Decision at Thunder Rift

by William H. Keith

What had been a carefully planned and orchestrated set of missions and movements dissolved now in panicked chaos. One of his men stood on the Bay floor spraying full-auto fire up at the looming monster, while others stood rooted where they stood, mouths open. One threw his gun aside and ran screaming, and then others followed. Too late, for the Bay doors were grinding shut with hollow rumblings.

  This can't be happening, Grayson thought, but the half-upright battle machine proved otherwise. A vast metal hand swept out, down, and across to bat the lone soldier armed with the autorifle across the room. The gory shape that slid into the wall no longer resembled anything human.

  The Shadow Hawk stood, terrifyingly large in the confined space of the Castle's Repair Bay. Grayson noted with some detached portion of his mind that the 'Mech's over-the-shoulder autocannon had been removed, the backpack that mounted the cannon and life support gear was off, and panels on its chest and legs had been opened, all contributing to its damaged, half-repaired look. But the machine was powered and under control. Grayson watched the head — tiny in comparison to the bulky torso — snap around, its sensors tracking a group of fleeing soldiers. The right arm came up, the medium laser strapped along the forearm flashed once, twice, and the ferrocrete was scorched black by swaths of high-energy destruction that turned runing men into twisting, shrieking torches, or left them in charred and blackened heaps.

  Carefully planted explosive charges could have destroyed that 'Mech, but there was no way to plant them while the Shadow Hawk was moving and in combat mode. The Bay doors were still closing, grinding shut with agonizing slowness. "Burke!" Grayson yelled. "Come on!"

  The security team scrambled back from the open door. The 'Mech stooped and turned, possibly seeking the source of a voice shouting orders. Its laser flashed again, and Grayson dove behind a stack of wooden crates. Collier was burned as he ran, his blackened corpse unreeognizeable except for the half-melted wreckage of the machine gun still cradled against the charred, smoldering husk of his body. The beams tracked relentlessly. Senkins, too, vanished in fire and oily smoke, his assault rifle spinning across the floor in clattering bounces.

  The Bay doors clanged shut with mournful finality. The 'Mech's left hand descended, crushing a soldier cowering in the shadows under the raised repair deck. The man had forgotten that 'Mechs can see by heat, Grayson thought.

  Somewhere, someone was screaming in an agony of burned flesh.

  The situation was hopeless. He considered calling his unit leaders to get a clearer picture, but rejected the idea. The enemy would certainly be listening in on tacradio frequencies, and the information would help the bandits more than it would Grayson.

  The Shadow Hawk stood scanning the room. Grayson could hear the tiny click of mechanical relays in that squat head, and knew the 'Mech pilot was scanning IR, motion-sensitive and visible light images for signs of his human prey. All around the Bay were stacks of boxes behind which men had taken cover. The 'Mech gave the uncanny impression of a dull-witted metal giant considering how to find the fugitives without burning valuable equipment. Soon it would begin to move the crates one at a time, and anyone it flushed would be burned down or smashed.

  Grayson eyed the interlocking tooth pattern of the sealed door behind him. If he could get the door open, the survivors of the attack team might have a chance, could scatter into the darkness down the slope of the mountain. But the only way to open those doors was to throw a switch in the Bay Control booth. His eyes travelled past the now motionless 'Mech to the lighted booth, fifteen meters above the deck.

  What he needed was a diversion.

  Lying near him was a body with one arm outflung, an almost undamaged hand clenched around the strap of a canvas satchel. Grayson knew that it was one of Larressen's people, someone from the demo team sent to destroy the Shadow Hawk.

  The satchel contained explosives — five packets of high-velocity plastique, each weighing two kilos — clipped to magnetic backing, and already primed with a timer-activated detonator. Properly placed over selected circuits and servoactuators, those packets could destroy a 'Mech. There was no way to place them now, but they might provide, the distraction he needed.

  Grayson set his teeth, wiped sweat from his face, then lunged into the open. Though he kept his eyes off the metal mountain above him, he could hear the click of relays, could feel the slow turn of the head, the ponderous movement of the right arm as the laser was brought up to bear. He reached across the man's body for the satchel, and tugged it toward him. The corpse's hand remained stubbornly attached, and Grayson found himself in a deadly tug-of-war with the unrecognizable form of one of his own men. Worse, he could feel the laser almost in line.

