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 Hawk that 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 Hawk was 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 Hawk was 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.
"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's heavy 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 Hawk was 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's right 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..."