William H. Keith Jr - Decision at Thunder Rift

Note: I've placed the Glossary at the front of the e-book so those who

haven't read the incredibly popular and well written novels that helped create

a game. You don't have to know anything about the game other than in the

future wars are fought primarily by a single "Knight" who is encased in his 30

meter "armor". The Armor is called a BattleMech or simply a 'Mech and is

studded with all sorts of evil and nasty weapons mostly built to fight other

'Mechs. Smaller 'Mechs such as a Wasp or Stinger don't have heavy armor

plating or other heavy weapons and use their speed for defense.

This book, Decision at Thunder Rift, was the first novel to be set in

the BattleMech world. It was written in 1986 by one of the most gifted

writers for this genre, William H. Keith, Jr.. Mr. Keith has since gone on to

write some of the best "game set" novels and has a way of breathing life into

a premade game such as BattleMech. There are two more novels in the series

that deal with the building of a 'Mech Legion from the ground up after being

betrayed.

A second trilogy I'll be scanning in is one by Michael Stackpole,

another gifted author. After reading his series it really brings to life the

human characters that inhabit the future and the Kings, Queens, Dictators, and

Lords who all want to rule all of known space.

So this is the first book of the Succession Wars and the horrors of the

people caught in the middle.

GLOSSARY

Autocannon: A rapid-firing, auto-loading cannon mounted on some 'Mechs

and weapons carriers. Light vehicle autocannon have calibers ranging from 30

to 90 mm, while heavy 'Mech autocannon may be 80 to 120 mm or more. The weapon

fires high-explosive or armor-piercing shells. Because of the limitations of

'Mech targeting technology, its range is limited to less than 600 meters.

Company: A tactical military unit consisting of three BattleMech

Lances or, for infantry, three platoons with a total of SO to 100 men.

Infantry companies are generally commanded by a captain.

Crawler: A tracked, military vehicle. Various designs carry troops,

cargo, or weapons.

Crusader: A heavy BattleMech, weighing 65 tons, with a top speed of 65

kph. It is heavily armed even for a 'Mech, mounting a laser, a heavy machine

gun, and massed LRM batteries in each arm, and six SRM launch tubes on each

leg. ECM: Short for "Electronic Countermeasures", this is broadcast

interference to disrupt enemy radar, radio, or other electronic equipment.

Hovercraft: A vehicle that travels several centimeters above the

ground on a cushion of air created by large fans inside a rubber or light

metal-skirted plenum chamber. Hovercraft may be designed as scouts,

transports, or weapon carriers. They are fast, highly maneuverable, and can

travel over land or water, but are hampered by rough or broken terrain. They

are also called skimmers or GEVs (Ground Effect Vehicles).

HVT: Hovercraft Transports are a military hovercraft used to carry

personnel or cargo.

HVWC: The Hovercraft Weapons Carrier is a military hovercraft, smaller

than a transport, mounting a missile battery, PPC, or other heavy weapon.

IFF: Short for "Identification Friend or Foe," this is a system of

signals from an on-board transponder that can be detected and used to identify

the vehicle, especially in combat.

Inferno: A special, shoulder-launched missile designed as an

anti-'Mech weapon. It explodes several meters from the launch tube, spraying

the target with white phosphorus or a similar flammable compound in a jelly

base. Infernos are not carried aboard 'Mechs because of their flammability.

IR: Infrared is light at wavelengths too long to be seen by the human

eye. Infrared radiation is emitted by heat sources such as running engines or

living bodies, and can be detected by equipment designed for use in the dark.

Lance: A BattleMech tactical combat group, usually consisting of four

'Mechs.

Laser: An acronym for "Light Amplification through Stimulated Emission

of Radiation." As a weapon, it damages the target by concentrating extreme

heat on a small area. BattleMech lasers are designated as small, medium, and

large. Lasers are also available as shoulder-fired weapons operating from a

portable backpack power unit. Certain range finders and targeting equipment

employ low-level lasers as well.

Locust: A light, non-humanoid scout BattleMech designed for extreme

speed and maneuverability. Weighing 20 tons, it has a top running speed of 130

kph. It is armed with one medium laser and a pair of heavy machine guns.

LRM: Abbreviation for "Long-Range Missiles," indirect-fire missiles

with high-explosive warheads. They have a maximum extreme range of several

kilometers, but are accurate only between about 150 and 700 meters.

