had arrived from Sarghad.
So, this was the betrayer, the traitor. An astech, one of the workers inside the Castle, had opened the Repair Bay gates and let the attackers in. And they would be in league with the 'Mechs that had inexplicably descended from the freighter DropShip. All of it had been part of some monstrous plot to take the Castle, destroy Carlyle's Commandos, and kill his father.
The warleader's machine pistol was coming up, and Grayson thought that now they were going to murder him as well. His foot lashed back, crumpling the kneecap of the man holding him and breaking his captor's grip. Then he lashed out again, striking for the warleader's face. The shock as his opponent blocked the kick with a down-stabbing first nearly knocked Grayson from his feet. He whirled and lunged close inside the man's reach, using his hands to smash and grab at the helmet's blank visor.
His opponent yelled as connections broke free with a soft, sucking sound, and the faceplate hinged up and back from the chin and came away in Grayson's hand. The inner surface of that plate was lined with receptors and a high-tech enhancer that projected images directly onto the wearer's retinas. For an instant, Grayson saw an angry, black-bearded face, whose features were vaguely-familiar and whose eyes seemed to promise sudden death.
A blow to Grayson's chest sent him staggering back against the ruined console, where the warleader held him with the muzzle of his pistol held steady and level one meter from Grayson's left eye. "Singh! You animal!"
The shout had come from Grayson's right. Grayson turned, saw horror and anger and a death's-edge determination burned into Griffith's face five meters away. The Weapons Master was supporting himself on one blood-smeared arm, was holding a small automatic pistol in the other.
The warleader's gun fired first, three quick shots that split Griffith's straining face and opened new rivers of blood from the Weapons Master's throat and gaping mouth.
Grayson screamed mindlessly and threw himself forward. The warleader swung back to cover him, the machine pistol centimeters from his head. Grayson lurched to the right as the weapon struck him with a hammerblow of thunder and white pain. His body hit the floor an instant later.
5
Grayson was aware of sound before he felt the pain. There was a low and steady roaring in his ears, like surf against a rocky coast, but with a steady, rhythmic pulse that was maddening until he recognized it as the beat of his own heart. Somehow, though, the pain had lost its knife's edge. He hurt, but not as much. Not as much as what? He struggled with the idea, a vague sense of passing time, of horror and wrenching loss, but could not remember.
The pain receded somewhat. Encouraged, Grayson opened his eyes. He winced at the sudden glare, but managed to get them open and carefully survey his surroundings. He did not recognize the room. Bare plaster walls with chipped patches high up by the wood-beamed ceiling were close around his bed. A table, a clothes chest, chairs, and a mirror completed the list of furnishings. A narrow window let him see a patch of orange sky beyond dust motes dancing in a shaft of bloody light.
Light. It must be... daylight! The long night was over!
He sat up suddenly, then sagged back onto the bed, hands clasping his dizzy, pain-wraeked head. His head was wrapped in bandages, he found. Someone had carefully tended what was obviously a fairly serious head wound.
A door opened somewhere behind him, and Grayson sensed someone enter the room. "So, awake at last! I thought I heard you yell."
Grayson didn't remember yelling, but decided anything was possible with his head feeling as it did. He turned slightly, and focused on the speaker.
The man was a young Trell, somewhat shorter than Grayson's lanky stature, and stockier, with wide, stubby-fingered hands that were stained with grease. He had the pale skin of a native Trell, which looked even paler next to the unruly black hair and deep, dark eyes. He wore a casual, knee-length tunic, white except for a triangular shoulder panel that caught the red light in shifting patterns of warm color.
Grayson's eyes went back to the Trell's face. Recognition clicked somewhere behind the ache in his skull. "I know you! Ah... Claydon, isn't it? Right! Senior Astech Claydon. You were on Riviera's team!"
Claydon inclined his head with a wry smile. "At your service, Lord, though I can hardly admit to the title anymore. That's not exactly healthy now."
"Not... what? Why?"
Claydon jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the window. "It's not safe to admit to being one of the offworlders' pets.
Not any longer."
Grayson wrestled with that concept for a while, then let it go. He decided to concentrate on more immediate questions. "Where am I?"
"My father's house, of course. I brought you here after the attack."
"Your... father?"
"Yes. Berenir is his name. He's a merchant. He's done business with you folks. Doesn't share the local prejudice against you offworlders. He's the one who got a doctor to come in and tend your wound."