by Mike Moscoe
The next order she did understand. “Forward, march.”
The tread of a hundred fighters marching in step came up the concourse. Two hoverbikes came out first, their drivers eyeing the group as they circled them. The gunners kept their weapons pointed at the roof, but it was clear that the machine guns rode free on their pintles. A quick bend of the elbow, a twitch of the fingers was all it would take for them to turn deadly.
Running feet added to the noise level as several mayors broke for the rest rooms, some for the second time.
Now marching feet filled the terminal. Two platoons, two companies—Grace had no idea, but there were plenty of hard men and women in khaki with guns held at the ready. They moved as one as they marched into the hall. Behind them marched a small group. Grace didn’t need to be told this was the command group—the Sergeant Major was there, towering like a rock.
Grace spotted him before she recognized the commander. “God damn you, you mercenary bastard,” she breathed, and meant every word of it with a flaming anger that fit her red hair and would get her a long penance from the padre next time she was in town. “God damn you to hell,” she said, “Major Loren J. Hanson.”
9
Allabad, Alkalurops
Prefecture IX, The Republic of the Sphere
11 August 3134; local summer
L. J. enjoyed the rush. He loved the cadence, the movement of uniformed and armed troops through the military ballet that allowed large numbers to move from one place to another with efficiency and poise. He’d been told by civilians more than once that it was terrifying, but to L. J., it was a thing of beauty.
Then civilians galloped for the latrines. Did they really think he’d shoot them? “Battalion,” he called, to be echoed immediately by “Company,” from the company commanders. “Halt,” he ordered.
The tromp of marching feet cut off like the sound of death itself. Well, maybe there was good reason for civilians to be scared. L. J. stepped forward. He spotted the fool who’d made himself Governor. L. J. didn’t know who his client was, but he wouldn’t give a handful of wet sand for this man’s chances.
“Leaders of Alkalurops, now hear this. I am Major Loren J. Hanson of the Roughriders. I am under contract to conduct the seizure and occupation of your planet. There being no military opposition in evidence, I will consider your planet seized and advance immediately to occupation. Are there any objections?”
He eyed the collection of trembling civilians huddled before him. They seemed hard-pressed to stay on their feet, much less to resist the troops surrounding them. No, not all. That redhead way in the back—she was more mad than scared. She must be from a small town because he didn’t have her picture. She did look familiar, though. . . .
“There being no objections, I am placing Alkalurops under martial law. Violation of any of the articles of this law can and will be punished accordingly, up to and including summary execution. Your ’puters have received a copy of the new laws. Read them. Obey them. Copies are also being posted on your global Net. Note that civil gatherings of more than ten people are now illegal. That means the gabfest at the Guild Hall is over. All civil appointments are now subject to the confirmation of my officers. For now, you mayors will continue to function and maintain civil order. Fail in that and you will be replaced and punished as seems appropriate.” Damn. L. J. had read the riot act to drunk and disorderly troops, to troops on the verge of mutiny. He’d seen more life in the eyes of a two-week-dead dog. How could people call this living?
“If there are no further questions, you are dismissed.”
The mob broke for the doors. In a moment his troops were alone in the echoing hall. Not quite. The sound of one woman walking toward him with the measured tread of a soldier drew his eyes to the redhead. Lovely woman. Be a shame to kill her.
“Redhead is Grace O’Malley, sir,” Topkick said low behind him. “She tried to hire us a short while back on Galatea.”
“I remember her now. Sergeant Major, dismiss the troops to guard duty or work details. Adjutant, see to quartering the troops. XO, oversee the unloading, please.”
The woman approached as the Sergeant Major sent the troops to their duties.
“Should I thank you for not killing us, Major?” she said.
“Wasn’t called for in my op orders, Grace,” he said.
“Thank God and St. Patrick for small favors,” she shot back. “So that was you in the little BattleMech I fought.”
“I’ve never thought of a Koshi as little. Agile. Perfect for a long-range scout or a distant raid. What can I do for you? As you can probably surmise, I have a busy day ahead of me. And you need to get back to a small town up north, don’t you? By the way, if you check Section Two of the new laws, being under arms is a capital crime if you aren’t working for me.”
Grace spread her hands, giving him a good view of a healthy, athletic body in a red dress that clung nicely. “I think it’s pretty obvious I’m not armed. Or do you want to search me?”
“Your outfit has already convinced me that a beautiful and angry miner is unarmed.”
She glared at him for a moment longer, then snapped, “You are a first-class bastard. Are you here to steal more ’Mechs?”
“I remind you that my lineage is fully documented, so the first comment is out of order. And no raiding this trip. We’re taking over. I will, however, confiscate any ’Mechs that are modified for combat.”
She showed red at her cheeks. Her anger made her chest heave, and the divide between her creamy white breasts was eye-catching. L. J. knew women whose company he enjoyed, but he had never let his attraction to a woman interfere with his mission. If he wasn’t careful, this woman could be a first.
“If I may interrupt,” the Sergeant Major said as he stopped at L. J.’s elbow.
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“I believe the woman signed on a small group of mercenaries. Quite irregular, no papers filed with the Bonding Commission.”
L. J. nodded. “Since they are not here to resist this landing, I will consider their contract failed and declare it null and void. Ms. O’Malley, please inform your former employees that they have forty-eight hours to present themselves unarmed to one of my officers and begin the process for their deportation. Is there anything about that you do not understand?”
“You’ve made yourself perfectly clear, but I don’t think you are properly briefed on conditions here,” the redhead said, a tiny smile dancing at the edge of her lips. L. J. concluded this woman was not someone he’d want to deal with on a daily basis.
