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There were no more protests. They spent most of the passage working in the cargo Bay where the 'Mechs — a Marauder,a Stinger,and a Locust— were stored. They practiced what tactics they could on holographic map tables under Vallendel's critical eye, performing maintenance checks, and going over 'Mech operating systems. When the time came for the drop onto the night side of a world close by a mottled, dusky red sun, however, the unwilling mercenaries had not been included in the assault team. They'd watched from the freighter's DropShip as Vallendel and two of Singh's Techs had disembarked into a night of fire and terror.
They'd also watched Vallendel's Maraudersmash to pieces an aging Phoenix Hawkalready savaged by the weapons they'd helped install in the DropShip's hull.
"Why did they bring us here, anyway?," she'd asked. But no one was giving any answers.
Once the crew transferred to their new Trellwan base in an imposing black stone edifice built on a mountainside, her new masters had begun allowing Kalmar and her companions to exercise with the Locust,and with a pair of 20-ton Waspscaptured from the yet unidentified enemy. They were closely watched by the other 'Mechs; the Stingerwas generally detailed to keep a close eye on the Sigurdian's activities during patrols. It was clear that they were not trusted.
Kalmar's initiation into battle had come shortly after the first successful raid on the enemy city, where a number of prisoners had been captured and specific targets identified. It had also been her last
Her target had been the Palace. She'd received an accurate map of the Palace layout and the location of shelters where important members of the enemy government were expected to be hiding during an attack. She and her two companions were to attack the Palace, flush the ranking officers and members of the Royal Family, and, if possible, to capture them.
It all had gone wrong. Wes Fitzhugh had been killed in a battle with unarmored troops in the street, and Enzelman's Wasphad been damaged at the Palace Gates. Lori had been moving up from the rear to support them when Enzelman had limped past, heading north. "They're after me," he'd cried over the combat pircuit. "Cover me!"
She tried and succeeded. Garik Enzelman had escaped to the Castle, and now she was awaiting death at the hands of her captors.
"You can drop the pretense," she told Grayson. "I know you're going to kill me... eventually. I only surrendered because... because I didn't want to burn." She shuddered. "It's a horrible way to die."
"I didn't know about your parents," Grayson said gently. "I wouldn't have threatened you like that if..." He let the words trail off, acutely aware of how foolish he sounded.
"Look," he continued. "There is no trick. I'm not going to hurt you, and I'll do my best to see that no one else does either. And I'm serious about getting you out of here. I need a Tech to supervise the repair of a damaged Wasp."
"That's ridiculous. I'm an apprentice."
Yeah, right, he thought. But so am I. He wasn't about to admit it, however. "Which puts you way ahead of everyone else in Sarghad. Will you help?"
Her eyes were guarded. "What's to stop me from slipping off to my friends up the mountain? Or wiring a C-90 charge into your 'Mech's primary power circuit?"
"Oh, there'll be safeguards." He thought of his conversation with Varney and Adel, of the arguments he had mustered, and the promises he'd had to make. Kalmar was to be considered an enemy agent. She would be guarded at all times, and the astechs assigned to help her would have training enough to know if she were deliberately sabotaging the work. They'd finally agreed to Grayson's plan only because there seemed to be no other way to get the job done.
Grayson had accepted their conditions, and prayed that the girl would agree to work with him under such restrictions. There seemed to be no alternative, for any of them.
"You'll be watched, but at least you'll be out of this place. Do you owe some oath of fealty or service to the people who brought you here?" Many peoples in the near-feudal culture of the Successor States strictly observed fealty vows and oaths. In the shifting tangles of allegiances among the states, individual warriors needed a focus for their loyalty.
Lori Kalmar closed her eyes. "No. There's... nothing. A slave's vow to her master, perhaps, nothing more.”
“Will you agree?"
There was a long silence. When she spoke again, it was in a very small voice. "Yes. And... and thank you."
BOOK II
17
Harimandir Singh drew the collar of his cold weather jacket closer about his face and ears and leaned into the wind. The storms had ended, but the long dark of Firstnight continued. With the coming of the storms, temperatures had fallen. There were patches of snow across the ferrocrete apron of the spaceport, and the wind eddied small whirls of dry snow through the pools of light cast by vapor lamps on the poles overhead. At last report, it was snowing heavily in the mountains nearby. He thought what a dismal, brooding planet was this Trellwan, a place he would be glad to leave when the mission was complete. Perhaps... perhaps after this, he would see again the crystal skies and gleaming salt flats of his home deserts.
The guards at the door to one of the squat, sheet metal storage buildings lining the main port area came to attention with the slap-crack of a weapon salute. One of them took the paper Singh handed him, studied it, and unlocked the door. The air that poured from the dimly lit room beyond the door was sour with the stench of unwashed bodies, and the odors of vomit and human waste.
"How many do we have, now?" Singh asked his aide.
The soldier consulted his wristcomp. "One hundred eighty-two prisoners, Lord."
Singh nodded and tried to keep from covering his nose and mouth to block the stink. These prisoners, many of them skilled workers, were soon to be slaves, sold among labor-hungry worlds with crumbling technologies. For now, they were a source of sometimes useful information as well as a major problem in logistics. His expedition's food supplies were limited to what was left aboard the DropShip and what little had been raided from the agrodomes north of Sarghad. If they did not quickly find more food, their prisoners would have to be shot — and hang the waste. Singh believed the primary mission had to take priority over minor economic concerns.
The guard returned, leading a shambling, ragged man with a face bruised and caked with dirt and dried blood.
"Captain Tor! How are you? Have you decided to tell us what we want to know yet?"
"I can't tell you anything." He spoke carefully through swollen lips. The beatings had produced great, puffy bruises about his eyes and mouth.
"Oh, but you can tell us a great deal, like why you were snooping about the spaceport perimeter and what you know about mercenary activities in Sarghad. You'd be saving yourself somuch trouble by telling us what we want to know."
Tor was shivering, his arms folded tightly in front of his body, but he managed to snap, "Go to hell!" As he was wearing only the rags of his tunic and light trousers, the cold was doing the work of a torturer's knife.
Singh frowned. "I've offered you money. I've offered you your freedom. I'm afraid all I have to offer now is a quick death."
"You murdered my men."
"Ah... the three crewmen aboard the DropShip. That was a tragedy, I admit It's always a tragedy when skilled workers must be killed. But you made that necessary, my friend, by escaping in the first place."