Patriot’s Stand

by Mike Moscoe

  L. J. considered his options, and chose to apply the full power of the truth. “One person can’t, but a team is another matter. See that hatch just above the knee?” Grace nodded. “It’s locked and armored, but a close shot from a high-powered nine-millimeter slug can blast it open. Inside are the control wires for the lower legs. Yank them and the machine isn’t going anywhere. Work your way up higher to that hatch on the back—the lower one. Blow it open and you can disconnect the controls to the missile launchers. Now he can’t run and he can’t shoot. Slap a sticky bomb on the back and give him a call on the emergency channel. If he doesn’t pop the cockpit and come out, you blow the reactor and he’s a very dead MechWarrior.”

  Grace shook her head. “Assuming his friends don’t shoot you down while you’re doing any of that.”

  L. J. chuckled. “That is the usual problem in an assault.” While the redhead mulled that over, L. J. continued to overload her. “Would you like to refight your battle?” Few MechWarriors ever passed up a chance to go over a victory or a loss.

  “I’ve heard you have simulators. Do you have one that could redo my battle?” Grace asked distractedly.

  “Right this way.” She was taking it hook, line and sinker.

  He ushered her and her companions into the air-conditioned cool of the sim-lab. Inside, dozens of troopers were going about their business in the hushed tones usually reserved for a cathedral. L. J. waved at a line of gray boxes perched on stilts. Some were jerking about as if shaking drinks for a thirsty giant. “If you wanted to really refight your skirmish, we could strap you into those simulators. You’ll feel everything you felt in the fight. Walk, jump, knock-down. All of it.”

  Grace shivered. “Did that once. Not hot to do it again.”

  “Everything?” Chato put in. “Heat from the reactor?”

  “Of course,” L. J. said. “Half the time I go by how hot my toes feel—hardly spare a glance at the systems temp.” Turning back to the woman. “If you prefer, we can go over the battle on the holotable.”

  “That sounds better.”

  Most of the tables were occupied with ’Mech trainees reviewing their performance, or lack thereof. L. J. guided his guests to one that was free. “We do not have topo maps of Alkalurops in our training system.” But if you looked in my personal computer . . . “Not exactly a place we expect to operate on.”

  “Use a flat plain with foothills rising off it,” Grace said.

  L. J. did, and a ghostly landscape appeared. She added a road with the familiar bend, then a couple of gullies running up the hill. Quickly she described his deployment. He ordered up the units she described and their ethereal images drove or marched across the map. Her own forces intrigued him. Two slightly modified AgroMechs to his left. Two probably over-armored MiningMechs to his right, and one MiningMech and an AgroMech with a hopped-up field burner in front of him. “We don’t have computer images of these IndustrialMechs—certainly not ones with your irregular modifications,” he told her. What he did not say was that his regiment’s computer support contractor was busy remedying that deficiency and expected to make a small fortune if it could get that module to market first. He finished the deployment with a sprinkling of irregular infantry for her.

  “Not a bad formation,” he told her, meaning it. For an amateur it was a good start. “Then what happened?”

  She described the crazy action on his right. L. J. was careful to do nothing she did not tell him, to add nothing to her battle critique. She got the tank’s movements wrong; he went along until Chato corrected her. “So you tricked a tank driver into doing a nosedive into a gully just as his fire completely disrupted your left flank,” L. J. noted.

  “I guess so,” Grace said, gnawing on her lower lip. “I was afraid the short ’Mech was going to chase after the miners on my left. That was when I tried to damage his leg and found out I really couldn’t. Then things got bad when he noticed me,” she said, shaking her head. Her eyes went vague as if focused on something far away and unpleasant. Not long past, either. And her dreams were probably lousy with this battle. Amateurs didn’t know how to process the experience of battle. Too bad for her.

  “Would you like to run the battle through the way it went, or maybe modify it? What if the tank had not been ditched?”

  “No thank you, Major,” Grace said. “I think you’ve shown me enough. While I might have had com links with all my people, still, they moved individually, and usually in retreat . . . or what did you call it? Retrograde.”

