The Price of Glory

by William H. Keith

  "So the cache had still to have been on Helm," Grayson said.

  "Exactly. If it was an incontrovertible fact that the cache was here before the war began, and if it was also an incontrovertible fact that there were no ships available to move the cache once the war began, it follows that Keeler didn't transport the cache offplanet. He must have simply . . . hidden it."

  Grayson looked thoughtful. "Hidden it? Then it's still here."

  "And somebody is going to a hell of a lot of trouble to get us out of the way so that they can find it.”

  “How are we in the way?"

  "Perhaps . . . because you are the military governor of the district," King said, with a shrug. "My source wasn't sure."

  "And . . . just who is this source?"

  King rubbed his jaw, then shook his head. "Colonel. . . I can't tell you."

  "Laddie," McCall said. "Ah think ye damn weel better . . ."

  "Save it, Davis," Grayson said. He studied King narrowly. "You're satisfied with this information?"

  "I am, Colonel. But my source . . . doesn't want to have his part known in this."

  "You'll have to tell this sooner or later, Alard. If it's the integrity of the regiment ..."

  "Give me some time on that, Colonel. Maybe . . . maybe one day I'll take you in to meet . . . him."

  * * *

  Tracy Maxwell Kent stood on the rocky bank above the Araga River, clenching her fists so hard that her whole body trembled, her angry gaze took in the rushing water, the huge, tumbled blocks of sandstone along the shallow river, the wooded hills that enclosed her on every side. This shouldn't be happening to her! It was the final blow in a long series of setbacks that had brought her . . . here. Here!

  This slim, dark-haired, pretty young woman was the eldest daughter of one of the wealthiest noble families in the Federated Suns. Though she had been raised to become a cultured, elegant lady, her sheltered and proper life had been shattered by the combat death of her adored older brother, Captain Sir Roderick Fitzroy Kent, when she was twenty. Tracy promptly decided that the only way to redeem his death was to join the Davion Military Academy, and become a MechWarrior like Fitz. It was all well and good for the eldest son of the family to become a MechWarrior, but Tracy's father protested that properly raised young ladies of good families and noble background simply did not do such things.

  Tracy stubbornly entered the Academy anyway. Stubborn in his own way, her father had used his influence to have her expelled on a technicality.

  Infuriated by these high-handed tactics, Tracy decided to join the line infantry as a private instead of returning home to her family. Within two years, she had worked her way up to Tech sergeant, attempting to become a MechWarrior the hard way—from the ground up. After two more years of training and serving as an astech for Blackely's Blackguards, she had the chance to replace a 'Mech pilot killed during a particularly hot action on Proserpina. Her skill and daring so impressed Colonel Blackely that she won a battlefield commendation and was allowed to stay on as a Phoenix Hawk pilot in the Blackguard's recon lance.

  The Blackguards had been forced to disband after losing over fifty percent of their strength in the debacle at Cassias, leaving Tracy as a free agent with her own Phoenix Hawk. After making her way to Galatea in the Lyran Commonwealth, she had made the acquaintance of Sharyl.

  Like Captain Ramage, Sharyl had no other name. Her culture on Dahar IV, like that of Trell I, used given names only. Another fiercely independent soul escaping an oppressive family, she had somehow drifted into the world of BattleMech mercenaries. Recognizing in Tracy a kindred spirit, she had taken her to Lori Kalmar, Executive Officer of the Gray Death Legion. Thus had the Legion become Tracy's new home.

  That was only four standard months before. The Gray Death had been engaged in Liao space at the time, and Lori Kalmar had been present on Galatea solely for the purpose of recruiting new mercenaries to the fast-growing Legion. Instead of being thrown directly into combat, Tracy had been assigned to the Legion's Company B and sent to the new landhold on Helm.

  "Our people are being transferred right now from our temporary cantonment on Graham IV to our new home on Helm," Lori had explained. "We're putting you in with the trainees there, under Lieutenant DeVillar. Not because we think you don't know your business, but because we want to give you a chance to settle in, to get to know us . . . and for us to know you. You'll help build our new home at Durandel, on Helm. You'll help train the new recruits . . . including the MechWarrior apprentices in B Company. When the Liao campaign is over, we'll either bring you into A Company to fill a hole, or we'll turn B Company into a second first-line 'Mech company, and create a new one—C Company—for trainees and new recruits. Colonel Carlyle is looking to expand the 'Mech Company into a full battalion as soon as we have the warriors and machines to do it. It won't be long before you're in a line regiment again."

