOR.

  Closed! There was fine print on the notice, but Grayson did not want to appear too curious about that door or its sign. A sudden chill gripped him. All around him were tall, blank-windowed buildings, behind where there might be hidden watchers, men with vision-enhancers, recorders, and radios for alerting other men on the streets. As casually as possible, Grayson continued his walk along the opposite side of the street from the Emporium. The building had been freshly whitewashed, and the electric sign above was intact, though the power was off. It looked as though it might have been closed only the day before.

  He made his way on down Hogarth Street until he found its junction with Victory Way. Then he walked north for several blocks, back to where the crowds were thickest, not far from the Council House and the booth of Captain Biggs. The plaza known as the Condordiat joined Victory Way, and on the corner was the sign advertising the Skyway Travel Bureau.

  Skyway Travel had been located on this corner for nearly seventy years. The manager was a respected Helmdown businessman named Wilkis Atkins. Atkins had been born and raised on Helm, though his parents had come to that world fifty standard years before from Robinson, in the Federated Suns. The same aide who had told Grayson of the owner of the Moragen Emporium had described Wilkis Atkins as Helm's resident agent for House Davion's Federated Suns.

  It was less likely that House Davion would be willing to help an out-of-luck mercenary company on a world as far removed from Davion territory as Helm. Yet, without being immodest, Grayson knew that the Gray Death Legion had made a name for itself in the past three years, and the rich and powerful House Davion was bound to have noticed the Legion's rise. If Grayson could make contact with someone well-placed on a Federated Suns world, perhaps the Gray Death Legion could win a mercenary ticket serving Hanse Davion. It was reputed among mercenaries that House Davion did not pay as well as the other Great Houses, but were fair in dealing with those in their employ. Certainly, it would be worthwhile to talk with Atkins.

  That was not to be, however. Skyway Travel had the same "CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE MILITARY GOVERNOR" sign that had been posted over the Moragen Emporium. This was too much to be coincidence.

  The words of the old man in the park came back to him, and Grayson knew a moment of stark terror. The man had known, had known that Grayson was looking for Moragen or Atkins, had known that their businesses were closed down!

  "Mebee I can help," the old man had said. Mebee, indeed! Grayson turned so sharply that he collided with a laborer in the crowd close behind him, mumbled apology, and made his way south again along Victory Way. The old man had said to go see him, and Grayson intended to do just that!

  * * *

  Alard King paused in front of the weathered, native stone building and looked both ways. The crowds had nearly vanished in this, a residential portion of Helm-down on the northern outskirts of town. The land here rose sharply, and King was breathing heavily after his stiff, fifteen-minute climb up the narrow streets. Behind him, the open street gave him a view of the town spread out below the hill, and of the spaceport beyond. He could make out the forms of all six DropShips there, glittering gray-silver in the sunlight.

  King had removed his bulky tunic and traded it for an elegantly cut merchanter's blouse and cape from a canvas bag he had worn under the baggy tunic. With the tunic now in the bag, and the bag slung over his shoulder, he felt considerably less conspicuous than in the farmer's garb. Alard knew he looked the part of a good-looking young merchanter come t
o town on business.

  The buildings in this hilltop district tended toward pastel colors and open architecture rather than the unrelieved whites and browns and blocky facades of the city proper. By Helman standards, most of these residents were wealthy. The area, known as Gresshaven, was largely reserved for the owners of businesses, members of the professional elite, and the wealthy merchants of Helmdown.

  King touched the door announcer and an electronic voice said, "Yes?" Slowly and precisely, King replied, "Shogyo de kite imasu. "

  "Dare desu ka?" the voice behind the speaker said.

  "King desu ga. "

  "Wait."

  There was a long stillness, and then an electronic lock clicked and the door slid open. A young man with hair so blond it was almost white looked out, glanced past King into the street, then looked back at the Tech.

  "You are here on . . . business, you said?"

  "Please. I need to see the mistress of the house."

  The blond man's eyes narrowed. "Things are . . . difficult, just now."

  King smiled. "You don't believe I have business here?"

  "Oh, your use of Japanese, your mention of the word 'business'—they were perfectly correct. But there has been some trouble. The military occupation forces have been rounding up all foreign agents in Helmdown, real and suspected. Madame's house in town has already been closed down."

  King's face showed alarm. "Is Deirdre all right?"

  "The Mistress is well. As yet, they do not seem to have made the connection between Madame's business interests in town with those here in Gresshaven, but we must be . . . cautious."

  "Understood," King paused, considering. Then he removed a ring from his pouch, one he had kept hidden from his Gray Death comrades. It was a heavy, ornate gold ring with a raised relief of a dagger set against a fleur-de-lis. "Then give her this. Tell her that Alard King, special personal representative of Duke Ricol, of the Draconis Combine, must see her."