  “Correct.”

  “But the raiders moved as one, just the way their commander told them. Or would have, if Chato and Coyote had not thrown a wrench into their plan.”

  “Too true. Once your left broke, the tank would have swung around and pinched off the two center ’Mechs. Then the raiders would have had their pick of either of the other two pairs. Probably the ones on your left. I suspect those two would have just popped their cockpits and started running if they thought the raiders were after them.”

  “Right. McCallester and Brady are out of their depth organizing anything beyond a barroom brawl.” Grace sighed.

  “That is why mercs train recruits for a year. We want them to know in their sleep what to do when I issue an order. And they will do it, in their sleep or scared to death. This is also why, Ms. O’Malley, my colonel would be most unwilling to mix his Roughriders with local militia. Our troops have to know they can trust the man on their right, the woman on their left. If we can’t, we become no better than your showed-up-today militia or these raiders,” he said, waving a hand dismissively at the effort that had won him his promotion.

  “If we contracted to defend your planet, we would defend it. I doubt my colonel would accept a contract for less than one battalion plus a training cadre. That cadre would train your local troops, but they would train them our way—day and night for a year. I’m sorry, but we do not work with militias. We like to win, ma’am. Spread too thin, we’d be in the same mess you were in: waiting for someone stronger to come along and collect our gear.”

  The Sergeant Major appeared at his elbow, a piece of paper in one hand. L. J. glanced at it. Right. A battalion-sized task force: one company of ’Mechs, one of armor, two of infantry. Under the HQ company were platoon-sized elements of engineers, medical, supply, maintenance, communications and a section each of tube artillery and long-range missiles. There was a total cost for the battalion as well as individual prices for each unit.

  “Very good, Sergeant Major. Ms. O’Malley, this is the unit I would suggest for defending a planet of your size from raiders. And the cost breakdown.” He passed the paper to the redhead.

  5

  Roughrider Base Camp, Galatea

  Prefecture VIII, The Republic of the Sphere

  26 May 3134; local summer

  Grace’s thoughts spun like a rock cutter on stone it barely scarred. Pirates and bandits had sent the Falkirk militia reeling? This merc officer thought a bunch of thugs out for loot had kicked her butt, her and her folks who stood between their homes and a bunch of punks? No! No way!

  Her enemy had turned into her trap without hesitation. They’d stormed up the hill after her miners and farmers, ignoring fire as only men trained for a year or more, as only men driven by a tradition that made them unhesitant in their obedience to orders. Grace had faced mercs all right. Damn good ones.

  And now she was being presented with the cash price for such men. One glance at the paper and she almost dropped it. Behind her, Jobe whistled low. “Man of my men, mercs don’t come cheap.”

  “Not at all cheap,” Chato answered.

  Grace had to move her finger slowly over the cost of the task force. Yes, there were that many zeros after the 32.

  She focused on the cost of just one lance of BattleMechs like the one she’d fought and looked at today. The monthly rental for—No, she divided the cost by four and still got a figure way larger than her last year’s profits!

  “Is this some sort of jo
ke?” she said, rounding on the Major. “There’s no rational excuse for these prices. Or is this just an opening bid, because I’ll tell you, mister, haggling is not something we waste time on back home.”

  “Neither do we,” the Major said, so calm, so cool. He’d be like that under fire. “Those are the regimental rates.”

  “You’ll fight what, one battle a year?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You use your MiningMech every day. And we’ll use our ’Mechs and tanks and infantry every day, sometimes every hour of every day. We train, day in and day out, because we never know when the day will come that we need that training. Do you think men and women advance on my order into fire just because I tell them to? No. They advance because I’ve ordered them to do it day after day. Every day is the same. Only one day, it’s for real. So they do it by the numbers, just as if it were another training day. And that is why we win.”

  Left unsaid was, And that is why you lost.