  "And how long will that be?" Tracy had wanted to know.

  "When the Liao campaign is over, probably. Not long, another five months maybe."

  Five months! That was an eternity! Tracy had tasted enough combat to know that she was good, damned good. With experience, she would be fantastic, a terror of the battlefield whose reputation would make her father's jaw drop open when he heard of it. But five months of raising walls and training raw recruits! She'd almost turned Lori down right then, but knew she was better off accepting a ground floor chance in the Legion than spending many more months hanging around Galatea's seedy starport bars looking for work with another merc force.

  The Gray Death already had a bright reputation as a fast, hard-hitting, brilliantly deployed merc unit, one that had taken on outrageous odds and won. Its young commander had his own reputation as a brilliant, unorthodox, and perhaps visionary tactician. If Tracy Maxwell Kent was to make a name for herself as a warrior, Grayson Carlyle's unit could give her the chance.

  Since making her decision four months ago, she had worked tirelessly at Durandel, overseeing the rise of the new community there, readying Castle Helmhold for the regiment's return. She had even permitted her beloved Phoenix Hawk to be shipped out aboard the Deimos, when the Invidious had called back at Helm for spare parts and supplies. After the debacle at Cassias, the Dutiful Daughter was all she'd had to keep alive the hope of becoming a renowned warrior one day. When the Legion needed the Hawk as a reserve 'Mech for A Company in the fighting on Sirius V, Tracy had let them take the Daughter because she believed in the unit and what it was doing. She had come to accept the other members of the regiment as a kind of extended family. After all, they accepted Tracy for herself and not because she was the daughter of Lord Rodney Howard Kent of New Avalon.

  The Liao campaign had ended sooner than expected. The last word they'd had on Helm was that the campaign for Sirius V was nearly over, and that Carlyle and the regiment would be returning in another few weeks. When DropShips next descended out of Helm's sparkling blue sky, however, they were not the Deimos and the Phobos, but six House Marik ships, armed and arrayed for war. The attack on Durandel had taken them all by surprise. During that night of fire and horror, Tracy had cowered inside a shelter created by the collapse of a machine shop wall across the sunken well in the shop's floor used for lubricating and repairing the armored company's wheeled vehicles.

  That night of terror had brought Tracy face to face with herself. Disgusted by her own fear, she wondered how she would ever live up to the standard of her valiant brother. Even worse was that she had cried out for her father at one point when burning debris from an exploding Galleon had come crashing down on top of her shelter. The memory still made her burn with shame. How would she ever find the steel inside her own soul to become a real MechWarrior like Fitz?

  Grayson Carlyle had arrived the day after the surprise Marik attack, and she had witnessed the extermination of the Hammerstrike 'Mechs from a hiding place on a rocky, wooded bluff north of the ruins of Durandel. The Colonel was back! With him were the DropShips and her Dutiful Daughter still
aboard the Deimos—and intact! Tracy had seized on that fact with an eagerness approaching passion. Now, perhaps, she would have her chance! She would go into combat against the Marik troops who had killed so many of her new friends. She would redeem herself in her own eyes! She would prove to them all that Tracy Kent was a MechWarrior, and that nothing could stand in her way . . .

  Things certainly hadn't turned out as she planned. Rounded up with the other dazed, bruised, and battered survivors of Durandel, she had been told to help Lieutenant DeVillar take the ragged band north to the Valley of the Araga, there to await the return of the Legion. There was no time, she was told, to get her 'Mech from storage, power it up, tune its controls, and ready it for combat. The Legion had to march now because the DropShips were in danger.

  The word had come the next day. The DropShips had been taken, and with them, her Phoenix Hawk.

  Damn them! Damn them all! Damn Grayson Carlyle for taking her BattleMech from her, for giving it . . . giving it to the Marik bastards who had slaughtered the people of Durandel! And now she was left with nothing.