Marauder: A heavy, non-humanoid assault BattleMech, weighing 75 tons,

with a top speed of 65 kph. It is heavily armed, mounting a heavy PPC and a

medium laser in each arm, and a 120 mm autocannon over its back. Marauders are

extremely well-armored and difficult to knock out, particularly favored for

the psychological advantage conveyed by their fearsome appearance.

PBI: Short for "Poor Bloody Infantry," this is BattleMech slang for

non-'Mech troops.

Phoenix Hawk: A medium BattleMech weighing 45 tons, with a top speed

of 100 kph. It mounts one medium laser and a heavy machine gun integral to

each arm, and carries a heavy laser in an arm rifle mount. It is a

particularly useful blend of speed and maneuverability in BattleMech combat.

Platoon: A tactical military unit typically consisting of 50 to 60

men, commanded by a lieutenant or a platoon sergeant. A platoon may be divided

into two sections.

PPC: Short for "Particle Projection Cannon," a magnetic accelerator

firing high-energy proton or ion bolts, causing damage both through impact and

high temperature. They are among the most effective weapons available to

BattleMechs. Though they have a theoretical range limited only by

line-of-sight considerations, the technology available for focusing and aiming

the bolt limits effective range to less than 600 meters.

Regiment: A military unit consisting of two to four battalions, each

consisting of three or four companies. A regiment is commanded by a colonel.

Rifleman: A medium BattleMech weighing 60 tons, with a top speed of 65

kph. It mounts one autocannon and a heavy laser in a twin-barrel assembly on

each arm, and a pair of lasers in the torso.

Shadow Hawk: A medium BattleMech weighing 55 tons, with a top speed of

85 to 90 kph. It mounts a medium laser on its right arm, five LRM launchers in

its torso, a pair of SRM launch tubes on either side of its head, and a

backpack-mounted, over-the-shoulder, large-caliber autocannon.

SRM: Abbreviation for "Short-Range Missiles", direct-trajectory

missiles with high-explosive or armor-piercing explosive warheads. They have a

range of less than one kilometer, and are accurate only at ranges of less than

300 meters. They are more powerful, however, than LRMs.

Stinger: A light scout BattleMech, the Stinger weighs 20 tons, with a

top running speed of 100 kph. It is armed with one medium laser and two heavy

machine guns.

T.O. & E: Abbreviation for "Table of Organization and Equipment," the

breakdown of a unit's personnel, order of battle, and equipment, including

vehicles and weapons.

UV: Ultraviolet light is radiation at wavelengths too short to be seen

by the eye. Special scanning equipment can see by UV light.

Wasp: A light scout BattleMech, weighing 20 tons, with a top running

speed of 100 kph. The Wasp is armed with one medium laser and a pair of SRM

launch racks.

Wolverine: A medium BattleMech weighing 55 tons, with a top speed of

85 kph. It mounts a heavy-caliber autocannon in its right arm, and six SRM

tubes in its torso. High on its chest, just below the head, is a ball turret

mounting a medium laser.

PROLOGUE

Ten thousand years of organized warfare have culminated in that

fabrication of arms and armor, mobility and strength called the BattleMech.

Standing ten to twelve meters tall, the typical 'Mech is vaguely

humanoid, an armored giant of myth and legend come to life. The lightest weigh

20 tons, the heaviest 75 or more, and even the smallest 'Mech bristles with

lasers, particle cannons, long- and short-range missile launchers, autocannon,

or machine-guns. A 'Mech is striding, thundering death for any unarmored army

crazy enough to stand and fight, and a formidable foe even for heavily-armored

conventional units.

Traditional military tactical thought holds that the best way to fight

a 'Mech is to send in another 'Mech, preferably one bigger, stronger, and more

heavily armored. When matched, the monster machines can pound away at one

another for hours, each waiting for that one fatal mistake by his opponent.

Each waiting for that inevitable, critical failure of nerve or machine, that

instant's lapse in guard or tactics that will leave the way open for a fatal

strike.

This same kind of military balance exists between the five major

Houses of the Successor States of the early 31st century as they war among

themselves for control of known space. On one side is the Capellan

Confederation of House Liao, the Free Worlds League of House Marik, and the

Draconis Combine of House Kurita. Against them stands the uneasy alliance of

House Davion's Federated Suns and the Lyran Commonwealth of House Steiner.

