Decision at Thunder Rift

by William H. Keith

  “What happened?"

  "Hold it!" Tor hissed suddenly, pushing Grayson into the shadows as a platoon of Palace Guards trooped past. The two had come to a place where the alley opened onto one of the city's broad thoroughfares. A number of soldiers were about, standing at intersections or along the avenue, and they seemed to be searching the faces of the crowd. Tor motioned Grayson to sit back, then continued his story.

  "Nothing much happened — at first. I shuttled in a Commonwealth representative named... uh..."

  "Vogel."

  "Yeah, Viscount Vogel. I shuttled him from Tharkad to Oberon, and then from Oberon here. I took his assistant from here to Oberon and back a couple of times. I gather they were setting up a deal that was going to turn Trellwan over to Hendrik's keeping, though the whole thing was supposed to be secret"

  "Supposed to be," Grayson said, more to himself than Tor.

  "Yeah, well, it didn't take long to leak out. The news was all over Sarghad last time I was here. You folks had riots in town?"

  Grayson nodded, but kept his eyes on the street. This was all part and parcel of the betrayal that had killed his father. Someone was going to pay.

  "So, anyway, there was supposed to be a last meeting, with Oberon's ministers coming to Trellwan for some kind of official treaty signing. But it didn't turn out the way they'd said." Tor kept his voice low, looking around warily as he spoke. More soldiers were passing on the street, trotting with their weapons at high port. There seemed to be a stir somewhere to the north.

  "I came out of jumpspace at a planetless A2 star for a navfix, and found this big bloody JumpShip waiting for me, fighters deployed, weapons charged. Hell, I thought it was some bandit competitor of Hendrik's, but when they came aboard, they were wearing Hendrik's livery. But Hendrik's old boys aboard ship, they went out the airlock, no fuss, no ceremony. Just out they went. I don't mind telling you, I was scared."

  "They killed them?"

  "Right the first time. Anyway, they transferred a Lance of 'Mechs and I don't know how many men and armored vehicles across to the Invidious' hold. A tech crew came aboard and started drilling holes in the hull of one of the DropShips, mounting heavy weapons, beam turrets, missile batteries, that sort of thing. I hollered about it but the next thing I knew I had a bruised head and a bloody split lip, so I kept my mouth shut after that. I thought they were going to send me, swimming after Hendrik's people.

  "When they were finished, that black monster furled sail and jumped, and the leader of the people they'd left aboard the Invidious told us to be on our way. We came out at Trellwan and parked ourselves. They made me and three of my crewmen pilot the DropShip down. I made the entry to Trellwan with a gun at my head, and once we'd grounded, they put me in an afterhold for safe-keeping."

  "And they let you go afterward?"

  Tor grinned, and shook his head. "Not bloody likely, lad. I didn't know what was happening, but I did know that lot wasn't about to turn me loose. Not after I'd seen them mucking about swapping cargos at what should've been just a simple nav check and recharge stop."

  "Why not?"

  "Hey, that was a hell of a big operation. There were at least five 'Mechs working in space to transfer the four 'Mechs in the Lance and all the rest of the gear over to the Invidious. Funny thing about that, too.”

  “What?"

  "The ‘Mechs that were handling the transfer, they were high-class machines, know what I mean? New paint, clean parts. One of them was a Marauder painted red and black, like one of those personalized mercenary jobs you run into sometimes on the Inner Worlds. That was the one conned by their leader. Big guy, but quiet, real professional. And deadly, you know? What they were loading aboard the Invidious was junk, old, patchwork 'Mechs that were more salvaged parts than anything else. There was a black and gray Marauder and one of those light 20-tonner Locusts. It looked to me like some sort of covert operation, something they wouldn't want outsiders knowing about. I figured I'd last just about until the shooting stopped, and then they were going to retire me permanently. Know what I mean?"

  "So how'd you wind up in a back alley with the derelicts?" Grayson asked.

