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They are so useless, all of them . . .Well, not entirely useless, perhaps. Even Garth had his uses, which would continue to be true for some time. The Duke had already failed badly in one minor way, however, and had to be brought to account for that. Too, Garth needed a reminder of who really was in charge of this project that he seemed to think was his. Indeed, it was for just such a discussion that the Precentor had considered summoning Garth to his room.
But no, this was the time for the veiled fist and the soft approach. Later, should Garth prove stubborn, there would be time enough to lay bare the naked steel behind the Precentor's words.
He approached the Duke, the smile still playing at the corners of his hard mouth. Garth's face went pale. Good,the Precentor thought. He does fear me still. I will give him more reason than he dreams . . .
The Precentor's bow was curt, obviously a formality and nothing more. "Your Grace."
"Rachan." Garth's voice was weak, with the hint of a stutter. His eyes looked bleak, as though he already regretted his liaison with the Precentor and those he represented.
So much the better. Such men could be more easily twisted to one's will. "I have news, your Grace," Rachan said.
Gathered around Garth were an obscenely fat merchant from the minor trading house of Mailai, half a dozen minor functionaries, and a gaggle of young women wearing makeup, plumes, jewelry, and little else. Garth's eyes flitted uneasily around the group. "Can it wait?" he said.
"No, Your Grace."
The Duke took another swallow of the blue liquid in his glass, then handed the empty crystal to a servant. "I'll come." Mustering his dignity, he stepped past the Precentor and led the way across the glittering floor toward a curtained alcove where the two of them could speak in private.
"What is your news, Rachan?"
"Communications have reached me from our station here." In private, the Precentor quickly dropped the perfunctory "Your Grace." There was no advantage to undermining the man's own authority in front of his people, but it was an excellent way of reminding the Duke of whose was the greater power. Rachan gestured toward the transparency overhead, beyond the silvery gleam of the Mizar.Somewhere beyond lay the world of this star system. Garth's own duchy, Irian. The Mizarhad stopped here en route to Marik, which lay one jump deeper into the Free Worlds League, and it was here that Rachan had been informed of events that could twist the current crisis in directions unforeseen. "Yes?"
"The hyperpulse station on Irian has relayed a message from my agents on Helm." Not our agents. Myagents. "They sent it under a Priority Alpha code, so great was the importance attached to it." He sipped again at his drink, enjoying the obvious turmoil behind Garth's fat, blank features. "As I warned you, Grayson Carlyle has not gone to Marik. He is at Helm . . . now."
"Helm! But . . . but . . ."
"I warned you that not all men jump when you command them. He disregarded your order to proceed to Marik. You should have foreseen that."
"It shouldn't matter. There are still two full companies of 'Mechs on Helm, as well as the air and space forces. Carlyle will not get past them."
"Fool!" The time had come to remove the velvet glove. "My agents report that two of Carlyle's lances— two lances—interrupted eight of your 'Mechs in the destruction of Durandel. All eightof your 'Mechs were destroyed. Apparently. Carlyle's force suffered no damage worth noting."
Garth's mouth made gulping motions, as though he were struggling for air. "He can't evade the rest of my forces there ..."
"He can and he has. My sources report that your field commander there is moving against Carlyle's DropShips now. Your forces, however, are outclassed in this. There are not enough BattleMechs on the planet to run a fox like Grayson Carlyle to ground, even if the move against his transportation succeeds. A hard, stand-up fight could wreck your garrison forces completely. Grayson Carlyle is a . . . capable fighter."
"We couldn't cover every eventuality, Rachan! We couldn't! All I could spare for the Helm operation were two depleted regiments! An understrength battalion! Yousaid it would be enough for the job at hand."
"Pardon me. I said it was adequate for the job of destroying a civilian community and rounding up the Techs and MechWarrior recruits who lived there. I said nothing about facing Carlyle's seasoned warriors!"
"All the rest of the forces at my disposal are here, or on Marik, waiting for him."
"Obviously."
Garth showed new determination, one fat fist smacking into his open palm. "The units stationed on Marik can be shifted. They will be shifted. We can still trap Grayson Carlyle . . . and exterminate him!"
Rachan drained his glass, then studied the emptied crystal, rotating it against the light provided by the drifting stars. "Exterminate him or not as you will, Garth, but the man and his mercenaries mustbe neutralized, one way or another. The operation on Sirius V was not enough. You must finish the job."
"It will be finished, Precentor, I promise you!"
"I don't want promises, Your Grace." Rachan judged it was time again to observe the amenities. "What I need now are results. Results that you have promised ..." He held out one hand, palm up, and closed his fingers into a fist. "To me! If you wish to share in what we have discovered, you must do your part!"
Garth closed his eyes and nodded. "Believe me, Pre . . . Rachan, I want it as badly as you. This is a delay, nothing more. Within days, I can have the better part of three regiments on Helm. Grayson Death Carlyle and his whole band of mercenaries will not be able to face such an army as that!"
Rachan nodded, satisfied. Garth was his creature, of that he was certain. "Very well, Your Grace. But do not fail us." It was good to remind the man of those who stood behind Rachan. "Those with me do not tolerate lack of faith ... or failure. Especially failure."
"I understand."
* * *
Surging up out of the dust-filled valley, the House Marik BattleMechs struck, laser beams and machine gun fire probing the Gray Death infantry defenses. As Ramage had expected, their lightest 'Mechs took the center, smashing forward against the infantry hiding in trenches and rough-made bunkers, while the larger, heavier 'Mechs flanked the infantry positions to north and south.
Ramage's men held their fire until the last moment, then unleashed a barrage of short-range anti-Mech missiles and laser bolts and billowing plumes of orange flame, seeking weak points in the armor of their gigantic targets.
Ramage did no shooting. There was no enemy infantry on the field as yet, and his assault rifle would be exactly as effective against BattleMech armor as so many wads of paper hurled by hand. What he could and did do was to direct those troops within earshot, pointing out possible weak points in armor, leg joints, and motivator arms, encouraging his men with a steady stream of invective, steadying those who wavered with either encouragement or curses, depending on the individual's personality.
The 'Mechs in the enemy's van strode across Ramage's trench lines without slowing. Short-range missiles arced up from a dozen emplacements, striking armor in flares of light that scattered great chunks of metal across the hillside. The Locustpaused once, the medium laser slung from its chin turret pivoting down and around to seek out the launch site of a stinging swarm of SRMs. White light flashed, dazzling even through the dark-tinted visors that Ramage's troops wore, and then dirt, smoke, and fire boiled from the shattered log roof of a hidden emplacement. Now the Locustwas striding forward again as Ramage's men began to turn small arms fire against the machines. The air was filled with the sigh and ping of hurtling rounds and ricochets. Once, something heavy smacked Ramage squarely in the center of his padded armor jerkin, then rattled off the top of his boot. He spared the object with a glance. It was a 10 mm rifle bullet, its nose mashed almost flat where it had struck the side of the Locustfifty meters away.