  Giving a last, despairing tug, he felt the strap pull free from the clenched, dead fingers, as he tumbled over backward with the satchel clutched to his chest. The 'Mech's laser fired, washing white heat and sharp odor across Grayson as he rolled across the ferrocrete to cover. The crate where he had been hiding burst into flames. In its light Grayson was up and running, running toward the massive armored feet of the Shadow Hawk.

  The 'Mech shifted, tracking him. He dodged right, then left, his hand reaching into the satchel and pulling out one of the two-kilo packets. Slinging the satchel, he used his free hand to set the timer for five seconds and flung it — not at the monster, but onto the ferrocrete between himself and the BattleMech's foot

  Then he was running again, weaving toward the metal ladder below the control booth. The explosion at his back an instant later picked him up and flung him toward the booth, but then dumped him flat on his face with blood smearing his arms, and a hideous, dizzying ring in his ears. The 'Mech paused, its heat and light sensors momentarily blinded by the explosion's flash. Grayson used the delay to arm two more packets and then hurl them at the monster's head. The explosions did scant damage, but they kept the 'Mech's pilot blinded for precious seconds. Grayson mounted the ladder and bounded up the rattling steps three at a time.

  As another explosion sounded from below, the ladder pitched wildly. He turned, his gloved hands gripping the steps alongside his head. Below, a solitary figure waved, then hurled another packet that exploded at the Shadow Hawks feet.

  "Go on, Lieutenant!" The figure shouted, as the explosion's roar subsided. "We'll keep him busy!"

  Grayson recognized Larressen's voice. Lurching to the top of the ladder, he shouldered aside the half-open door. Waiting there was a bearded man in green fatigues, a TK assault rifle in his hands.

  Grayson's own machine pistol was gone, lost somewhere on the floor of the Bay.

  There was another explosion below, and the Shadow Hawk twisted, scraping against the metal ladder with a high-pitched screech of metal. The bearded soldier's eyes left Grayson's for a half-instant, giving him the chance to swing the canvas bag into the man's face. He threw his body after it, grappling for the man's gun, thrusting him back. In the struggle, the two knocked over a chair and smashed into the monitor console. When Grayson brought his knee up sharply, the soldier grunted and loosened his grip. Grayson smashed the butt of the TK across the side of the man's skull.

  Then he stabbed at the flat white button that would open the Bay doors. He stood there, holding the circuit open as the interlocking teeth of the doors pulled apart, spilling light into the outer darkness. Then he grabbed the soldier's TK and the canvas satchel and ran through the door of the booth.

  The 'Mech was there, its head just two meters below Grayson's feet, the laser on its arm swinging up to demolish the control booth. There was nothing Grayson could do but jump. He landed on the Hawk's shoulder with a clattering scramble, and clung to the stub of a field guide antennae projecting from the side of its head. The ‘Mech turned clumsily, its right hand lifting to swat him like a gnat. Grayson twisted behind the 'Mech's head, riding the wire-tangled scar where the autocannon and backpack life support system should have been, safely beyond the machine's reach.

  He fumbled with the satchel. The ‘Mech turned again, crashing in
to the control booth ladder and through to the stone wall beyond. The concussion jarred Grayson severely, tearing at his hand. He managed to keep his grip, but the TK went spinning off wildly. His free hand closed on the last remaining packet of explosive. He clamped it to the side of the monster's head, and set the timer for ten seconds. The machine smashed against the wall again, rolling, trying to crush Grayson between the Bay wall and the 'Mech's own 55-ton bulk.

  Grayson found hand holds — tack-welded grips along the Shadow Hawk's back used for service access — and climbed down the monster's flank toward the ground. When the 'Mech crashed into the wall again, Grayson was shaken loose. He fell the last five meters and landed with a crash among the crumbled ruins of the control booth ladder.