Around these giants also swarm lesser houses, powers, alliances, merchants,

fronts, and out-and-out bandits, whom the Successor Lords try to woo, bribe,

or force to assist them when they can.

And yet, after centuries of warfare, no clear gains have ,been made by

any single House, no fatal flaw uncovered. War continues, with the giants

struggling among the ruins of what once had been a proud, galactic

civilization. Like well-matched BattleMechs, the forces seemed too evenly

balanced for any one to gain that vital, decisive edge.

But the powers behind the war understood a maxim of war as old as war

itself. What cannot be won by force of arms can often be achieved through

cunning, deceit, or by a concealed blade slipped into an enemy's back.

-Nicolai Aristobulus Terror's Balance: A History of the Succession

Wars

BOOK I

The traitor slid out from under the tangle of cables and hard-wired

circuit boards, wiping grease-stained fingers across the front of his

coveralls. The watch officer behind the console above him frowned. "Aren't you

done in there yet?"

"It's a peripheral circuit, boss," the traitor said. "I can't get it

from here. I'll have to check the cameras down in the Repair Bay." He reached

back into the circuitry access and flicked a row of switches from on to off

with precise deliberation. "Your monitors'll be down for a bit."

"How long?"

"Oh, not long." He began gathering his tools and stuffing them into

his canvas shoulder bag. "Fifteen minutes."

The watch officer glanced at his wristcom. "Make it fast," he said,

penning a notation on the clipboard in his hand.

"Don't worry," the other man replied. "It will be."

The traitor was an astech and a native Trell, his sharp-chiseled

features and black, curly hair typical of Trellwan's small native population,

his complexion extraordinarily pale due to the world's UV-poor sun. The

watch-station door passed the man at a touch of his fingertips to the security

scanner plate, then hissed shut at his back. As he moved down the stone-walled

passageway, the clatter of his footsteps echoed hollowly.

Cold stone steps led down and down, through deserted corridors and

past rooms guarded by grey uniformed sentries. Twice, the Trell had to show

his pass, a holographic ID pinned high on his shoulder. Other astechs passed

him in stony silence or with nodded greeting. His coveralls and heavy toolbag

were pass enough to get him through most doorways, as there were few areas in

the Castle where a native astech could not go.

The Repair Bay was part artifice and part natural cavern, a

high-vaulted room whose lingering gloom was broken by isolated pools of light.

One wall was brown-rusted and corroded with age. At the Bay's center,

crisscrossed by spotlight pools and the snaking coils of power feeds and

compressor lines, the 55-ton hulk of a partly disassembled 'Mech lay sprawled

across an elevated rack. A Tech bawled orders and gestured from the deck at a

pair of astechs working on the behemoth's chest. Wearily, they stooped above

the actinic flare of a wielding laser. Armor plates weighing half a ton apiece

dangled above in a tangled webwork of lines and scaffolding.

The traitor looked around at the four 'Mechs that were the heart and

soul of Carlyle's Commandos. Armored, ten-meter monsters, BattleMechs were all

but invincible against troops or conventional armor, so powerful that only

another 'Mech of equal or greater firepower had any chance at all of bringing

one down. The Trell smiled to himself, thinking how he had accomplished just

that with merely a forged maintenance order and fifteen minutes' work.

Disabling the Lance's Shadow Hawk had been the first part of his

two-pronged mission. He had been given explicit instructions and training, as

well as a replacement circuit board to be slipped into a 'Mech's

servo-electronics control nexus if he got the chance. He'd found that chance,

and the board had crippled every power feed in the 'Mech's leg servo-actuator

series before melting itself into an anonymous lump of slag, all traces of

sabotage erased. Now the Lance had but three 'Mechs-the Captain's Phoenix Hawk

and the two 20-ton Wasps. Without the Shadow Hawk's particular balance of

heavy firepower and maneuverability, the garrison would be crippled if it

found itself in an all-out fight.

The Trell clutched his tool bag tighter under his arm, and hurried

past to the rattletrap metal steps that led in dizzying zigzags to the Bay

Control Center, a windowed booth suspended from the back wall fifteen meters

above the stone floor.

The Repair Bay Officer of the Watch looked up from the glow of a

monitor, lowered his feet from the console, and set his mug of chava aside.