  Tracy moaned softly at that thought, sinking to her knees at the river's edge until she was nearly hidden by the slender, grasslike vegetation. Her shoulders shook with sobs. Nothing! She had nothing! First she'd lost Fitz, then she'd been cut off from her family, and now the Legion, her new family, was disintegrating around her. With the Daughter gone, too, so was Tracy's hope of becoming a warrior that her brother would have admired.

  Her parents and younger sister were still alive, of course, but they were nearly 130 parsecs away, on the other side of the Inner Sphere. Besides, she had long since severed any hope of help from that quarter far more completely than light year upon light year of distance ever could. She was alone.

  "Oh, Fitz!" The cry burst from her, and she wept bitterly.

  * * *

  Outlaw!

  The word had a special meaning for the man who went by the name of Hassan Ali Khaled. He'd known it with a searing inner pain that had remained with him all the way from Shaul Khala. His Saurimat brothers—his former brothers—knew the word as well. And now he was an outlaw again.

  Though his comrades considered him a kind of emotionless machine, the truth was that Khaled concealed emotions that burned with the heat of a planetary core. It was the discipline of controlling his feelings that enabled him to behave as a coolly efficient warrior who never made an error in judgement. Inside that cool shell were locked both a fierce pride and a deep, burning shame. He had told no one in the Legion why he had left the Saurimat, and he never would.

  Do I start running again? If I could . . . should I?

  No! he told himself. Honor compels me to stay, to show loyalty to this young man, my sworn commander. This time . . . this time I will follow the way of honor.

  * * *

  Delmar Clay leaned against a tree at the edge of a clearing, and gave a long sigh as he slowly slid down the trunk. Seated on the ground at the base of the tree, he wearily laid his head on his knees. Was there any hope left?

  An unmistakable Scots burr interrupted his thoughts. "Eh, laddie, what do you make a' it all?"

  Clay looked up to see the brawny Scotsman sit down on the log opposite, holding a steaming mug in each hand.

  "Davis, my man, you're a lifesaver!" Displaying considerably more cheer than he felt, Clay reached for the proffered mug and cupped both hands around it, relishing its warmth.

  "Dinnae be expecting it to be Terran standard brew, Delmar. No doubt it'll rot your pipes on the way down." McCall's grin was infectious.

  "Right now, Davis, I don't think I give a damn about that." He gave a wry laugh. "I don't think I give a damn about much."

  McCall looked at his fellow warrior and shook his head. "I dinnae like to tell a friend that he's lyin', Del, but ah somehow doubt you're ae' tellin' me all, just noo."

  Clay took a sip of coffee to avoid answering and swore as he burned his tongue. Dammit, he thought. Why does the man have to know me so well? He glanced over at the red-bearded giant and shrank away from the pity in those eyes. He felt a hand on his shoulder and shuddered.

  "It's Terri you're thinking about," the Caledonian said gently.

  Struggling to control the emotions he had been holding in check, Clay nodded. "I'm . . . I'm worried sick about her, Dave." It was as though a damn had burst. Having admitted his fear, now he couldn't stop talking about. "Ever since we got here last night, I've been searching the whole encampment. I asked Gomez DeVillar, I asked Bill Burns, I asked Tracy Kent, I asked every one of the

  Durandel survivors I could talk to. No one has seen her since ..."

  He took a few sips of the coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste.

  "I never wanted to get so close to anyone before, Dave. Our kind of life is too . . . too uncertain. I sure fought hard against it when I first started to ... to care for her." He swallowed hard, then continued. "But . . . but just knowing we were going to have a place to call home—that made things different, you know?"

  McCall nodded. "I understand, laddie. You could feel sure that she was safe while you were off fightin'."

  A harsh, bitter laugh erupted from Clay's throat. "Yeah. Safe. That was a joke. We were safer on Sirius V!"

  "But Del, you dinnae ken for sairtain that ..."

  "But don't you see, Davis," Clay interrupted. "Don't you see that that's the worst of it? That I don't know? She could still be alive. She could be hiding somewhere in these hills and be perfectly safe. But I . . . don't . . . know And that's what killing me."