  "Good question. Like I said, the Invidious was in need of repairs, and I didn't get all of them taken care of during the refit. Seems there was a loose insulation panel in that hold, one I could pry loose, then pull back in once I'd squeezed myself into the 'tween heads. I stayed there until I heard them come back to find out I was missing, then slipped out of my hide-hole, made my way aft to a hold where they were off-loading 'Mechs, and slipped off with some soldiers." He paused, seeing Grayson's lifted eyebrow. "Well, I'd acquired a uniform by that time. That helped."

  "That one?" Grayson pointed at Tor's muddied tunic. "Hardly. I'd hoped to talk with someone here, maybe the local port authority, about what I could do to get my crew freed. They... uh... don't take kindly to offworlders here. At least, not now."

  Another troop of soldiers tramped past. These were members of the planet's Militia, Grayson noted, in brown uniforms instead of green. Barracks talk in the Castle had generally held Sarghad's Militiamen to be superior soldiers, though few of Carlyle's Commandos held either of the two local military forces in high esteem.

  What was going on? Grayson wondered. Did he now have the Militia searching for him, too?

  9

  Grayson and Tor continued watching the soldiers in the street. It didn't appear that Jeverid's Guard was engaged in anything like a serious search, but they were definitely on the alert, patrolling the major streets for... what? Offworlders escaped from the attack at the Castle? Or suspicious characters, in general? With a bandit camp so close by, the local government forces might well be watching for any gathering of armed or unpleasant-looking folks who might be the first line of a raider assault.

  Why were so many of them moving north? A small convoy of ground-effect weapons carriers — HVWCs — whined past.

  Grayson kept turning Tor's story over in his mind. A freighter boarded, her diplomatic passengers slain? He'd been tempted at first to dismiss the idea as outright fabrication, but why would Tor lie about something like that? Bandits engaged in deception and subtle treachery as frequently as any organized government of the Inner Worlds, but this secret transfer of cargo and personnel at a nav check sounded pointless. That had to have been one of Hendrik's ships that stopped the Invidious. Only Hendrik's people would have known the freighter's exact course as she jumped from star to star on her jump series from Oberon to Trellwan.

  The distance between the two systems was about 145 light years. Because JumpShips could only manage about 30 lights at a jump, they had to plot and execute a number of system-to-system transits called the jump series, often in long and round about fashion from star to star. Most of those stars — like the one where Tor had been ambushed — were planetless, or were circled by barren and useless worlds of dead rock and ice. The chances that a ship would just happen to be there waiting for another ship were impossibly slim. Which meant the ambushers knew the Invidious was coming that way. Which meant Hendrik had ordered the ambush.

  Or did it? Hendrik ruled an uneasy coalition of twelve minor Bandit Kings and their worlds. Perhaps someone on his staff represented a dissident faction — a revolutionary faction, one working against Hendrik. That might explain the greatest mystery in Tor's story, the mystery of why Hendrik would bother to take the Invidious in deep space instead of right at home in the Oberon system.

  But that still left so many unanswered questions. Why would anyone in Hendrik's camp bother attacking the Trellwan garrison, when the entire planet was to have been handed over to him peacefully within a few hours? Even a rebellious faction would likely have been advised to wait. Grabbing the Trell system for themselves would do nothing for dissidents in a showdown with Hendrik's forces except tie up needed men and machines.

  It just didn't make any sense, Grayson thought. There was also the question of what Tor had seen when his ship had been taken. He'd said the men w
ho boarded her had worn Oberon livery, but the 'Mechs transferring the cargo had been better cared-for than the equipment they'd been passing over. Bandit kingdoms — even large and powerful ones like that of Hendrik III — could rarely field anything better than patched-together and many-times-salvaged 'Mechs that had been through scores of battles. From where had those gleaming, fresh-painted machines come? Could Hendrik afford to hire a mercenary Lance from the Inner Sphere? From Kurita's Draconis Combine, perhaps?

  And if he could manage that, why not use them in the attack? Why the deception? Why? Why?

  "Hey!" Tor touched his shoulder, startling him. "They're clearing out!"

  The Guards seemed to be withdrawing from the streets, some piling onto a rusty, six-wheeled personnel carrier, the rest hurrying up the street. Grayson could make out an officer in the APC's hatch talking with animated gestures on a transceiver handset

  "Something sure has stirred them up," he said. "Wonder what?"