  Grayson's right leg felt like it had taken a blow from a sledge hammer, and his head was throbbing. He blinked open his eyes, saw the 'Mech staggering above him wreathed in smoke... falling... Then, rough hands dug under his armpits and hauled him from the wreckage of the ladder. The 'Mech's fall was a storm of crash upon crash, and black smoke poured from an ugly scar across its head.

  For one wild moment, Grayson exulted. I killed it! Exultation faded fast as the 'Mech rolled, pulled its arms under its body, and hauled itself partly upright The pilot was obviously stunned, possibly hurt, but the blast had not pierced that tough armor. Cold air hit at Grayson's face and at an arm exposed by a tear in his jacket sleeve, as his rescuer dragged him through the open door of the Bay and onto the parade ground. Other dark shapes scattered through the night.

  Somehow, Grayson managed to click on the tacradio at his throat. "Evade and escape! Rendezvous when you can back at the Arsenal! Quickly!" Then the night lit up with fire and death as gunners on the Castle's flanks opened fire with tracers and turret-mounted lasers, sweeping death and horror across the parade ground.

  "Let's get out of here, Larressen..."

  "Larressen's had it Lieutenant."

  Only then did Grayson look at his rescuer. For some reason he'd assumed it was Larressen, but it was the blackened face of a private from the demo team that stared at him with concern. What was the name? Greer, that was it He was one of the new 'Mech pilot recruits..

  "That... that thing stepped on him," Greer was saying haltingly, "like he was an insect"

  "Let's go. We'll even the score later." Even with the pain in his leg, Grayson found he could run with a free-swinging limp. With a party of four other survivors, he made his way down the mountain.

  22

  General Adel flung the printouts down on his desk, and nailed Grayson with a hard look. "Twenty-eight dead or missing," he said. "Twenty-eight out of fifty. This is not what we've come to expect of your unit here at the Palace, you know. Well? What do you have to say about it, Lieutenant?"

  "It... it was a trap, General."

  "Indeed?"

  "They had that Shadow Hawk rigged to look like it was under repair. They must've had the pilot stuffed in the cockpit, flat on his back for hours just to..."

  "I am not interested in the Shadow Hawk pilot's comfort, Lieutenant! I am interested in what I'm going to put into the report I must submit to His Majesty."

  "Yes, sir."

  "This does not bode well for the First Lancers, you understand. I know that the Royal Guard, in, particular has gone out of its way to provide your unit with weapons and equipment already in short supply. Critics will point out that this effort was wasted, thrown away to no purpose."

  "But General! You..."

  "Silence!"

  Grayson remained rigidly at attention, clamping down on the emotions boiling within him. This was unfair! He had had nothing but trouble getting requisitions through the Guard supply bureaucracy, and now...

  "I never have approved of this project, Carlyle. You know that, don't you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I certainly never expected His Majesty would establish anything like an elite unit elsewhere than within the structure of the Guard. I expect General Varney was responsible for this idiotic notion of having the Lancers be an independent unit Eh? Well?”

  “I wouldn't know, sir."

  "Hmm, no, I expect not." Adel leaned back in his chair, carefully crossing one leg over the other. "Well, be advised that that's all changing, as of now."

  "Sir?"

  "That surprises you, eh? Well, Varney is out of the picture, Carlyle, and the First Trellwan Lancers are, as of this period, being redesignated as E Company, Tenth Royal Guards. They will be under my direct command."

  The room swam in Grayson's eyes. What Adel was saying did not make sense. "Sir... I..."

  "You will turn over all records and files to your successor. Captain Nolem." Adel looked up from his desk at Carlyle, astonishment softening his voice. "You didn't think you'd actually keep the Lance, did you? You're young, Carlyle, too young for a command of such responsibility. The job was just too big for you. Try not to feel too..."

  "Do you mean the Lancers aren't mine anymore?" Grayson cut in dully.

  "That's exactly what I mean, Lieutenant. You are relieved. As you were never actually a member of the Trellwan armed forces other than through a special act by the King, I fail to see how they ever could have been... yours.

