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 Mailai 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 Mailai 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 Mailai 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 Mailai's newly-painted crest on the ship's curved hull plates, and at the computer-coded twitter off 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 Hawkbegan 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.

3

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.

Vibroblades are horribly efficient for close-in fighting. Power from the backpack is transformed to ultrasonics that vibrate the paracarballoy blade faster than the eye can see. In seconds, friction turns the vibrating blade white-hot, able to slice tempered steel as though it were butter.

The officer fumbled at his holster for the pistol, but collided with the console at his back before he could free the gun and bring it up. The Troll's humming blade slashed out and down, shearing through gunmetal, flesh, and bone. The officer shrieked, clenched bloodied fingers to his chest then stumbled backward into the console again. The traitor advanced, the vibroblade slashing out and down once more to brutally silence a final shriek.

The traitor switched off the vibroblade, looped its power feed, and tucked the weapon into an insulated belt scabbard, careful not to touch the hot blade. With rapid and precise movements, he examined the instrument console, finding at last a single white button, which he stabbed down and held. From far off and above came the hollow grinding of machinery. Across the Repair Bay, on the other side of the beached-whale shape of the disabled 'Mech, the metal wall began to rumble open, splitting along a rivet-pocked seam. On the console, a red warning light flashed on and off, and a woman's voice began from somewhere, "Warning. Warning. Security breach in Repair Bay. Exterior wall now open. Warning..."

Sand whirled through the wall opening, blown in by a chill, sub-zero wind. The traitor narrowed his eyes, detecting a flicker of movement outside, then gliding shapes among the shadows. He released the switch, stepped across the gore-splattered body of the watch officer, and clattered his way down the steps to the main deck.

The Tech who had been at work on the 'Mech below was running for the main passageway when something caught him in the small of the back, lifted him, and hurled him sprawling against the wall. Then, one of the astechs on the ‘Mech's chest screamed and toppled five meters to the deck, while the other tried to scramble to safety behind an open access plate. Next came the sharp hiss of silenced gunfire, the jarring concussion of a hurled grenade. A scream rose up from somewhere, but was mercifully cut short by a second blast and the chattered hiss of sound-suppressed auto fire.

By now, men in neat gray and blue uniforms had burst through a door at the far end of the Repair Bay, guns yammering. One black-garbed attacker lurched backward as another hurled something that bobbed across the deck. There followed a flash and a stunning blow that whipped the traitor's coveralls against his legs. The next moment, those neat gray uniforms ceased to exist, save as bloodied shreds and tatters.

The Trell stepped off the ladder and felt the blade at his throat before he sensed the man behind it. "Hunter!" he choked out "Hunter!" The attacker's grip loosened.

"You're Stefan?" The voice was curiously level.

The Trell nodded, rubbing at his throat. Squads of attackers dressed in close-fitting black garb raced past. One of them stopped before Stefan, his face totally obscured by featureless black plastic, a silenced submachine gun in his gloved fist The black canvas bag across his back bulged with menace.

"You're the traitor?"

The Trell nodded again, uncertainly. The attacker's accent was foreign and hard to follow, his manner unexpectedly harsh.