"I'm O.K., son." Carlyle's voice over the commlink was steady, though Grayson heard the tightness of battle strain edging the words. "Is Griff there?"
"Griffs helping coordinate the defense," Riviera cut in. "We're being attacked here, too."
"Damn. We've been had."
"Who is it, Dad?"
The monitor image swooped, dipped, and spun. They heard the staccato rattle of the Hawk'sheavy machine guns blazing away at half-screen targets in the smoke. Tracers floated lazily across the screen as they tracked a racing vehicle that skimmed just above the ferrocrete on howling fans. A light autofire cannon stuttered and winked in reply from the darkness.
The hovercraft vanished in smoke and shadow. "I don't know, Gray," his father replied at last. "They're not traders, though, that's for damn sure!"
"Hendrik's pirates?" Riviera said.
"I don't know. Could be. But why? By all the gods of space, why?"
Grayson looked across the room at Vogel. The Commonwealth representative was rooted to a monitor console, white-faced and stricken. The alliance with Hendrik had been HIS idea.
Riviera followed Grayson's gaze. "He's watching his career die on that screen," he said, and Grayson nodded. The man was clenching and unclenching his hands, which gave them the appearance of being gripped by some dreadful spasm.
There was a searing flash and a blast that stunned the listeners in Command Control. The Phoenix Hawkwas down again, with half a dozen flashing red indicators clamoring for attention. On the screen, Grayson could make out twisted metal, paint-charred and still smouldering. It took him dazed seconds to recognize in the debris half of the Hawk'sright arm, its steel fingers still closed across the grip of the heavy laser, now lying on the pavement in blasted ruin.
"Sergeant?" Carlyle's voice was tight now, almost inaudible across the blast of battle static.
"Sir! Are you all right?"
"Gyros hit... port servos out... having trouble stabilizing. Looks like the right arm and main gun are gone too. I'm... hit pretty bad..."
Riviera was studying another monitor. "Hang on, Captain! Xiang's on his way with the security patrol! They'll be close enough to support you in a few seconds!"
The Hawkwas on its feet again, and telemetry readouts showed it was firing into the smoky darkness as rapidly as the single remaining heavy weapon could be recharged, stabbing invisible beams of laser light at half-glimpsed targets whenever the 'Mech's computer trackers could pick them up from IR scans. An infra-red mosaic overlaid the visible light image, picking out running figures in light blue, the white-hot geysers of vehicle engines, the towering mountain of yellow heat that was the grounded DropShip a few hundred meters awway. Much of the enemy fire was coming from the freighter, which was obviously much better armed than any freighter had a right to be. Carlyle had blasted at least five turrets that he could identify, and the returning fire had scarcely slackened at all. It appeared that beam weapons had been temporarily mounted in ports cut right into the hull metal.
"What's... status... in the base?" Carlyle's words came in grunts now, as he gasped for air. The computer readout showed the cabin temperature was climbing steadily, blasted higher by each maneuver, by each discharged weapon and hit
"Inside job, I think, Captain. Someone disabled some of our security cameras and opened the Repair Bay outer lock. The fight's pretty hot down there."
"Hauptman?"
"With Griffin, fighting the intruders."
"Tell him... he's in command. Get the Lance... out of there. We... can't...stay... Trellwan longer..."
"Dad! Hang on! Xiang's almost there!"
"I see him. His troops are spreading out across the paving. I..."
There was a long silence. "Captain!" Riviera shouted.
"Son of a bitch..." The words were spoken quietly, almost reverently. The image monitor was focused now on the base of the grounded freighter, at the gaping maw of an open hatch with a heavy black ramp sliding to the scarred ferrocrete. The IR overlay gave the scene a glistening, unreal quality, colored harshly where no color would normally be visible.
Something was lurching down the ramp, coal-black against the yellow glow of the freighter's hull. The imaging camera zoomed in, resolving the silhouette into grey metal and glistening joints. Targeting crosshairs snapped on, with four beads of light tracking in to meet in a pulse of light at the bullseye center. Laser scan readouts flickered on one side, showing range, height, mass, and bearing. Grayson didn't need the computer ID to tell him what he was seeing. It was a 'Mech, the kind known as a Marauder.
The Marauderdid not share the humanoid appearance of most 'Mechs. Instead, its 75 tons of arms and armor were molded into a crablike body mounted on a pair of oversized legs that knifed back and down in a forward-leaning, digitigrade stance.
The machine was old, patched and etched with the signs of frequent repairs and replacements. The black and grey paint pattern was broken in places by brown rust and old battle scars. A pair of arms hung suspended from just forward of the leg joints, each mounting a heavy particle cannon and a laser in over-under mounts where hands and forearms might be expected in a living being. The massive tube of a 120 mm rapid-fire autocannon balanced above the body, completing the battle machine's armament.
The Phoenix Hawkwas 30 tons lighter, normally far more maneuverable, but still badly outclassed by the bigger machine in any 'Mech-to-'Mech slugmatch. And the Hawkwas already crippled... "Dad! Do you see its insignia?”
“I see it" The image had picked up the shine of fresh paint against the scarred surface of the enemy ‘Mech's left leg, a stylized animal's eye colored scarlet and black, with slit pupil and menacing brow.
It was the crest insignia of Hendrick III, King of Oberon, the bandit warlord with whom the Trellwan pact was to have been signed. Behind the first enemy 'Mech, the shadowed shape of a second, smaller 'Mech appeared, followed by a third. Grayson wasn't certain, but he thought one of those shapes was a Stinger,the other a Locust —both 20-ton 'Mechs more suited to scouting or fighting infantry than tangling with heavy Mechs.
But even light scouts could gang up on a solitary Phoenix Hawk,especially when the Hawkwas barely able to stand or fire. Autocannon fire winked from the Marauder,and explosions stitched across the savaged Hawk'shull.
"Betrayed!" Riviera said, and his open palm smashed at the console table. "Those filthy, backstabbing..."
"I guess... that settles who's... behind this..." Carlyle said. "But why... would they attack... now?"
The Hawkopened fire with its solitary laser, then spun, dodging. A tracery of twisting contrails arced through the night sky from the DropShip, short-ranged missiles seeking the solitary target The image jarred and went white as at least one of the warheads struck home.
Half the readout monitor was blinking red now. The Hawk'sinternal circuits had been savaged by a spray of molten steel. Carlyle was having trouble keeping the Hawkupright. The shriek of protesting servomotors keened across the audio pickup.
"OPERATOR WARNING! HEAT CRITICAL. SUGGEST IMMEDIATE SHUTDOWN." The warning pulsed in crimson light across the top of the screen, and Grayson could hear the harsh bray of an on-board klaxon.