"Yes?"

"Maintenance, sir," said the small, dark man, turning his shoulder so

that the officer could see his astech's card without rising from his chair.

"They sent me down from Central Control to find a fault in the security camera

circuitry. I think it's a bad line in here somewhere."

The officer nodded. "Damn junk," he said. "Like everything else on

this sand-rotten ..." Realizing too late that he was talking to a Trell, he

bit off whatever else he'd been about to say and pointed at a row of dead

monitors, "Access is back here," he said, then propped his feet back up and

returned to the single live monitor on the console. The traitor glanced over

the officer's shoulder, and noted that the monitor showed the spaceport, empty

ferrocrete broken by overlapping patches of shadow and light under a chill,

starry sky.

So they weren't down yet. He glanced at his wristcomp silently

counting out the minutes and seconds that remained, and began laying out his

tools. It wouldn't be long now.

Grayson Death Carlyle had long ago given up being sensitive about his

grim middle name. He'd inherited it, so to speak, from an ancestor, Lord

Grayson Death Thomas. Lord Grayson, it was said, had changed the pronunciation

of his middle name's vowel from a long to short "e" after he became the Victor

of Lysander and a landholder so powerful no one dared care how he pronounced

his name. In a warriors' society that revelled in the deeds and exploits of

heroes, the younger Grayson's name drew little more than occasional wry

heckling from the other members of his father's Lance.

As soon as he stepped from the electric runabout that had brought him

back to the Castle, Grayson knew he was in trouble. Shedding his cold-weather

gear, he dropped it into the arms of a waiting Trell orderly who said

nervously, "The Weapons Master's been looking for you, sir."

Grayson glanced at his wristcomp and winced at the time. "Yes, I

expect he has."

"He seemed a bit upset," the orderly went on, sounding like someone

who feared being caught any minute near ground zero of a long-expected blast.

Grayson shrugged, then turned to the electric heater the Vehicle Bay

watchstanders had rigged to take the edge off the bitter air that came in

whenever the Bay's outer doors were opened. Amid the grime-smeared walls of

the arena-sized hall, about 20 other House troopers were about, either

standing in the heater's glow, lounging with books, or playing card games.

Grayson rubbed his numbed hands briskly to restore circulation. It was a

typical Secondnight, 20° below, with a low-keening wind that plunged the

wind-chill to -40° Centigrade or worse. Sergeant Griffith's reprimand was

going to be worse than the cold, he decided, but the memory of Mara's

caresses, the lingering warmth of her kisses, made up for it all.

A voice broke into his thoughts. "So! Master Death has deigned to join

us." "Hello, Griff," he said amicably. "Sorry I'm late."

The shadow resolved itself into the unit's Warrant Weapons Master,

Sergeant Kai Griffith. The harsh overhead lights gleamed from his hairless

scalp and seemed to highlight the savage blue scar that twisted down his jaw

close to his right ear.

" 'Sorry,' the boy says! 'Sorry!' " Griffith's face, with its drooping

mustache, wore a studied sneer. "What I want to know is wherein the bloody

blue hell have you been?"

To mask his anger at being called "boy," Grayson continued to smile,

but his voice was chill. "With friends," he said, thinking that someday

Griffith would go too far.

" 'Friends!' Off-base again, then. Seeing that Trell girl, I suppose?"

"Aw, Griff . . ."

"Don't give me that! You were scheduled for weapons practice four

hours ago, and you're supposed to be in the Command Center observing right

this minute. What the hell are you playing at, boy?"

Grayson touched fingertips to his shock of pale blond hair in mock

salute. "Reprimand received, Sergeant Griffith."

"Your father'll receive it too, son." The bald head moved slowly from

side to side, the scar rippling as jaw muscles clenched. "I can't perform my

duty if you persist in ignoring yours."

Grayson turned from the heater and started up the ramp toward the

Castle's main central passageway. "Look, Griff, I figured this might be my

last chance to see her. We're pulling out in three days ..."

The bald sergeant fell into step beside him. "We'll pull out if these

negotiations come off. Until then, you'll attend your duty, Mister, or I'll

know the reason why!"