  "At any rate, a company rates a captain, and you can't expect us to twist the whole structure of military command around just to accommodate you, do you? You will be retained as special advisor. Your knowledge of 'Mechs and 'Mech tactics makes you invaluable to us." Adel's eyebrows came together, his eyes narrowing. "That means no more of your gallivanting around in a combat zone. I will not risk having you killed and losing your expertise!"

  "Sir, Sergeant Kalmar is..."

  "That young lady is an enemy alien. She should never have been given rank or position within our armed forces! You were the one responsible for that gaff, I believe? Well, don't worry. As I said, you are young, inexperienced."

  "What will happen to her?"

  "That, Lieutenant, is none of your business."

  "General, I demand..."

  "You'll demand nothing, Lieutenant!"

  "But..."

  "Enough! I've wasted more time with you than I can spare. Dismissed!" With that, a sentry ushered Grayson out and into the marble corridors of the Palace.

  General Adel stared after Grayson for long, hard seconds after he'd been escorted out. The young Commonwealther would have to be watched, and watched closely. It was always dangerous to allow any one man too much power. And control of the Lancers? No, he reminded himself, not the Lancers. It was control of the Tenth Regiment that meant power. Men would do anything to win power, and to hold it. Young Carlyle was very popular with his men. General Adel believed popular military commanders were never to be trusted.

  Perhaps it would be best if Carlyle's career ended soon. A knife in the dark had solved such problems many times before in human history. He knew there had been a previous attempt, but no one in his command would have so botched the job by hiring untrustworthy personnel.

  * * * *

  Mara drew Grayson closer, her hands moving delicately at his ears, at the back of his neck. "But what are you going to do?” she asked, her dark eyes wide.

  "I don't know, Mara. I really don't know." The shock of his talk with Adel had worn off, leaving him with a profound sense of emptiness, as though some inner part of his spirit had died.

  "It's kind of hard to say. You know, when I started out... When I said I'd start an anti-Mech unit for your people, I was doing it for just one reason."

  Her fingers moved along his chest, brushing at the few strands of hair there. "What was that?"

  "Revenge. Revenge, pure and simple. I wanted to get back at the people who murdered my father, and I sure wasn't going to be able to do that on my own." He managed a smile. "Someone told me once I'd get into trouble on my own. I wish he could see me now.”

  “But you're not alone, Gray. You have me." He pulled her close, and kissed her. "Thank you, love, but I needed help to fight back against those b
andits, against that Marauder." He lay back on the bed, his eyes staring unseeing past the ceiling. "You know, those weeks building the Lancers, I think they were the best in my life. I was... building something... doing something that only I could do. And I had a purpose. I was going to destroy the 'Mech... and the MechWarrior who killed Dad."

  "Maybe you were just trying to prove something to yourself."

  He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe at first. I know I still want revenge. Want it more than anything else." He turned to Mara, probing his own feelings. "But after awhile, I had something more, something that pushed the whole question of revenge into the background.

  "I had a purpose, a direction, and felt something like belonging. I was never so alone as when I found out all my people were gone... that I was marooned on Trellwan. The Lancers were like havig a family again, and that was special."

  He paused again, working to control his voice. Don't think about that, he told himself. Not that. It was revenge you wanted. Revenge and nothing more.

  "You know, with the Lancers, there was at least a slim chance that I might someday bring that Marauder down. But now..."

  Her eyes showed fear. "Then what hope is there for us?"

  "Oh, things’ll be O.K., here. Now that Sarghad's got three 'Mechs, the bandits won't attack the city anymore. There'd be too much chance they'd get trapped in the streets, like that Locust was when we captured it. It's possible they might raid the agrodomes, but they won't come into the city anymore."

  Adel and his staff must have come to the same conclusion, Grayson realized with a new surge of bitterness. With three 'Mechs and a trained anti-Mech ground force, Sarghad was reasonably safe. They probably wouldn't be able to destroy the Marauder and Shadow Hawk — not without a remarkable stroke of good fortune — but the enemy could no longer get at them.

  And wasn't that why they'd had him assemble the Lancers in the first place? So far as the Trellwanese government was concerned, his job was done. They'd never said anything about his using the Lancers to further his personal vendetta against the bandits.'