The Price of Glory

"You have a report, Rachan," Garth said. The words were a statement, not a question. Rachan had never approached Garth simply to talk, for which Garth was profoundly grateful.

"The mercenary Dropships are preparing to launch. Your Grace," Rachan said, without preamble. "My agents report that all is ready at Tiantan."

Garth nodded, his chins wobbling with the motion. "Very well. I will come up." He managed a weak grin. "This should be something to watch, eh?"

"Indeed," Rachan said not returning the Duke's forced smile.

By the time the Duke and his staff arrived in the large, richly ornamented lounge of the Gladius,the Deimos,one of the two Legion Dropships, had already boosted. Smoke still hung heavy in the cold air above the ferro-crete launch pad in the distance. Still remaining was the DropShip Phobos,a solitary, silver-grey sphere flood-lit by batteries of port arc lights, and with wreaths of vapor steaming from exhaust ports and vents. The skull emblem of the Gray Death Legion was distinct under the glare of one of the port lights.

One of Garth's officers looked up as his lord entered the room. He stood, bowing, "Your Grace. The second merc ship is in the final seconds of its countdown."

Garth nodded and strode toward the broad viewing port. An intolerably brilliant blur of light appeared at the base of the Legion DropShip. Smoke, white-lit by the growing torrent of fusion sun at the DropShip's base, billowed from the launch pit's vents. Seconds later, the Shockwave struck the Gladius,rattling faintly through from the armor of the outer hull. Balanced on flame, the Phobosclimbed, slowly at first, then faster and faster into the night.

Garth sensed a presence at his side.

"It is time, Your Grace," Rachan said.

Garth nodded, his forefinger probing nervously at the Marik house crest tattooed on his forehead.

"Yes . . . yes. Very well. Captain Ta

An aide stepped forth. He wore a comset across his ears, its lights eerie in the dazzled darkness after the Phobos'sminiature sunrise.

"Yes, Your Grace!"

"Now."

"As you will, Your Grace!" The aide saluted, then touched his headset, murmuring into the slender mike wire suspended before his lips. The Duke and Rachan turned to another part of the viewport, where they could see the domes of Tiantan on the horizon beyond the star-port.

"The city is fifty kilometers away," Garth said, more to himself than to anyone else in the lounge. "That should be . . ."

A point of blinding, blue-white brilliance appeared against the nearest of the Tiantan domes. The flare was joined by another against a farther dome, then another, then two more. Each fireball wavered in the convection currents generated by its own heat, then expanded, with shocking speed.

The ducal party watched, silent, transfixed by the sight. The interior of the lounge was frosted in blue light, then suddenly plunged into orange and crimson as fireballs erupted from the domes exploding into the night sky.

The thunderclap roar reached the spaceport moments later, setting the DropShip's hull to rattling even harder than had the much nearer shock of the Phobos'slaunch. The explosions went on and on, as new sequestered stores of oxygen-rich air spilled into the hydrogen of Sirius V's atmosphere and ignited. Fires raged. No fire burned for long in the Sirian atmosphere, but so long as oxygen from the ruptured city domes lasted, isolated fires raged in blast furnace infernos. Smoke piled mountain upon billowing mountain into the heavens, red-lit and angry.

Finally, the explosions had all died away. What remained of the domes were charred, broken eggshell fragments and rubble. There were also five short-lived and volcanic funeral pyres, glowing white-hot.

Rachan turned to Lord Garth. "There will be survivors, Your Grace . . . mostly in underground chambers and in work areas and outposts in the surrounding region. I suggest that your people move quickly to place the new insignias on this DropShip."

"The orders have already been given," the Duke replied softly. Who was this man whose mind could encompass such plans within plans?

"Excellent. One UnionClass DropShip looks very much like another, but the panels your artificers created should prove most convincing."

"Yes."

"I would also unleash your 'Mechs, Your Grace. The . . . shall we say . . . the final, finishing touch to our little drama. If there are any survivors in the area, by morning, they will be convinced that this was the work of the Gray Death."

"Yes."

There was a grinding rumble from somewhere far below decks as 'Mech bay doors slid open. A moment later, a heavy Marauderin a gray- and black-mottled camouflage scheme similar to that used on Grayson Carlyle's own Marauderduring the past two weeks strode out across the spaceport. It was followed by a Shadow Hawk,a Wolverine,and a Rifleman.

"Of course," Rachan added, smiling, "by morning, there may not be any survivors to care!"

4

The JumpShip Invidiousbegan the maneuvers that would furl its sail. Two kilometers across and ebony-black to collect every photon for the starship's fusion-powered converters, the sail was nearly invisible save where it blotted out the stars and the searing, actinic brilliance that was Sirius.

Captain Renfred Tor had begun the process by cutting the plasma thrust station-keepers and maneuvering the kilometer-long needle of his ship stern-first into the sail's thrust eye, the circular opening through which the Invidiousdirected the magnetically boosted plasma that held her in place at the local jump point against the gravitational pull of the star. Sirius's jump points were almost 67 AU out, but the star's gravitational field, though weakened by distance, was still very much in evidence.

Grayson hung weightless on the Invidious'sbridge, watching Tor direct the operation. Sweat beaded on Tor's forehead, or floated free as tiny, glittering planetesimals. A mistake in calculation or execution, and the extremely valuable jump sail could be damaged, or worse, irretrievably lost. With consummate skill, Tor brought the Invidiousgently to rest with her tail spearing through the light sail's thrust eye.

"Green," Tor said into the microphone that projected from his earpiece to a point just in front of his mouth. "Lock and furl. All departments, commence jump preparations."

Captain Tor looked up across the plot table at Grayson. "Are you sure about this, Colonel?"

Grayson studied again the network of colored lights floating in the holographic projection well of the chart tank beneath the transparent surface of the table. The stars of near space were plotted there, each in its proper position relative to the others, each with its identifying name and grid reference. Two lines, one green, one red, zigzagged through three-dimensional angles. Each began at the white gleam identified as Sirius, but the two pathways diverged. One angled sharply down toward the familiar G2 system of Graham. The other stretched upward toward the point marking Pollux.

"We're technically violating our contract if we disobey Duke Irian's orders."

"I know, Ren," Grayson said, uneasy. "But there's something just not right about this." His suspicions had first been aroused when their relief on Sirius V had turned out to be, not Jake Hawkings's 15th, as promised, but Duke Irian himself and his personal guard. Not that there was anything wrongthere, but . . .