Grayson scowled. He was now 20 standard years old, and the Weapons

Master had been his personal instructor in the military arts since he'd

formally joined the Lance as a warrior apprentice at ten. The older he got,

the less he appreciated Kai Griffith's sharp tongue or his interference in his

private life. After all, Grayson wasn't a child any longer, and was both son

and heir to a Mech Warrior. The Weapons Master would not order his life

forever.

"I'll attend to my duty," Grayson retorted, "but my private life is my

own!"

"Still playing the loner, Master Carlyle? That attitude is going to

buy you a world of trouble before you end your apprenticeship. Look, can't you

get it through your skull that the damned Trells aren't our friends?"

"This one is. C'mon! I just wanted to say goodbye!"

Griffith shook his head disapprovingly. ' 'The daughter of old Stannic

himself, no less!"

"What has that got to do with anything?" Grayson broke in. It was true

Mara was the daughter of Trellwan's chief minister, but so what?

"You keep sneaking off to play with your girl in town, and you're

going to end up dead!"

Remembering a fragment of the evening's fun, Gray-son only smiled and

shrugged. Kai Griffith shared the prejudice of most old-time garrison soldiers

against the local civilians they were supposed to protect. He would never

understand.

They paused at a massive steel door set into a wall of rough-cut

stone, guarded by a gray-uniformed trooper holding his submachine gun at a

stiff port arms. The door was decorated with the design of a clenched, mailed

fist against a sky-blue background. Griffith shook his head resignedly,

knowing the stubbornness of this boy staring at him with pale gray eyes.

"We haven't finished with this, Master Carlyle. You're being trained

to con a BattleMech someday, to be a Mech Warrior of Carlyle's Commandos. But

warriors have to learn a damn sight more than how to pilot a walking metal

mountain. Get me?"

Grayson had heard the lecture and all its variations before-about

discipline and dedication to the unit and working as a part of a team. He made

himself look attentive as he stifled an insistent yawn. There hadn't been much

sleep for him during the past rest period.

Griffith finally stopped when he realized Grayson was simply tuning

him out. "C'mon, son," he said, gesturing at the door. "Let's get in there and

watch the reception."

The Combat Command Center was a bare-walled room lined with consoles

and carpeted with enough power-feeds and cables to make footing hazardous.

Clusters of gray-uniformed men stood or lounged here and there, some talking

quietly over cups of dew or hot chava, others studying the pale flicker of

monitor screens or the eerie green glow of radar trackers. From somewhere

overhead, a woman's amplified voice announced, "Mai-lai DropShip now entering

atmosphere. Her captain confirms presence of the Oberon representatives on

board. Estimate time to grounding at eleven minutes."

Two men sat at one near console. One was a dark-eyed Senior Tech in

official gray-and-blue coveralls and the other a slight, swarthy-skinned man

wearing a high-collared, richly worked civilian tunic. Beside them stood

another civilian, silver-haired and erect, a silver-chased quarter cloak

fashionable on the Inner Worlds draped across his left shoulder.

The dark-haired civilian looked up sharply at Grayson. Though his eyes

were angry, he said nothing. Grayson knew Nikolai Aristobulus was keeping his

reprimand silent only because of the outsider standing behind him.

"Hello, An," Grayson said, as though he neither saw nor felt his

tutor's disapproval.

"Master Carlyle," Ari replied stiffly, with only the slightest

inclination of his dark head. "You're late."

"What's Carlyle's boy doing here?" the silver-haired civilian asked,

turning toward Griffith. "These negotiations are extremely delicate."

It was Ari who replied. "He is here at my request, my Lord, and at the

direct order of Captain Carlyle."

"Indeed? And since when does a battlelance tutor set staff policy?"

"When he is charged with training the CO's successor ... my Lord."

Ari's hostility was barely restrained. "The boy may have to handle this

someday."

"Let him stay, my Lord," Griffith interjected, nodding toward the

monitor. "That trader DropShip's almost in."

Lord Olin Vogel scowled, then moved away to another monitor console,

trailing his ruffled dignity. Behind Vogel's back, Griffith made a face at

Ari. Seated at the communications console next to the tutor, Chief Tech

Riviera could not conceal his own grin.

Grayson was completely uninterested in politics, but found

Representative Vogel's presence with the Lance annoying. He had arrived from

Tharkad 80-some standard days before, brimming with plans to forge an alliance

with the nearby stellar empire of a troublesome Bandit King. None of the men

or women in Carlyle's Commandos liked the stiff-necked and arrogant viscount,

and the necessary formal etiquette of dealing with Katrina Steiner's personal

emissary often failed to veil their black looks. Few in the unit agreed with

Vogel's plan for pacifying this sector.

