The Price of Glory

"More than you'd think, Colonel," Graff twisted against the ropes that held him, then managed a shrug. "There are things in this that even the Duke doesn't know ... As for Langsdorf, he doesn't know a damned thing!”

“And you do, I suppose?"

The man smiled nervously. "Like I said, Colonel. I'm valuable to you. Play things right, and you might even get off this dirtball alive!"

Grayson allowed scorn to color his voice. "Well! Gentlemen . . . and Lori! It seems we have captured ourselves someone important! The mastermind of the whole operation!"

"Laugh all you want! Tomorrow afternoon you'll be laughing at Duke Irian's assault BattleMechs!"

Grayson considered the bound man. He was a mass of contradictions. Boastful, yet secretive. Unwilling to help Grayson, yet desperate to prove that he could be valuable. Above all, there seemed to be the driving need to appear important, a powerful figure, someone his enemies would have to contend with.

It was this last motivation that Grayson sought to use against the man now, in combination with Graff's own fear.

"Gray ..." Lori began, but Grayson silenced her with a wave of his hand.

"I'd hoped we would be able to capture Colonel Langsdorf," he said, despite the fact that the object of the attack had been to destroy the mobile headquarters, with Langsdorf's death or capture a minor goal. "You know, Lori, I think we missed the one we really wanted. That man who came out just before we attacked . . ." He turned on Graff. "That was Langsdorf, wasn't it, Graff? The man in the old leather jacket, with no rank insignia?"

Graff nodded slowly. "He was there. He left a few minutes before you came in. He doesn't care much for the protocol of rank."

"You know, I think we could have talked with him. It's a shame that all we came up with was . . . this."

Graff snorted. "You don't know what you're saying."

"No? You're honestly claiming a Captain knows more about the mission than the Colonel in command of the whole planetary expeditionary force? Come off it, Graff! You're nothing . . . nothing! And you're worth less than that to me."

McCall came to stand next to Grayson, where Graff could see his face. He was smiling warmly through his beard. "Shall ah takit tha' wee beastie oot for a lit'le walk, Colonel sair? A one-way walk?"

Grayson sighed. "No, Davis. He's not worth it."

"We're not taking him with us!" Lori said.

Grayson shook his head. "No." He gave a calculated pause as he looked at the trembling quisling. "No, I think we'll let him go."

"What?" Lori was first to voice the outrage all of them shared.

"You can't do that, Colonel!" Clay said.

Grayson started to speak, but he was interrupted by Hassan Khaled, who had not moved or spoken during the entire interrogation. When he spoke now, it was with the measured, emotionless tones of Death itself. "I think the Colonel has made an excellent decision," he said. "Somehow, sir, I did not expect you to be so . . . inventive."

"Thank you, Khaled—I think. Davis, cut the man loose."

Davis hesitated, then caught the look in Grayson's eye. He drew his combat knife from its boot scabbard and went to the back of Graff's chair.

"What ... are you doing?" Graff said as he stood, rubbing his wrists. His glance shifted from face to face around the tent, and the uncertainty in his eyes was rapidly becoming sheer terror.

"You are free to go." Grayson said. "You know nothing we need to know. We can't afford to take you along, not when our food is short, and we need every man free to fight. And despite the stories that are being circulated about me, I am not a bloodthirsty killer. You will not be executed." Grayson allowed himself to smile, though the effort turned his stomach. "At least . . . Iwill not be your executioner."

Graff's eyes widened until the whites stood completely revealed around the brown of his irises. "You . . . you want me to go out there; in the middle of this camp? But if I'm seen ..."

Grayson shrugged. "You might not be seen. At least, not right away."

"I wonder how far he'll get," said Khaled, measuring Graff through narrowed eyes.

"Wait . . . Carlyle! You can't do this! If your people catch me, they'll . . . No! Wait! You can't do this! It's not human! You know what a mob can do . . ."

"Do I? Well, maybe I do. I've been accused of murdering twelve million defenseless civilians. For a man like that, a little mob violence is nothing. Get out of my sight! We'll let your former comrades-at-arms, the ones you betrayed, decide your fate."

"No!"

"There are a lot of people who liked Francine Roget a lot," he said thoughtfully. "And Sylvia Trevor. They were good people, and they died because of you. And there were the DropShips ..."

"Wait! You don't understand!" Graff was pleading openly now. "You can't send me out there! They'll tear me apart."

"Slowly," Khaled added. The single, cold, drawn-out word made Graff begin to shudder uncontrollably.

"You don't understand," he said again. "It's true that I'm only a Captain in the Marik House Guard, but I'm also . . . much more!"

"You haven't told me anything I care to hear, Graff. Out."

"No! ComStar! I'm ComStar!"

The word caught Grayson totally and completely by surprise. He had not been sure what revelation he sought to break from Graff, but of all possible revelations or confessions, he had not expected thatone.

Grayson stared hard into Graff's eyes. The man was purely, starkly, and openly terrified. There was no sham to his trembling.

Somehow, Grayson made himself dissemble. He smiled. He let the smile grow into a chuckle, and then into a laugh. "You? A ComStar agent?"

Clay smiled. "Maybe he wants to send a message just now, eh, Colonel?"

"Look, Colonel, you've got to listen to me!" The words came tumbling forth now. "I was approached months ago by someone . . . someone very high up in ComStar! His name is Rachan, and he's a Precentor. A high-level one! Do you know what that means? He's a high-ranking administrator within the ComStar organization! They say he's a confidant of the Primus himself, on Terra! It was Rachan's idea to disgrace you ... to disgrace the Gray Death Legion!"

"Why?" Grayson's lips formed a hard, tight line. "Why would ComStar want to do that?" He was genuinely baffled.

"Yeah, what the hell does ComStar have to do with it?" Clay asked. "That bunch of superstitious cowl heads and their ..."

"Gently, Del, gently. Let's not insult the gentleman. Tell us, Graff, what interest does ComStar have in us? ComStar's neutrality in inter-House disputes is proverbial."

Graff looked from face to face, bracing himself. All of the MechWarriors had drawn closer, ringing Graff in.

"It's . . . it's because there's a storehouse ... an old, old Star League storehouse, here on Helm someplace."

"A storehouse," Lori said. "Of weapons?"

"Weapons," Graff nodded. "And BattleMechs. And spare parts. Ammunition. Heavy equipment. Repair gantries. A whole Star League naval base storehouse, and it's someplace near Freeport."

"Someplace," Grayson said. "In other words, you don't know where it is.

Graff shook his head. "It's like this. There are records, old, old records from Star League days that talk about the naval depot here. It was actually located in Freeport."