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...
A hand grasped his forearm, hauling him up off the pavement, setting him on unsteady feet. Grayson stared into the smooth metal of the warleader's mask.
"That's the Captain's kid," someone said. Grayson's eyes shifted. It was the astech speaking Stefan was his name. Grayson recognized him despite the grotesque mask the man wore. He'd seen him about the Castle after the latest batch of astech recruits