  The answer came with a flash and a bang that struck Grayson like a blow to the chest, leaving him momentarily breathless. Across the avenue from where Tor and Grayson crouched, a storefront exploded like a geyser of flame, brick, glass, stone, and black smoke. People were screaming, and above the shrieks and yells came the measured rumble of heavy machinery in motion.

  Grayson knew that sound. He squirmed forward on his stomach until he could peer around the corner of the sheltering building and look up the street. What he had heard was a Marauder, twelve meters tall and massively armored, hung with weapons that gave it a lumbering, top-heavy look. Grayson knew from experience that that machine was anything but clumsy.

  He saw the stylized, slit-eyed emblem brightly painted on the heat-seared metal of the left leg and knew that this was the black-and-gray-painted machine that had killed his father.

  A fascination born of sick horror gripped him, held him frozen there at the mouth of the alley. Almost in slow motion, the armored monster straightened slightly, then brought its right arm up as though pointing. Recessed in the swollen bulk of the forearm were a pair of the 'Mech's primary weapons, a medium laser and the massive bore of a particle cannon.

  The laser flashed blue-white, a brilliant pulse that shrieked and ionized the air in its wake. The beam struck the APC, setting aflame the Guardsmen who had been clinging to its hull. Grayson squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding light, but still saw the afterimage of a Guards officer writhing in the carrier's hatch as the steel around him blossomed into a fireball.

  A chain of staccato cracks carried above the roar of flame and crumbling buildings. The Marauder's autocannon, a tree-sized barrel mounted across the 'Mech's left shoulder, was spewing 120 mm high-explosive destruction in three-round bursts that shattered the street behind the burning carrier, and transformed clumps of running green uniforms into bloodied shreds of rag. The smoke roiling down from the APC was acrid and black, and it stank of oil and charred flesh.

  Grayson felt a hand on his shoulder, tugging, insistent. "Grayson!" We've got to get clear!" C'mon!" But, eyes locked on the Marauder, Grayson couldn't move. The 'Mech took one huge step, then another, pausing after each step as though testing the fooling. Fire flickered around its crab's head from the ineffectual shoulder-portable missiles and lasers of the city's unarmored defenders. Grayson found himself willing the Sarghad fighters to concentrate their fire, to seek out the vital nexuses of control circuits and servoactuators that might — might! — give them a slim chance of bringing the giant down. There was one such nexus where the legs joined the body, under that flat head. If they could just work together...

  The giant brushed through the fire, unconcerned. Destruction boiled in its path as it sprayed the avenue and its buildings with flashing beams of energy.

  "Grayson!" Tor's scream penetrated his numbed senses, brought him back to the scene at hand and the gagging stench of the burning vehicle. He shook himself, turned, and looked into Tor's wild eyes.

  "Grayson, we've got to get out of here!"

  He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, then began running with clumsy strides back down the alley and away from the monster. Behind him, the 'Mech collided with the buildings at the alley mouth, and the fall of brick and stone sent debris skittering along the ground in front of them.

  Grayson followed Tor through the twists and turns of Sarghad's alleys, and the sounds of cannon fire and falling buildings began to recede behind them. Tor stopped and fell back against the wall, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

  "Where now?" Grayson asked, his mind still numb. He was willing to be led, to let the decisions be made by another.

  "I don't know. I'm a stranger here too, remember?"

  "I... I know a place we might be able to go." Grayson thought of Berenir the Merchant, knowing the man would not be pleased to see him again, and less so if he brought along another offworlder to hide. "I know some people, but they may not be able to help us."

  "We're going to have to find a way to get up to the port." Tor looked thoughtfully in its direction. Across the roofs of low, single-storied warehouses, they could just make out the port's control tower as a tiny white saucer perched on a narrow column. And just beyond, they glimpsed the bulk of the upper third of Tor's ship.

  "Are you thinking of getting your ship back?"

  Tor shook his head. "No... no way. We'd never get near her, not now."

  "Then why the port?"

  "Because ships’ll be coming in, sooner or later." Pain clouded the freighter pilot's face. "And because I have three men three... three friends. I've got to get them out, somehow."

