"Roget!" Grayson yelled into his mike. "Get your people off that crest!"

"I can't!" Her reply was faint over the searing hiss of static. Her antennae or her transmitter, or both, had been damaged. He could barely hear her over the roar. "I can't leave Sylvie!"

Sylvia Trevor must have still been up there trying to get her 'Mech functional. Missiles were raining onto the ridge now from at least a dozen launchers. The Marik infantry must have trained shoulder-launched missiles on the recon lance's position as well as five BattleMechs. Implosions tortured the landscape as mortar fire began drapping from the sky.

Grayson was halfway up the hill when a Marik Centurionrose to face him, battle scars carved gruesomely across its torso. He recognized the machine that he had exchanged fire with earlier in this longest of days, and triggered a burst of PPC fire at it.

It skipped aside as he fired, unleashing its own laser and autocannon salvoes at the same time. Tracking quickly, Grayson snap-fired a laser at the lighter machine, then pushed ahead. He didn't have the time now to exchange shots with a suicidal Centurionpilot.

More shots were slamming home into Grayson's Marauder.Blue electric discharges danced and snapped from his Marauder'shull into the ground as his instruments went wild under the momentary surge of an electrical overload. Another PPC bolt struck him from behind. He heard a grating crash from behind his head as a chunk of his rear armor was torn away. Lights flashed on his console, warning of damage to his electrical system and the loss of two of his heat sinks.

This was damage he couldn't ignore. He pivoted his Marauderon the hillside. The enemy's Warhammerstood fifty meters downslope, stepping from behind a boulder. In a flash, he realized that the Centurionmust have been bait, that the Marik had expected him to engage the Centurionin order to destroy the machine he had damaged earlier. In doing so, he would have exposed himself to a crippling, close-range attack from the rear. His decision to move on had upset the Marik pilots' timing, but they had gone ahead and sprung their attack anyway.

Though the Warhammerwas still at long range, Grayson fired on it, more to discourage it from coming closer than in hopes of damaging it. Then, closing his eyes to better sense the input from the neurohelmet through his middle ears, he leaned the 'Mech into a spinning turn, ducking as he moved. PPC charges flared brightly overhead. Three quick steps and he had closed the range on the Centurionto thirty meters and brought the enemy machine between his Marauderand the distant Warhammer.He discharged his own PPCs then, one after another. Great, flaming holes opened up in the Centurion'storso armor. A strike in the left torso must have landed squarely in the Centurion'sammunition stores of 5 cm SRMs, because the first flash of light from Grayson's PPC shot was followed by a much brighter flash of exploding ordnance . . . and then another . . . and another . . . and another. Rockets arced skyward on aimlessly twisting trails of white smoke. A final explosion gutted the Centurion'storso, blasting away huge chunks of armor and leaving the machine's hull a flaming skeleton, an empty framework of struts and half-glimpsed masses of machinery behind the remaining fragments of armor plate. For an instant, Grayson held an image, burned into his brain, of the Centurion'spilot smashing wildly against the inside of the plastic transparency of his cockpit. Then another explosion sent a gout of flame hurtling into the air, fragmenting the cockpit into tiny, glittering slivers as it burned a gaping hole between the 'Mech's shoulders. Burning wildly, the 'Mech fell forward to the ground, its fall marked by a dense contrail of black smoke.

The pillar of smoke boiling from the wrecked Centurionformed a screen almost at once. Turning his back on the enemy Warhammer,Grayson resume his race up the slope.

There he found disaster.

Trevor's Wasplay sprawled on the ground, its left leg still missing, its head crumpled as though by a multi-ton swing of an armored BattleMech foot. Vandergriff's Commandohad exploded. Nothing remained but scattered limbs and a hull as torn and gutted as the Centurionjust dispatched by Grayson. Francine Roget had her Pantherfifty meters further along the slope, firing gamely at the 'Mechs that were closing in on her. Through the smoke, Grayson could make out the monstrous forms of the damaged Thunderboltand Wolverine,as well as three smaller 'Mechs. Roget scored hit after hit on the advancing army until the Thunderboltreached her position and raised one massive, black fist.

Grayson heard Francine's scream over the taccom line as the fist descended.

BOOK II

13

For Grayson, the retreat from Cleft Valley was a nightmare of pain, loss, and the knowledge of total defeat. Not since the night of his father's death in a Kurita surprise attack had he known such desolation.

The BattleMechs of the Legion's command and fire lances, the 'Mechs that had had warning, were able to regroup below the western ridge. The Marik 'Mechs had come thundering toward them from three sides to meet the unerring fire of the now thoroughly aroused mercenaries. Twice they had charged, and twice their charge faltered under that hail of laser, PPC, and missile fire. With several of their 'Mechs limping or showing blast-cratered scars and metal wounds leaking smoke, the Marik forces drew back to the valley where the Drop-Ships maintained silent vigil.

In that respite, Grayson got his troops away.

The infantry went first, with the seriously wounded crowded aboard a trio of cargo skimmers, and the rest walking or piled onto the turtle backs of a small menagerie of scout cars, hovercraft weapons carriers, and APCs. The fire lance moved with the column, providing cover from enemy infantry or AeroSpace Fighter raids. The command lance remained in place, a rear-guard against further Marik treachery.

No more came, however. It seemed that the Marik forces—Graff and Colonel Langsdorf included—were content to allow the Gray Death to escape. At least for now.

The problem was that the Gray Death Legion was in serious trouble. All of their reserve 'Mechs, and much of their infantry equipment and heavy weapons, had been aboard the two DropShips. At least three-quarters of the Techs who had returned with the Legion from Sirius V, all of the ship's personnel, both ships' doctors, and most of the regiment's logistical personnel had been captured. Even the regimental cooks had been taken.

Nor did the Legion have any food beyond a few days' worth of emergency rations aboard various 'Mechs or vehicles. It was certainly not enough to feed the survivors for more than a short time. There were both wild and domestic animals on Helm, but it would take time to find them, to hunt or gather and slaughter them. The meat would have to be processed, a way found to preserve it. Salt? Was there salt? Salt for preserving meat could be found along the shores of the dry sea bottom some fifty kilometers to the south, but ways would have to be found to separate sodium chloride from the various other salt compounds that encrusted the rocks along the long-dead beaches there.

And water. What would the survivors use for water? There were springs up in the hills, and the Araga River wound its way through the wooded valley where most of the Legion's survivors were already encamped. Grayson knew that an encampment of hundreds of people uses huge volumes of water, and can easily ruin what it does not use through poor waste management or hygiene. Water was not a serious problem, at this point, but it was another worry in a growing list of them. The water in the tanks aboard the Deimosand the Phoboswould have lasted for months, and the recyclers continuously produced more from wastes and the moisture in the air.