Fortunately, that had nothing to do with Grayson. He peered across

Ari's shoulder at a console monitor. "So what's happening?"

"If you'd been here on time, you wouldn't have to ask. Your father is

at the spaceport. The Ami-LAN shuttle has entered atmosphere and should ground

in ... about ten minutes."

The monitor showed the spaceport's empty expanse of ferrocrete. The

image moved in peculiar, swaying bobs and dips caused by the lurching of the

transmitting camera, which rode on a BattleMech.

Grayson needed no explanation of the monitor scene. The camera

transmitting that ponderously shifting image was mounted on the unit's lead

BattleMech, a Phoenix Hawk, 45 tons of battle-scarred and endlessly patched

and rewired walking combat machine. And Grayson's father was at the con.

Griffith frowned at the image. "I still wish he'd been able to take

all four 'Mechs."

Riviera shrugged. "The Shadow Hawk's in the Repair Bay, and the

Captain wanted the Wasps on patrol in town, just in case." He made a slight

gesture toward Vogel still standing at a nearby console. "THAT one wasn't

going to see his plan sabotaged for anything!"

Griffith watched the government representative with narrowed eyes.

"Did we have to send both Wasps to patrol Sarghad?"

The Tech made an unpleasant face. "Who knows? The natives are none too

happy about this deal."

"I wouldn't be, either," Ari said. "The line between a legitimate

interstellar empire and a pack of bandits can be rather fine at times. The

Trells'll have to live with them when we're gone. They have a right to be

nervous about old Hendrik's . . . intentions."

The meeting this hour would seal the hard-fought pact between the

Lyran Commonwealth, which was using Carlyle's Commandos to garrison Trellwan,

and the new and blossoming empire of Hendrik, the Bandit King of Oberon VI. It

was unfortunate that the Trellwan natives had no love for Hendrik's legions,

but that did not affect the secret negotiations one single jot.

A deep voice blared from the overhead speakers. "I'm in position."

Riviera leaned forward and touched a console plate. "Riviera, private

channel. Your son's here, Captain."

Captain Durant Carlyle's voice emerged from the console's private line

speaker, and it was still uncomfortably loud in the hush that had fallen

across Combat Command.

"Oh, he is, is he? Tell him he's earned an extra five hours in the

simulator this week."

Riviera grinned as his eyes flicked back to Grayson. "Message

received, Captain."

Grayson frowned, but said nothing. It rankled that he was as subject

to discipline as any of the Lance's ground troops, but he'd learned not to

make a fuss about it. MechWarriors were, after all, the elite. They were like

modern-day knights who held the course of battles in their charge, and he was

in training to take his father's place at the con of a BattleMech one day.

THAT BattleMech, in fact-the Phoenix Hawk.

Anyway, simtime wasn't so bad, as punishments went. Grayson not only

enjoyed the simulator, he was good at it. It was the closest thing to piloting

a 'Mech in combat without actually being there. The only problem was that the

five hours would come out of his free time with Mara. But then, he'd already

said his goodbyes, hadn't he?

Funny how Mara had been so sure he wasn't going to be leaving Trellwan

after all, but she'd just have to get over him, poor kid. The next stop for

Carlyle's Commandos was the Commonwealth capital. Now THAT would be a piece of

decent duty, for a change! He'd never been to Tharkad, but the troopers who

had been were more than willing to yarn about the place. Cool and rocky the

world might be, but nightlife in the strip outside the capital's starport had

a decidedly warm reputation. He was looking forward to it.

Grayson had become very tired of Trellwan, with its endless succession

of long cycles of dark and light dragging through years so short that seasons

came and went in mere days. "Ari, my father has this pact of his pretty well

wrapped up, doesn't he? I mean . . . this means we'll be leaving Trellwan,

right?"

"This meeting'll make it official, Master Carlyle, with nothing more

to do but go through a ceremonial changing of the guard. It can't get any more

wrapped up than that."

Grayson watched the monitor image. "But could anything go wrong?"

Ari shrugged expressively. "When dealing with Periphery bandits, keep

one hand on your account files, and the other over your eyes."