  He turned away, paused, then turned back and pointed his finger at her, sharp as any laser. “That is our price. You can come with me to talk to Accounts about posting bonds and other requirements of the Mercenary Review and Bonding Commission. If not, Sergeant Major will provide you a lift to the gate. If you want to think about it, come back any time. Have the guard at the gate call for Major L. J. Hanson, and I’ll collect you. Have a good day,” he said, then turned and marched for the exit.

  Grace turned to face her associates, struggling to keep her chin from trembling. Men never show emotions. Damned if I will. She shook her head. Jobe pursed his lips for a moment, then shook his head, too. Chato turned to the Sergeant Major. “Where are you parked?” he asked, as calm as Grace had ever seen him.

  “Outside. We should move along. People are waiting to use this table.” The Sergeant Major escorted them out with what Grace was coming to expect as the usual merc efficiency. He deposited them at the gate in less than five minutes with a “Have a nice day” that was just as empty as his Major’s.

  “How do we get back to town?” Grace managed to get out as Jobe and Chato unloaded their gear.

  “Don’t know, ma’am,” the Sergeant Major said. “Taxis don’t come out this far. Bus comes by once a week, but you missed it.”

  “Don’t your people ever leave?”

  “We move in convoy on regimental transport when we travel on regimental business. When we grant a unit a pass, Transport sets up a shuttle van service.”

  “So we are on our own.”

  “We’re still looking for recruits, ma’am,” he said. He had the civility to not drive away until she turned her back on him.

  “Heartless bunch of bastards,” Jobe observed dryly.

  “At their prices, they are rich, heartless bastards.”

  “I would not want to pay their medical bills,” Chato said. “Did you notice the number of teachers in the computer center who were limping or missing an arm?”

  “No, I was concentrating on that Hanson. On not letting him infuriate me,” Grace said, picking up a duffel and checking the sun. It was still high. The road back to the main highway wavered in the heat. “We’d better see if we can catch a ride.”

  It took them an hour to get back to the main line, and Grace found herself regretting she’d left so much as a drop of water in her lunch goblet. Twice they were passed by Roughrider jeeps leaving the post. The hard-eyed women behind the wheels didn’t afford them a glance as they whizzed by.

  At the four-lane road there was plenty of traffic, but none of it slowed down for them. They started hiking toward town, looking for a bit of shade from the broiling sun. Low shrubs were all that had managed to grow out of the hard, cracked dirt.

  “Might as well be concrete,” Chato noted, scuffing the toe of his boot against the yellow hardpan beside the road. “When was this place attacked, a hundred years ago?”

  “Space-based weapons burned the life out of this soil, down to the bedrock,” Jobe said. “No way to treat a planet.”

  “I don’t want Alkalurops looking like this five hundred years from now,” Grace said. The others nodded.

  The whine of a truck coming up behind them signaled that its brakes had begun to bleed air. “I do believe someone is stopping,” Grace told her companions as the truck roared by, still slowing. It pulled off the road several hundred meters past them.

  The driver leaned out the window. “Hurry up. I got a schedule to meet. You like it out here in this skillet?”

  Despite the heat, they ran.

  The truck was a big quattro-trailer. The cab was huge behind a rumbling motor that made Pirate’s seem small. “You guys stow your gear in back and get comfortable on my bunk. Little lady, why don’t you take this seat right next to me.”

  Grace took an immediate dislike to the big-bellied driver with his wandering eyes, but since the seat “right next to” him was almost two meters away, across the wide cab, it seemed safe. Chato and Jobe weren’t that much farther away, and in the mood she was in, she almost hoped the guy would do something she could mash his skull for. Not a good day, she admitted to herself.

  “There’s water in the cooler back there,” the driver said as he concentrated on getting his rig back in motion. “You folks look like you could use a couple of gallons. Must be hot out there.” He laughed and jacked up the air-conditioning enough to make Grace shiver. “I could turn the AC off. Then you wouldn’t need all those clothes, little missy.”

  “I’m quite comfortable,” Grace assured him, pulling her thin sweater tighter around her.

