The Price of Glory

There was an odd, double bang that filled the room and made him look up. Two small holes had been drilled through the library's walls, high up, near the ceiling. Two companion holes marred the wall on the opposite sides. Someone was adding long, keening screams to the roar of gunfire outside. King remained transfixed, watching the percentage of copied data creep with infinite slowness toward the magical, three-digits of completeness. Come on!

There was a new sound, one that drowned out the screaming, drowned out even the hammer of gunfire. It was a deep, full-voiced thunder, and it came with the steady beat of someone knocking slowly to be let in. He looked out the library door again, and his eyes widened. The hole in the granite Wall was wider now, and something very large moved against the light outside.

There was a chiming note from the computer. He hurried back to the table as the memory core rose silently from the desk top recession. He grasped the core and lifted it free. The screen now read: DATA COPY COMPLETE. DO YOU REQUIRE ANOTHER?

"No thank you!" King shouted at the machine, though he knew the computer did not hear him. The shipboard computer could be set to make further copies, if required. This one copy would have to serve. Clutching his treasure before him, he stepped out of the library.

There was a further, shattering roar from the Wall, and King held up one hand to protect his face from splintered, hurtling shards of rock. The gap in the Wall was opening further.

The light spilling through the opening was blotted out by something large stepping through the enlarged opening. For just a moment, it looked like a, a gigantic, primordial, insectoid monster come to claim its cave and prey. Then it shifted in the backlight, and King recognized it even as the powerful spotlight mounted on its shoulder came on, bathing the interior of the cavern with light.

The Archertook a step forward into the cavern . . .

* * *

Grayson studied the 'Marik Mechs spreading out on the plain on the far side of the river. The odds were not so great as he'd first feared, though they were certainly bad enough. In all, he counted sixteen 'Mechs in the enemy line. That meant that at least four of those hit in earlier battles had been too badly damaged to join the Marik line now. That Archerat the Vermillion River, for example, had been savaged before it had finally managed to make its way back across the steaming river. Not bad . . . but not good enough.

One of the 'Mechs, a Warhammer,remained well behind the others. That will be Langsdorf,Grayson thought.

Grayson could make out a cluster of vehicles close beside the distant 'Mech. Who? Langsdorf's staff? Rachan? Garth?

They’re getting closer. We’re almost at the end.

How long would their twelve 'Mechs last against sixteen? There was no way to answer that question. In fact, the question was largely meaningless, for numbers alone could not give a true picture of the relative power of two opposing forces.

A more accurate image could be drawn by comparing the total weights of two opposing forces. Grayson had long since used his Marauder'scomputer to tally the figures for the 'Mechs he saw arrayed against them. The figure he'd come up with was 795 tons. The total weight of his own force was a respectable 649 tons, which gave Langsdorf only a narrow 16-to-13 lead.

Even comparing BattleMech weights did not always indicate which side had the best chance to win. There was a concept, known as "CLG" among MechWarriors. The letters stood for "Combat Loss Groupings," and it referred to the fact that in 'Mech combat, 'Mechs of a single unit often received critical levels of damage at about the same time. For example, a twelve-Mech company might get into a firelight and battle for an eternity, in combat terms—as much as three or four minutes—and while they would take hits, none would appear seriously damaged.

Then, several more minutes into the battle, a 'Mech would be knocked out of action. Almost immediately, another would be lost, then one or two more. Within the space of thirty seconds, half the combat strength of the company would be gone. This was because it took a set space of time for even light 'Mechs to accumulate enough damage to threaten them, and it was likely that several 'Mechs in the unit would be brought to the same point in about the same time. Further, once some 'Mechs had been lost to one side, the enemy could concentrate more weapons on fewer targets, accelerating the rate of damage among the survivors. Grayson had heard one story of a company entering combat, fighting valiantly for five minutes without losses, then falling apart within thirty seconds. There had been, he'd heard, only three surviving 'Mechs in that company.

Mech Warrior commanders knew about CLG and tried to keep close tabs on the damage sustained by their people's machines. A good commander was one who realized when a particular battle became hopeless and withdrew beforeCLG began taking its toll.

In this battle, CLG was already working against Grayson's force, and there was not a thing he could do about it. Two of the team's 'Mechs—McCall's and Clay's—were so badly damaged that only a few more hits apiece would knock them out completely. Once they were gone, the odds of 16 to 13 would drop to something closer to 8 to 5. Grayson's own Marauderwould not take many more hits, and the enemy was certain to concentrate their fire on the mercenary leader. How long would it be before 8 to 5 became 2 to 1? Or 3 to 1?

Yet, these crucial numbers said nothing of what was burning within Grayson's mind.

He was going to die. He knew it with a calm certainty that would have belied the numbers and odds even if it were the Gray Death outnumbering the Marik forces by almost 2 to 1.

The enemy 'Mechs were splashing across the broad, shallow Vermillion River now, as hovercraft whined across farther upriver. There were Marik troops upriver, too, watching, Grayson knew, for a repetition of the CSF in the water. That was all right, because he had not expected that trick to work twice.

In fact, Grayson was all out of tricks. There was nothing left but a last, forlorn charge.

"Range, 500 meters," he said. "Up weapons! Prepare to attack!"

He wondered if anyone would follow the order to charge. There had been so much grumbling when he'd held his final briefing an hour before, and there were dark looks on some faces, questioning or confused or simply scared expression among others. Was this the final measure of a combat commander's skill, whether or not his troops would follow when he gave an order that amounted to suicide?

He checked his rear screens. The line of vehicles winding down from the cache continued to move, fat and vulnerable. The DropShips remained on the plain five kilometers away, hatches open, taking the treasure aboard. As yet, there had been no word from King, no white flare over the mountain to indicate that he had come through safely with the library memory core. Where was he? The Star League 'Mechs be damned . . . wherewas King?

The Marik BattleMechs opened fire. Explosions gey-sered up in the wet ground, and a long, ragged line of missile trails arced swiftly overhead. Grayson wondered what would happen if he gave the order, and no one followed? For one thing, Lori might live, which he so desperately wanted.

There was no chance that the Marik forces might take prisoners, not while they believed the Gray Death was responsible for the massacre at Tiantan.

There was no way out. The Gray Death Legion would end . . . here.

Grayson opened the general command frequency again. "Forward!"

He engaged his Marauder'sdrives, and the damaged machine lurched forward, its primary pusher links rattling in their casings, charred circuit wiring dangling from a gaping hole high on its starboard flank.