"My eyes?"

White teeth flashed in Aristobulus' dark face. "So they don't rob you

blind."

"Better still, shoot the lot of 'em," Griffith said. He was obviously

and gloweringly displeased at the situation.

"That would take a lot of shooting, my muscle-massed friend. And maybe

with this treaty of Vogel's, we won't have to. Then you could spend your time

shooting Kuritists instead."

"Ah, well, there is that! You have a way of finding the bright side of

everything, Ari."

They laughed, but the Weapons Master was still troubled. Worry went

with his title and rank, of course, but the situation was tricky. Consider, as

Ari was fond of saying during his more pedantic moments, the Trell system

lying at the ragged boundaries of the Lyran Commonwealth, an isolated sentinel

against an unthinkably large and empty unknown. Inward was so-called civilized

space, the Inner Sphere, where the Commonwealth of House Steiner and four

other warring heirs to a sundered Star League jockeyed and scuffled for

fleeting advantage of arms or diplomatic position.

At their backs lay a wilderness of unknown or long-forgotten worlds,

the darkness of the void, the rabble of petty tyrants and Bandit Kings

scratching ragtag empires from the ruin of a war-shattered glory-that-was.

Hendrik III was one such bandit king, and his raids for water and

technological flotsam had savaged scores of worlds both in Lyran space and

among the other systems of the neighboring Draconis Combine. It was those

raids that had brought Carlyle's Commandos to Trellwan in the first place five

standard years before, and there'd been some sharp fights between bandit

raiders and Trellwan's garrison in the meantime.

Somehow, between raids, Hendrik had forged a tottering alliance of a

dozen Bandit Kings, an alliance that had made the man a power worthy of

recognition . . . and caution. The coalition, which was centered at Hendrik's

capital of Oberon VI, controlled the firepower and transport capacity of a

minor House. That was something mere bandits could not be trusted with.

Olin Vogel had arrived from Tharkad with a plan, a plan smoothed over

with the veneer of diplomatic tact. By treating Hendrik III as just another

Bandit King, making raid for raid and challenge for challenge, the

Commonwealth would simply get more raids and challenges, requiring more

garrisons strung along more dry and half-forgotten worlds clear across the

Commonwealth's Periphery. But treat Hendrik as a House ruler, treat him as

lord of an empire as legitimate as the Commonwealth by suggesting a mutual

defense pact with generous territorial inducements and guarantees . . . that

changed the situation, and for the better.

Vogel's maneuverings had taken the better part of two local years,

which was almost three standard months. As neither side trusted the other, a

local trading house,House Ami-LAN, had been hired to ferry the negotiators

between Trellwan and Oberon VI. Neither party was quite ready to allow

heavily-armed DropShips from the other side to ground on home territory.

Worse, Hendrik already had a treaty (or at least, a rough understanding) with

the Draconis Combine, and the Combine was at war with the Lyran Commonwealth.

Technically, this made Hendrik an enemy, though not a particularly active one.

It had taken time, and that most fleeting of human commodities-trust-but at

last a pact had been hammered out.

With the Trellwan Concord, Hendrik would become the Lyran

Commonwealth's partner and ally. It would now be Hendrik's JumpShips and 'Mech

battalions guarding the Commonwealth's peripheral worlds in this sector,

freeing up the Steiner garrisons there for duty in the Inner Sphere against

the latest maneuverings of the Draconis Combine. This would discourage further

bandit raids because the military arm of Oberon's minor empire was already

stretched to the limit.

It return, Hendrik would gain more worlds to rule, more resources to

tap. Trellwan was one of those worlds, a minor pawn in a political game played

out across light years. Trellwan's own native population was governed by a

kinglet named Jeverid, a man with fealty sworn to House Steiner and the

Commonwealth, but what of that? When worlds are traded, the wishes of

individuals do not count for much. Besides, Trellwan would still technically

belong to House Steiner. That was the agreement. The only difference was that

the outpost's 'Mechs and troopers would now be Hendrik's instead of the

Commonwealth's.

The negotiations for both sides had overcome severe obstacles to such

an agreement. In fact, the worst problem had come when word of the secret

negotiations had somehow leaked out to the Trells, who were the unsuspecting

objects of the planned transfer of power and real estate. Captain Carlyle's

staff had intended to keep the Trells ignorant of the deal until after it was

achieved. After all, nothing would change for them. One garrison Lance at the

Castle was pretty much the same as any other. But Hendrik had raided Trellwan

in the past, and the Concord might be interpreted badly by Jeverid and the

more shortsighted of his people if they got wind of it too soon.

