"Come."

In the passageway, there were only twisted, blood-soaked bodies and the silent forms of black-garbed attackers. The one Stefan knew must be the leader gave nearly silent commands and signals to crouching groups of commandos, sending them off down branching corridors with lethal efficiency.

"Put this on." The leader handed Stefan a light-weight breathing mask from a pouch. It was even harder to see the black shadows in the pale amber tint of the mask's amplifier goggles. Blood," he saw, became a slick and lustrous black through the goggles, and the passageway took on an eerie quality in the ghostly light. "The Command Center. Lead us."

Stefan nodded. "Two levels up. This way!"

The attack was heralded by the rasp of an alarm klaxon and the shuffle of boots across bare tile.floors as squads of men raced to their positions. From above, the woman's voice continued the patient announcement, "Alert, alert. Security penetration in sectors five and six."

"I've lost the Repair Bay," Riviera said. "Commlink's dead."

Griffith's scowl deepened, twisting the scar on his face as his jaw clenched, then relaxed. "Tell the Captain. Ari, let me have your chair."

Ari stood up, and Griffith slipped into his vacant chair beside Riviera.

Grayson pulled another chair from a nearby console and pushed in next to the Weapons Master. "Griff, who is it? Why are they attacking us?"

"I don't know, lad, though my first guess is the Trells. Riviera, put the garrison on full alert. Then patch me to the patrol monitors. I want to try and raise the patrol in town."

Grayson felt a numbing confusion. Certainly, the Trells had not been happy when news of the coming treaty with Oberon had leaked out, but he found it hard to believe that it was they who were storming up from the Castle's Repair Bay. How had they broken in? Those vast, sliding doors were proof against the hammerings of an 80-ton 'Mech. Nothing short of a small tactical nuke — long forbidden by treaty and practicality — could breach them.

He fixed his eyes on the image still being transmitted from his father's Phoenix Hawk.The DropShip was so close now that it filled the entire screen with black metal, though the ranging data across the bottom of the screen indicated the ship was still 90 meters away. Then he saw a port opening near the base, spilling harsh light across the ferrocrete paving.

"Griff!" The cry was torn from Grayson's throat. A ramp had dropped from the brilliantly lit opening, and soldiers were pouring out of it. The screen flared white, and the open commlink spat static as a high-energy beam swept across the ‘Mech's antennae.

"Base!" I'm under attack!" Captain Carlyle's words were static-blasted and harsh. "Particle beam from a turret on the ship!"

The computer readout on a nearby monitor shifted and flickered, showing a sudden surge of power within the Phoenix Hawk,rapid movement, a double blast from the machine's powerful, arm-mounted lasers. The 'Mech's internal heat rose four degrees in as many seconds.

The Captain shifted, blurring screen images. It was difficult to follow what was happening on the monitors. Grayson couldn't really SEE anything but gyrating snatches of the port structures and the pulsing flash of detonations. The computer readout alongside the image monitor told more of the story to those, like Grayson, trained to read it

Carlyle's Phoenix Hawkwas a middleweight as BattleMechs go, and shared the humanoid pattern of most 'Mechs. It mounted a massive laser riflelike in its right hand. The 'Mech also mounted smaller lasers and antipersonnel machine guns in the extended duralloy vambraces of each forearm. The readouts showed those weapons systems powered up and swinging into line, showed turrets on the grounded freighter bracketed by crosshairs and the steady flicker of range and target acquisition date.

The left arm laser beamed invisible, coherent light across the DropShip's lower hull plates and baffles, and a weapons turret fragmented in flame and hurtling chunks of metal.

"Acknowledged, Captain." Griffith's voice was steady as he answered Carlyle's statement that the Phoenix Hawkwas under attack, but beads of persipiration had broken out along his eyebrows and mustache. He paused to read a printed message flickering across one of the monitor screens. "Security Chief Xiang's on his way from our shuttle. He'll be in position to support you in two minutes!"

There was no answer as another particle beam caught the Phoenix Hawk,staggering the heavy machine and threatening to melt through already smoldering armor. Carlyle's 'Mech whirled, dissipating the killer beam, then fired a twin laser burst, tracking the enemy cannon by its infra-red glow. There was a savage blast as white-hot, multi-ton fragments rained across the landing area.

Another man joined the knot of staff personnel at the console. Ernest Hauptman was the pilot of the Lance's number two machine. He wore his Lieutenant's blue-rimmed, gray dress uniform, with worry hung from his shoulders like a cape. Normally, he would be piloting the 55-ton Shadow Hawkthat now lay helpless in the Repair Bay. At the moment, his duty station was in Combat Command, and he didn't like that at all.

"Griff, we got problems," Hauptman said.

"The intruders are up to the deck below. Looks like they're making a try for Combat Command."

"Who are they. Lieutenant? Trells?"

The big man shook his man. "Can't tell. They're in combat sneak-suits. Can't get a better look until we take one."

"Then let's do it." Griffin stood, then looked over at Grayson. "Son, we'd best get you to..."

"No, Griff! Not now!" Grayson still sat before the monitor. The screen showed little more than wild zigzags of movement punctuated by the white flare of exploding missiles and stabbing beams.

"Riviera, I've got to go," the Weapons Master said tersely. "You'll get him out if it gets tight?"

"Right, Griff. We'll be O.K. I can use him here on the commlink."

"Right."

Grayson turned back to the monitor as Hauptman and Griffin hurried away. The battle at the landing port was developing with savage speed. He wanted to do something, to help, but there was nothing to do but watch.

The Phoenix Hawkwas running, taking five-meter strides that echoed thunder above the blast and crash of exploding shells. Grayson thought about how dependent a pilot was on his 'Mech's mobility on the battlefield. Even more than on his armor, for the pilot's commands to his gigantic steed could not be anticipated by firecontrol computers. But in a close range battle such as this one, firecontrol could be of the point-in-that-direction-and-fire variety and still score hits.

A sound like a tornado's roar and light too bright to bear burst from the monitor. Carlyle's Hawkwas hit hard by a medium-range missile that fireballed across the right upper rear of its body and smashed the 'Mech into the ferrocrete.

"Dad!"

Grayson's involuntary scream into an open mike brought Riviera's hand down on his shoulder. "Don't clog the commlink, young sir. It can't help him."

"S-sorry." Grayson struggled for control. For him, battle had never been so gut-wrenchingly personal. "He's hit!”

The image monitor showed the pavement swinging down and away as the 'Mech staggered back to its feet. Smoke swirled across the scene. By the unsteady light of a fire burning somewhere near, Grayson could make out the flitting shapes of troops running from shadow to shadow.