Decision at Thunder Rift

"Lieutenant..."

"Speak up!"

A private in a grease-stained Militia uniform edged to the front of the crowd. "Lieutenant, Trellwan is our home For most of us, that is, we CAN'T leave!"

There was muttered assent, and someone called out "That's right!" There were hostile looks on many of the faces in front of him, confusion or worry on many others.

Preoccupied with his own schemes and desires, Grayson had not really foreseen resistance from his men. "Do all of you feel that way?" he asked.

The response was more muttering, the shuffling of feet, and downcast eyes.

"The situation in Sarghad is not good," Grayson said. "Our scouts who came in last period say the whole place is under martial law. The Green Coats are in total control of everything, and Militiamen are being rounded up and shot."

A disbelieving voice rang out. "All of them?"

"No, not all. Most of the Militia are confined to their barracks now, and I gather General Varney is being held prisoner in the Palace. But the Militia people who are protesting the new orders — they're disappearing. And the Duke's men are helping the Green Coats. Their troops are at the Palace, the hospital, and at the Visor broadcast stations..."

"Lieutenant, lots of us have family down there. We can't just abandon them!"

Grayson felt his control, his authority slipping. These men and women, most of them, had borne with him through the hardships of training and organization, and had followed him into both victory and defeat. He had been thinking of this new Lance as his family, and had assumed that they all felt as he did. Obviously, he had miscalculated.

Kai had once lectured Grayson on why men fight. "A man fights for many reasons," he'd said. "Most of all, he fights for his buddies on either side of him on the firing line, and that's where his loyalty lies when the heat is on.

"But it's home and family that puts him there on the firing line in the first place."

Grayson could tell by the atmosphere, by the dark murmuring and darker looks, that these people were not his to the point that they would abandon home and family to follow him offplanet. He'd imagined the entire Lance getting offworld, of warning the Commonwealth of the dagger unsheathed at its back, of finding whatever was left of Carlyle's Commandos and rejoining them. Failing that, he and his men would perhaps form'a mercenary unit to continue the fight against the dark coils of Draconis.

But for most of those he led, there was nothing to fight for offworld, no promise there but the very slender one of safety from Sta

"I won't ask you to leave your homes," he said, "but if we could get offplanet, if we could capture the JumpShip, we might be able to find help, to come back with a stronger force and kick the Kuritists back to where they came from."

A single voice broke the uncomfortable silence. "And if you get your ship, how do we know you'll come back for us?"

Another Militiaman stepped in front of the crowd, half turning to face them. "The Lieutenant's always done right by us, hasn't he? If he says he'll come back, I believe him!"

"Thank you, soldier."

"Begging the Lieutenant's pardon, but not all of us have ties here. I for one have no family on Trellwan, and if you're going offplanet, well, I'd like to come along."

"What's your name, soldier?"

"Ma

"You'll be more than welcome, Ma

"The Commonwealth wasn't that interested in us when they brought Hendrik's bastards in!" came a voice from the back of the crowd.

"No, and they won't be any more interested in you now! They've got problems of their own — elsewhere. But they're damn sure not going to want the Kuritists sitting here massing their fleets and 'Mech battalions! Now... will you help me?"

There was a terrifying silence, while Grayson thought, My God, I've lost them. Then Ma

Then another Militiaman stepped forward, and another. The private who'd protested that he had a family moved up, and then the cavern was ringing with the shouts and whoops of Grayson's troops. Maybe, Grayson thought, as he looked down into their shouting faces, maybe we'll be able to pull it off.

* * * *

Renfred Tor marched with fourteen men past the outer barracks and onto the apron of the spaceport field. Each of them wore the dark green and gold of Trellwan's Royal Guards.

A number of Royal Guards had joined Grayson's ragtag unit at Thunder Rift, men who'd fled the takeover when those in power began evening old quarrels with those in their own ranks. Grayson didn't fully trust them yet, and they were also the target of black looks and unpleasant grumbling from many of the Militiamen who had lost homes or family when the Guards had taken over in Sarghad. For now, the former Guardsmen were kept within the Rift, assigned to the shrunken support company, where they could be kept out of harm's way — and watched.

Their uniforms had come in handy, though, as a disguise for the men in Tor's special party. The DropShip Captain led his tiny command across the uncomfortabaly open field between the barracks and the Invidious'DropShip. There were weapons trained on the party, Tor knew. Standard operating procedure called for weapons to track any person or group approaching a grounded military ship. As they got closer, he could see the orifice-dimpled sphere of a beam turret twisting within its mount on the hull to keep them in its line-of-sight. He marched his men into the wind shelter of a supply shed several hundred meters from the ship, halted them, had them face front and stand at ease.

He hoped they looked like just another squad of Green Coats.

The Duke was using a lot of Royal Guards, both in the city and at the port. The alliance with them made sense. If Ricol could count on the men now in power in Sarghad — Sta

Their one advantage was that the situation in Sarghad was bound to be hopelessly confused at the moment, with so many changes being put into effect so quickly. It was likely that as yet there WERE no passwords or special codes. If so, they had to move now if there was to be any chance of success at all.

Clipped to his ear, Tor wore the remote earphone to the transceiver at his belt. He was conscious of the faint background hiss of the open cha

The DropShip loomed above them, filling the sky with the massive swell of its rounded hull. For the first time, Tor got a good look at what they'd done to the vessel when they'd installed extra weapon mounts. He winced at the carelessness with which armor plate had been burned away, but knew he couldn't dwell on that now. What Tor needed to know right now was where was that bloody signal?

The Green Coats and their Kurita allies had occupied the Castle, of course, but they hadn't moved in and set up their headquarters there. That was one stroke of luck, at least. What Grayson and his men were attempting to do would have been far more difficult, perhaps impossible, if the Duke and his staff had taken over the Command Control Center. Ricol appeared to be still operating out of the DropShip, which bore the red chevron of his flag. That meant the Castle's Command Center should be deserted. Grayson was in there now, working to tap into the spaceport's computer net If he could just tell the computer network that Tor and his people were expected aboard the DropShip...