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And ammunition. The infantry was down to a few tens of rounds per man for some weapons. Just after a major battle, special rounds such as inferno warheads were vanishingly scarce. The shortage ran right up to the projectile weapons of the various 'Mechs. Grayson himself had fired fourteen "rounds" of a hundred 120mm shells each. That left him with eleven ammo cassettes—enough, if he conserved his shots, for one battle. He had already checked with Davis McCall and found that the Ba
And the wounded. Fifteen men and women, including Captain Ramage, were too seriously wounded to walk. Without a doctor, without medical supplies, antibiotics, plasma, or blood, without even clean bandages, their chances for survival were not good. Another twenty-one had less serious wounds, but their fighting efficiency would be impaired unless they could be treated, and soon.
Grayson almost yielded to the impulse to call Langsdorf and ask for terms. The only thing that stopped him was the chilling knowledge that, for whatever reason, he and his men were being treated as outlaws. To surrender would not mean the usual repatriation by an employer, or a ransom posted by a patron. To surrender to Langsdorf would most certainly lead to a trial for some crime or crimes for which the Legion had apparently been found guilty already.
What crimes, though? And who was accusing them? The Legion had fulfilled their contract to Janos Marik on Sirius V! Why were the Marik forces now persecuting them?
Outwardly, Grayson had remained calm. He'd given the orders that set the column moving rapidly toward the north until the sophisticated D2j tracking system aboard McCall's Riflemaninformed them that the last of the Boomerangspotter planes had returned to the Marik encampment at Helmdown. Presumably, they were now leaving the task of shadowing the column to ships or satellites in orbit. Grayson had then led his people into the forest that blanketed much of the land fringing the North Highland Plains, and begun moving toward the northeast. In the foothills of the Aragayan Mountains north of Durandel was the Valley of the Araga, the river valley to which he had directed Lieutenant DeVillar and the rest of the survivors from Durandel. The place was well-hidden and secure. There they could rest and make their plans.
No matter what the outward show, Grayson carried with him a growing certainty of his own failure. What he had dreaded for so long had now finally come to pass. It was inevitable that a 24-year-old regimental commander would eventually come face to face with his own limitations through errors of judgement so serious they brought the entire regiment to ruin.
The column raced northeast, as Grayson thought of the soft and inviting comfort, the sweet oblivion, of suicide.
* * *
The House Marik JumpShip Mizarmaterialized at the Helm jump point. Nearby, the other ships of the squadron hung motionless, poised on the gentle, invisible streams of particles from their plasma station-keeping thrusters. Orienting under gentle shoves from her thrusters, the Mizarmaneuvered until her stern pointed toward the orange glare of Helm's star. It was then that the vast jump sail, absolutely black in order to absorb every stray quanta of energy possible for the starship's converters, began to unfold from the Mizar'sexternal sail lockers. Light from the sun streamed through the sail's central hole, an adaptation that allowed the Mizar'sstation-keepers to maintain thrust without damage to the delicate fabric of the sail.
On board the ducal DropShip Gladius,in the almost palatial suite of rooms assigned as his personal quarters, Precentor Rachan strapped himself into the chair behind his desk, and touched the key that ran his personal decoder program through the computer mounted on his desk. The Mizar'sparabolic ante
The Mizar'scommunications operator noted the receiver's code and routed the stream of meaningless garble to Rachan's screen. There, the decoder turned garble into meaning, and a printed message flowed across the monitor. As he leaned forward to read, the screen lit his features with its phosphor glow. Rachan began to smile as he read, for the news from Helm was good, very good, indeed.
* * *
Under the shelter of darkness and trees, the endless rows of bubble tents were nearly invisible. Inside one of them, two people shared closeness . . . and pain.
"Well, Lori, I've made a real a mess of it this time."
Hearing past the lightness in his tone, Lori knew that Grayson was worried sick—and that he blamed himself for their current predicament. Her feelings for this man had flip-flopped so many times in the four short years of their comradeship, but love him or hate him, Lori had come to know Grayson Carlyle better than anyone in the Legion did. No one else saw the sorrow in his eyes now. Neither Ramage, who'd been working for Grayson the longest, nor Renfred Tor, who had known him longer, could read him so well. Only with Lori did the young mercenary commander let down his guard, and even that was rare.
"Gray." Lori's soft voice was pleading. "Gray, it's not you. We were betrayed. That damned Graff! There's nothing you—"
"Nothing!" He turned to face her, grey eyes flashing. Even in the dim light from the tent's glow panel, she could see his torment. "Nothing I could have done? I've made mistakes, grave mistakes, every step of the way! And now we've lost . . . everything ..."
Lori reached out, touched his arm gently. He grabbed her, clung to her desperately. "Lori, Lori, what're we going to do? What in God's name can we possibly do?"
Lori held him, grateful for his outburst. It wasn't often that he showed his need for her, and she knew it wouldn't last long. Soon they would be making love and he would be passionate and strong. By tomorrow, he would have figured out what they should do next, once again the courageous leader of the Gray Death Legion. But now, for just these few moments, he was vulnerable, and he needed her, not just as his Exec, not just as a fellow Warrior, but as a woman. And oh, how she needed that needing!
As happened so often when she was in his arms, Lori remembered the first time she'd seen Grayson Death Carlyle. If anybody had told her back then that one day she would be in love with the man who was aiming an inferno launcher at her . . .
As a 'Mech apprentice in the Sigurd Defense Forces, she'd been working for the Bandit King Hendrik of Oberon. A difference of opinion with her training sergeant got her assigned to a Special Expeditionary Force that was actually under the command of a Kurita noble. After they'd set down on the first planet of a star called Trell, she'd gotten her first taste of real combat. Piloting a fast but lightly armed Locust,Lori had been assigned to attack the palace of Sarghad, but she and her comrades couldn't even get through the city. Wes had bought it, his Wasp'shead smashed, then Garik had fled, asking her to cover him. Well, she had, and he escaped. Then Grayson Carlyle stepped out from the cover of an alley and threatened to set her already-overheated 'Mech on fire.
Lori shuddered. Ever since her parent's death in the fire that destroyed their home, she had been deathly afraid of fire. As a MechWarrior, the thought of death in combat was all part of the job, but the prospect of death by fire had broken her, shattered her nerve. There had been no choice. She hadto surrender when faced with Grayson's inferno launcher.