  “Just that some women, grateful for a ride in this out-of-the-way place, like to show a driver their appreciation.”

  “See how grateful I am in Galaport,” Grace said, swallowing her first dozen replies. She didn’t want the man to dump them out here; from the looks of all the options that had passed them, the milk of human kindness didn’t run deep in this desert.

  He leered at her as the rig put on more speed, forcing her deeper into her chair. “You might want to put on that seat belt, little lady. Wouldn’t want you hurt if I have to swerve out of some idiot’s way.” He was belted in with five-point restraint.

  Grace eyed the harness on her chair. It was the same. She’d seen vids where off-world people kidnapped strangers by locking them in a harness. “I’ll take my chances on your good driving record.”

  That brought a hack of a laugh, and he regaled her with a list of near misses that would terrify a battle-hardened merc. So she swapped him tales from the mines. They spent the next hour one-upping each other. When signs of life started dotting the side of the road, the trucker asked where they were staying. “Don’t have a place,” Grace admitted.

  “Well, I got to drop off these four loads. No reason why you and your fellows need sit around while I do. I know a decent place. Not on my route, mind you, but I can drop you off close.”

  Grace and the others accepted his offer and got out when he pulled up at a stoplight. “Three blocks thataway—Hillman’s Last Stand. Can’t miss it. Tell ’em to clean up a room for me.”

  “Will do,” Grace said, and added to herself, In my nightmares.

  Three blocks down, Hillman’s Last Stand took up a block. Grace didn’t much care for the looks of the couples entering. “I suspect they rent by the hour. Maybe the minute,” Jobe said.

  “Guys, why don’t we look for someplace else farther down the road. Anyone opposed to the walk?” Neither was.

  The Hilltop Refuge at least looked better. Cleaner, too, on the outside. Grace and her crew were the only ones checking in at the moment, but no pimps or streetwalkers appeared to be in evidence.

  “We want two rooms,” she told the desk clerk.

  “Good, ’cause we don’t rents singles to threesomes. We ain’t that kind of place, if youse knows what I mean. Youse do wants the single, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Grace agreed. “Does it have a bath or a shower?”

  “Shower. The water’s metered. Pays for it by the liter.”

>   Grace sighed. She started to produce Wilson’s smart card, then reconsidered and found a free diamond rolling in her pocket. “Can I pay for the room with this?”

  “No way.” The clerk shook his head. “ ‘Stones or the road,’ the boss tells me. The door’s thataways.”

  “No problem,” Grace said, producing the smart card.

  The clerk ran it through, then frowned. “Ain’t nobody’s been usin’ that card for a while.”

  “An old family heirloom, given to me by a trusted friend.”

  The clerk whistled. “Must trust youse a lots,” he said as he passed her the bill to sign. “Two nights minimum stay. You wants to stay longer, we gots weekly rates.”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Grace said, signing.

  “Don’t get no rebates,” he warned, handing her two key cards and pointing at the elevator.

  An hour later, showered and feeling really clean for the first time since hearing raiders were in Allabad, Grace knocked on the men’s door. Jobe opened it into a room no larger than her own. Brown on brown on brown decor helped to hide the dust, dirt, and rocks the cleaning people had missed. Grace had found dirty underwear in one of her drawers. “Anyone else hungry?”

  Jobe stepped right out. Chato followed, the pack on his back. After wandering several blocks and passing up places that looked too greasy, too expensive or both, they settled on a place that promised DINNER LIKE MOM USED TO MAKE.

  “Mom must have been trying to poison Dad,” Jobe muttered as they left an hour later, half their dinners still on their plates, the other half indigestible in their guts. “My first wife is no cook, but even she treats a man’s belly better than that.”

  The night was dark, and no moon was visible through the thick haze. They walked under streetlights that gave flickering light or none at all. Halfway back to the hotel, three men stepped from between parked trucks to bar their way. A half-dozen sauntered out of an alley that had appeared empty a moment before. Jobe wordlessly edged Grace back to the brick wall of a building.