  Clay stared at the ground in silence for some time.

  "There's another thing, Dave." He spoke so low that McCall had to strain forward to hear him. "She was . . . our . . . it's our son." Despite his anguish, he couldn't keep the pride out of his voice. "Gomez said he looks just like me, poor kid."

  He thought back to the night on Graham IV when Terri had told him that she was pregnant. He'd been angry at first, not wanting to bring a child into the world. It was bad enough—after so many years as a loner—feeling responsible for Terri. But she'd been so obviously happy, so full of love for the new life inside her, that he couldn't help joining her in joyful anticipation.

  "The wee bairn, he'd be . . ." McCall rubbed his red beard in concentration. "What, two months now?"

  "Nine weeks yesterday." Clay looked sideways at his friend with a shadow of a twinkle in his eye. "Guess what Gomez said she decided to name him?"

  McCall shrugged and shook his head, then saw the twinkle. "No, Delmar, she didn't. She wouldn't do that to me."

  "Yup." Clay grinned at the man's discomfiture. "Davis Carlyle Clay, after you and the Chief.”

  "Well, she got it half right, then. The Carlyle name's a grand one, for ae' it'll take some living up to." McCall looked deep into his comrade's eyes. "We may yet find her, laddie, and my young namesake as well. She's a spunky lass, that Terri. If she escaped the initial raid, she'll find a way to survive."

  "I want to believe that, Davis. God, how I want to believe that."

  18

  Janice Taylor eased her weary body down onto the ground, closed her eyes, and sighed. It'd been a long, long day. Somehow the waiting times were the worst.

  "Hey, Corp." A fresh-faced boy with carrot-colored hair sat down next to her. "You heard anything about the Old Man?"

  To Corporal Taylor and the others of the Grey Death's infantry, whether Special Ops or ordinary PBIs, "the Old Man" referred to only one person—the steel-eyed, dagger-voiced Captain Ramage. Far less isolated from the ordinary soldier than was Colonel Carlyle, Ramage was one of them.

  Janice opened her eyes. "Hi, Niklas."

  "I ... I saw you were coming from the direction of the med tent, and, well, I just . . ." He broke off and looked down at his feet.

  "You're right, Nik, I just came from there. I'm afraid he's not looking good. Burke says his condition is stable right now, but he doesn't know how long can he last without proper treatment."


  "And he's sure not going to get that here!" Niklas interrupted angrily. Like all those trained by the former Trellwanese, Private Niklas Chen felt a deep admiration for and a passionate loyalty to "the Old Man," who was, in fact, all of 32.

  "What do you think we should do, Corporal Taylor? I mean. ..." Chen jerked a thumb in the direction of a row of bubble tents at the edge of the clearing behind him. "Some of the guys are saying as how we ought to pack it in. You know, we could, well, become farmers or something?"

  Janice looked at him sharply. "You mean, disband the Legion?"

  The redhead gulped and nodded. "You see, I figure we could take the Cap'n in to ... to .. . what's the name of that town? And maybe get him to a hospital, see? And . . . and they could patch him up?" His words stumbled all over themselves in their eagerness. "Anyway, I bet I could be a good farmer. My dad was one. Did I ever tell you about him? He could never figure out why I wanted to be a soldier. Hell, right now I don't have the damnedest idea either! 'Scuse me, ma'am." He flushed.

  Corporal Taylor smiled. After being in the infantry for over a year and a half, she was amused at this young private treating her the way he would probably treat his mother.

  "Tell me about your father, Nik" she said gently.

  A soft, faraway look came into Private Chen's eyes. "I bet he was just the best da . . . er . . . best darned farmer there was in Norberia. That's where I grew up. It's on Winter, out by Trentham. You know where that is?"

  Janice shook her head.

  "Well, it's pretty far out, so I guess not too many folks'd know about it. But it's sort of like this place, you know? Kinda cold most of the time. But pretty." Chen absentmindedly picked up a stick and started scraping the ground with it. "I guess I didn't think too much of it back then. I kept angling to get offplanet, see new worlds, do new things. I sure do miss it now."