  "You can't fight THAT alone!" The sounds of fresh skirmishing broke out somewhere behind them, followed by a series of explosions.

  "Maybe not. But these pirates aren't going to stay here forever. Now that they've attacked, they'll pull out, take their loot, slaves, and captured 'Mechs and haul for Oberon... or wherever. They can't stay here, not against a whole planet Besides, how can they be sure House Steiner won't send a punitive expedition back to ram this planet down their throats."

  "My Lance..."

  "Maybe," Tor said thoughtfully. "Though, from what I've heard, your friends were pretty badly shot up. The point is, traders'll be coming in. Hell, even my friends with Mailai might come in to see what happened to their investment. I want to be at the port when they do, and I mean to have my people with me. And don't forget my ship is out at the jump point, with twelve more of my men aboard." Tor shook his head fiercely. "I can't just let them go!"

  Grayson thought of the small community of Techs and laborers quartered at one end of the spaceport. "Maybe you could get a job at the port, and find a way to help your people that way. I don't know how you'd go about getting your ship back, though."

  "Neither do I, lad. Neither do I." The pain was back in Tor's face. Grayson wondered if he was feeling guilt at having abandoned his crew, or was simply afraid that they'd already been put to death. The other man seemed to give himself a shake.

  "No matter what, we'll have to eat and find a way to blend in with the natives."

  Yes, thought Grayson, they'd need a place to stay, a place to wait, while he figured out a way to bring down the plotters who had killed his father. Only then would he think about how to get off this forbidding world.

  The battle sounds had ceased now, leaving the city unnaturally quiet. Grayson looked in all directions, orienting himself. "Let's go visit my friends. Berenir is a merchant, with contacts off-planet and at the spaceport. Maybe he can get us jobs. At least, he might have some ideas about what we should do."

  "Where is he?"

  "Third Street of the Merchants. This way." Grayson took the lead as they walked, but his thoughts turned back to the Marauder astride the street, and the memory of his father's death. That Marauder had ambushed Durant Carlyle after Carlyle's lighter Phoenix Hawk had been badly damaged in a hopeless duel with the hidden weapons mounted on the Invidious' DropShip. His father had never had a chance.

&nb
sp; New energy was replacing the lassitude that had paralyzed Graysons spirit since he'd regained consciousness in Berenir's house. For the first time, he felt a goal, a purpose to keep him going. He would burn that killer 'Mech, or die in the attempt. The need for vengeance was like a hunger driving him on through the twisiting streets of Sarghad as panicked civilians and disorganized squads of Guards and Militia streamed past him. Although he didn't yet know how, he vowed to destroy that Marauder and the human who rode in it.

  10

  Ten-meter-tall death machines now stalked the narrow avenues of Sarghad. Though Grayson knew how to find the Third Street of the Merchants, four times he and Tor were forced to leave streets suddenly blocked by throngs of panicked people or by the striding nightmares of attacking 'Mechs. Grayson tried to keep track of the types he saw. There was one Locust, he knew, and another that looked like one of the Commando Wasps, now bearing the animal's eye insignia of Hendrik III of Oberon. Once he saw the Marauder again, wading through the splintered rubble of buildings. A pall of oily smoke hung suspended above Sarghad, and the air was heavy with dust from plaster turned to brick rubble, and crumbled slabs of ferrocrete.

  At the mouth of an alley opening onto the Third Street of the Merchants, Tor held back, motioning Grayson behind him. Peering past the freighter pilot, Grayson saw another Wasp, this one leading a string of perhaps fifteen Trells toward the city borders.

  "What are they doing?"

  Tor looked grim. "Taking hostages, possibly. But those people don't look all that well-to-do. Slaves, more likely."

  Grayson remained silent. He'd heard stories of the slave trade among the bandit kinglets of the Periphery, but had not given them much credence. Even Claydon's lingering fear that his mother might have been taken by Hendrik's raiders as a slave to Oberon, that was easy enough to dismiss as the xenophobic fears of an untravelled, nearly uneducated native who had never been beyond the fringes of his own world's atmosphere. The brutal truth was that among the shards of a civilization where machines and the products of technology were treasures, human labor tended to be cheap and easily harvested.