Griffith waved him aside with the machine pistol, then called out "Brookes!" Sergeant Brookes! Are you ready to move?"

A harried, red-haired man looked up from his humming scout It was a tiny hovercraft, a four-seater. A pair of soldiers were wrestling a lightweight laser onto an aftdeck pintle mount "Yeah, Griff! Any time!"

"Take Master Carlyle with you."

The realization that Griffith was sending him on ahead cut through Grayson's numbness. "Griff, no! I..."

"Go on, lad. I'll catch up with you later. Quickly now!"

Grayson didn't hear Griffith's answer. The Weapons Master had turned away from him and was facing Vogel, speaking quietly. Vogel's face was turning red.

"C'mon, Master Carlyle. Old Hattie here’ll have us back t' the shuttle at light speed. Here. You'll be wanting these." He handed Grayson a hooded, cold weather jacket and goggles. The scout had an open well deck, and a high-speed run would be dangerously cold in this weather.

The sharp crack of an ear-stunning detonation smacked across the Vehicle Bay, and smoke boiled from the door across the room. Grayson whirled, wide-eyed. Vogel was lying on his face, with Griffith crouched above him. The five soldiers were fanning out toward the smoking door.

Just then, several black-clad figures burst through the smoke, spewing the savage white bursts of automatic weapons fire. Griffith was on one knee now, the Gunther balanced in a classic one-hand brace right out of the BattleMech Manual. He fired in short, precise bursts, centering each burst on an attacker's chest

More attackers swarmed though the door. Grayson realized with dull shock that each wore a heavy mask, the goggles insect-like in the Bay's dim red lighting. They plunged into the Bay in headlong dives that brought them rolling up to one shoulder, subguns chattering in sharp, short bursts before the milling crowd of Techs and staff personnel could respond. Grayson saw Riviera sagging back against the skirt of an idling hovercraft, tiny scarlet explosions blossoming across his torso from right thigh to left shoulder.

One of the soldiers beside the Weapons Master pitched back, his face a streaming mask of red. Two more crumpled where they stood, and the two survivors turned and ran for the nearest hovercraft

"Griff!" Grayson screamed. His fingers were on a handhold on the hoverscout's side. "Come on!"

"Let's go, son!" Brooke laid a hand on Grayson's shoulder, urgency in his voice. "We've got to leave!"

Grayson shook free of the hand and dashed back toward Griffith. As long as he had known his father, he had also know Kai Griffith, with whom he had probably spent more time from day to day.

"Grayson! Come back!" Sergeant Brooke was close behind. Grayson dodged in front of a hover transport that was just rising from the ferrocrete, its skirts rattling in the overpressure of screaming fans. Air whipped Grayson's pants against his legs, and the keening fans drowned out the rattle of small arms fire from across the Bay. Black figures continued to pour from the passageway door.

Grayson spotted a TK rifle lying on the ferrocrete, close by the outflung hand of the soldier who had been carrying it, Grayson had never fired one in combat, but he'd practiced with them often enough on the firing range under Griffs sharp eye and tongue. He checked the seating of the 80-round magazine in its slot in the stock behind the trigger hand grip, checked that the safety was off, leveled the barrel at the oncoming black figures, and squeezed the trigger.

TKs fire caseless, 3 mm slivers of soft metal and high-velocity explosives that balloon on impact into miniature, tissue-destroying suns. Almost noiseless, almost recoiless, and on full auto, it hacked through the enemy ranks like an HP laser through soft tin. Grayson hosed the weapon's flare across the attackers, saw them pilch back into the yawning doorway or forward into untidy heaps on the ferrocrete.

His finger slipped from the trigger, and the gun snapped upright Added now to the bewildered, conflicting emotions Grayson was feeling was the realization that he had just killed for the first time.

Griffith turned and seemed to see Grayson for the first time. "No, son! Go ..."

As he spoke, a stream of bullets caught the bald Weapons Master in his side and from behind, lifting him, spinning him around, and slapping him onto the pavement in a sprawl of arms and legs.

"Griff!" Grayson screamed.

There was a soft, plopping sound, and clouds of white smoke geysered from exploding gas grenades. Grayson tasted the numbing tang of paralytic gas in his throat, choked on the acrid fumes. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the ferrocrete deck of the Vehicle Bay, his muscles locked in a rigor that could not be broken. He could scarcely see now, though the departing whine of the hovercraft convoy was audible. Around him, he heard the coughs and hoarse yells coming from people in the hovercraft that had not made it away in time, as masked troopers swarmed aboard and cuffed gasping prisoners into submission. Then Grayson saw nothing more.

* * * *

He decided later that he must have lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes, the air was clearer, and he could move again. The muscles in his legs and arms trembled uncontrollably, though, and Grayson felt so weak he could scarcely lift his head from the pavement.

Black uniforms moved among the few remaining hovercraft, herding small parties of prisoners toward the door to the main passageway. Cold air was pouring in from the open Bay doors, and as he gulped it down, Grayson's mind and vision cleared, and the muscle spasms eased. He pulled himself upright.

Kai Griffith was nearby, propped against a grounded hovercraft. The Weapons Tech appeared to be alive, though his uniform was drenched with blood and his skin paler than that of a native Trell. His chest was moving in a short, jerky rhythm, his breathing shallow and rapid. It took a moment for the realization to sink in. Griff was alive!

He also became aware of one of the attackers in particular, a tall man all in black, his face masked by a metal sensor mask. Grayson did not need to see the silver starburst at his throat to know this was the warleader of the enemy assault force. The man was attended by a small band of sneak-suited soldiers, and he seemed to be interrogating the ragged handful of prisoners. A pair of attackers hauled one prisoner to his feet, thrusting him before the warleader.

When the man said, "I am Viscount Olin Vogel," Grayson started. The prisoner was dirty, dishevelled, and unrecognizable. His hands were tied behind him, and he was not wearing a cloak or other finery. "I am a Commonwealth representative, and as such, expect to be ransomed. I'm sure my principals will be able to make a generous offer for my exchange."

The warleader paused, as if considering, though it was impossible to read expression through his blank sensor mask. It was common practice for important prisoners to be ransomed. The custom was lucrative and prevented the out-of-hand slaughter of captured nobles or wealthy businessmen.

"I have been in close communication with your king," Vogel continued. "He will be delighted to see me. In fact..."

The warleader drew a machine pistol from the holster slung low on his hip, held it to Vogel's chest, and pulled the trigger. There was a ragged burst, and the man snapped backward in a spray of blood. Through ringing ears, Grayson heard the thud of the body and a last, strangled sound from Vogel. The man's feet scraped aimlessly at the pavement for a moment, then jerked and were still.

The sight of the casually murdered Vogel froze Grayson as effectively as had the paralytic gas. Why had the warleader done that? Vogel would have been worth millions to this pirate...