Carlyle's advisors had been correct. When news of the impending

agreement reached the people of Sarghad, at the base of the mountain where the

Castle stood guard, city-wide riots had broken out, and the fires had turned

that hot Firstnight to day. The Lance's two light 'Mechs had been tied down

with patrol duty in the city almost constantly since.

House Security still hadn't been able to track down the source of that

leak. It boded ill for the future, and added to Sergeant Griffith's worries.

"Odd," Riviera said, as he snapped a toggle switch back and forth.

"We've lost some security cameras."

"Eh? Where?"

"Repair Bay. I'm checking." He touched his right hand fingers to his

ear, listening to the tiny implanted speaker there. "Officer of the Watch

reports Maintenance shut those cameras down a few minutes ago. Something about

a fault in the circuitry."

Griffith looked worried. "I don't like it."

"You want the Captain?" Riviera reached for the communicator panel

again.

The Sergeant glanced at the monitor, where the trails of fusion flame

left by the descending DropShip were illuminating the sky. "No, don't jostle

him. Put out a warning to all watchstations. Internal security, yellow alert."

Grayson wondered how that would help. All stations were already on

alert, watching the descent of the Bhilai DropShip.

On their monitors, they could see the DropShip's stubby hydraulic legs

unfold as panels blossomed open across its broad base. In a final gush of

light and noise, it settled to the scorch-blackened ferrocrete 500 meters from

Carlyle's position. The vessel was roughly egg-shaped and very old.

Repeated patchings and dabs of brown sealant marred its once sleek

surface, and the blue X-and-circle crest of Bhilai House was the only bright

note on a hull faded and blistered from countless lifts and groundings.

Carlyle's voice came over the commlink. "I've got its landing ID

beacon. She checks out as the Bhilai freighter."

The shakiest part of the balance of trust between the two new allies

was in allowing DropShips to land on home ground. Because the vessels of the

major houses could mount formidable armament, could carry battalions of

BattleMechs and small armies of troops and heavy combat vehicles, that trust

had not been easily forged. There were weapons trained on the grounded vessel

now, of course, the laser turrets and heavy missile batteries that ringed the

spaceport and served as the station's inner line of defense. Nevertheless, the

base defenders let out a collective sigh of relief at the sight of Mai-lai's

newly-painted crest on the ship's curved hull plates, and at the

computer-coded twitter of the ship's ID beacon. There were beam turrets

nestled in the vessel's pitted armor, but not the heavy armament of a major

House warship. It was only a freighter, aged, battered, and bearing the

representatives of House Steiner's newest ally.

Grayson and the members of the Lance staff watched as their Captain's

Phoenix Hawk began striding across the ferrocrete toward the ship that loomed

above it.

In the Repair Bay, the traitor glanced over the top of the partly

disassembled console where he worked and saw the Watch Officer with his feet

still propped up, his back toward the astech. The monitor showed the spaceport

lights, the ponderous, side-to-side motion of a heavy 'Mech lurching across

the pavement, the settling bulk of the grounding DropShip on pillars of white

light. The Trell checked his wristcomp, and watched the last few seconds

flicker away to zero.

The moment for action had come.

The traitor pulled a small, back-portable generator from his shoulder

bag. Of itself, the device was innocent enough. Astechs often carried

generators with them for tasks requiring light and power in tight spaces. He

didn't put it on because the harness had been removed, but fastened it instead

to his tool belt so that it hung free at his right hip. One end of a power

feed snapped into a bayonet socket. The feed's other end clicked home at the

base of a slender cylinder. A twist of the cylinder snapped the blade open and

locked it down.

The Trell stood slowly, his eyes on the back of the watch officer's

neck. Blade in his right hand, he groped across his body for the power switch

with his free hand.

Sensing something wrong, some motion at his back, the watch officer

half-turned, then whirled to his feet at the sight of the astech and his blade

coming at him. As the officer's chair toppled noisily, the traitor's hand

found the power switch for his lead-gray blade, and a dry hum filled the

narrow room.

William H. Keith Jr - Decision at Thunder Rift

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