“The men and women who accompanied me here have all filed for homesteads and are taking rather well to the farming life. You can check the Status Records at the Land Office.”
“Farmers,” Topkick spat.
“Have someone check out her story,” L. J. said. “You have been informed of your obligations under martial law. You will not be informed twice, Ms. O’Malley.”
“I wouldn’t think of asking twice,” she said, spun on her heel, and marched tall and straight for the door. L. J. enjoyed the view for two seconds, then turned his back on her and took on the balance of the day’s duties.
Hours later L. J. sat in a comfortable chair in front of a crackling gas fire in his suite at the LCI Manor House. An olive-skinned maid by the name of Betty Rose had just served drinks and left. Now Eddie Thomas, his adjutant, lounged lazily in an overstuffed chair next to the fire and gave his report. “Our client does provide fine quarters. All vehicles are housed in several nearby vacant warehouses, now surrounded by barbed wire and under guard. Our officers and staff are quartered in a good hotel across the street from here. Our troops occupy a college dorm three blocks from here that fits them nicely. Looks like good duty,” the man said, always happy when his job was easy.
His XO, Arthur St. George, a wiry, hard-charger with distant family connections back to the old Colonel himself, nodded from his seat across from L. J. Captain Mallary Hardy, a short, severe woman who f
illed the Operations slot with her excess energy, activated the computer screen in the coffee table between them. “Our satellite, which the DropShip put into orbit on the way down, is working fine. No sign of any hostilities anywhere,” she said.
“We move out tomorrow to the larger towns,” she said. “I’ve set up platoon-sized task forces of ’Mechs, armor and infantry. The ’Mechs and armor should intimidate nicely. The infantry will provide the boots on the ground to keep the locals quiet and out of our hair. We are going to be a bit thin, Major.”
“Looks like a great recruiting ground,” Art said. “Be nice to take out a battalion and return with three or four, sir.”
That would be nice. The old man hadn’t given him a company of the BattleMech MODs he’d captured. Instead L. J. had a ragged collection, the leavings from the other battalions. But there were bound to be ’Mechs to confiscate, trucks to be taken over and armed. If he signed up eight, nine hundred recruits, he could triple his command. With demand for mercs growing, officers who grew their units would be noticed.
“Do it. Flag a sergeant from each platoon as recruiter. Put recruits immediately to work on guard duty. If these hicks are half as impressed as their mayors were, we ought to have kids standing in line to join up.” That settled, they went on to supply. Always more details.
Grace breathed a sigh of relief when Ben came in right after she got back from the port. She started to brief him, but he cut her off. “It was on Net. Nice eye-catcher, that dress. Did the Major add anything during your private talk?”
“What, it wasn’t carried live?”
“The Net had two feeds, one from the Governor’s tie tack, the other from the battalion’s com feed. Battalion cut the feed as you started up to talk to Major Hanson. Did you practice that sashay, or does it just come naturally?”
“Do all guys forget everything else when they look at a girl?” Grace shot back. “I thought you Nova Cats might be different, all controlled-like.”
“We do not take vows of chastity, if that is what you mean,” Ben said, with that hint of a smile that he sometimes allowed himself. “But did he say anything to you personally?”
“Yes. All mercs in my employ should report for off-planet processing immediately.”
“I thought he might do that.”
“I told him there were no mercs. All the folks who came back with me were homesteading. Had their land grants and all.”
Now Ben did throw back his head and laugh, a nearly childlike thing that started in his belly and quickly worked its way up to his eyes. “Is that part of your dream?”
For a moment Grace wanted to take credit for whatever put the look of admiration in his eyes, but she couldn’t lie. “No, it was what I told you: the greatest gift I could give you.”
“I would love to share your dreams, Grace,” Ben said in a way that made Grace warm where she didn’t need to be. Then suddenly all business, he finished. “You truly have given us a great honor.”
She sighed. And as soon as honor is served, you will be gone. “Did you meet Betsy this morning?”
“Her and a few people she trusts. We made plans for what she needs to find out, and how she might go about it.”
“If we told Hanson his client is a cold-blooded murderer, could he cancel his contract then?”
Ben slowly shook his head. “Is it like this with all civilians? Do you cancel your contracts because someone says someone did something not nice?”
“Murder goes a bit beyond ‘not nice.’ But no, we don’t break our contracts unless we have good cause.”
“And we do not break contracts even for what you might think of as good cause. Grace, where a merc goes is death’s land. No one that you would consider sane goes there. Why do you think your people ran so quickly? But that is where I live. That is my land. None of my kind will run from our duty to that land. Not for any reason. So long as we are paid, we do not run. Hanson is being paid. He will not run.”
“Damn! Isn’t there a court you can go to?”
“In the middle of a battle with laser fire all around and mines under your feet?” Ben laughed again. This time there was nothing childlike in it. It was cold, cynical, deadly.
“It’s not easy to be a merc,” Grace said.
“Yes and no. It is easy to do our jobs. All you need do is fear failure more than death. And no, it is not easy. It is hard, painfully dull work, interrupted occasionally by sudden, soul-searing terror. Now, come, we must get out of town before Hanson sends detachments across the countryside.”
“He won’t stay here?”
“He is ordered to hold this planet. He can’t do that from Allabad. Tomorrow the roads will be filled with convoys making for all the major towns. Only when he has them patrolled will he begin to enjoy the boring part of his job.”
When Grace and Ben told Angus they were leaving, he thanked them for the offer of a drive up-country but passed on it. “This is my town. I don’t know what an old lawyer can do, but I will do it when I see it.” They made it back to Falkirk a few hours before sunset the next day, driving through without stopping, except for gas and food.
Victoria greeted them as they rolled in. “We saw the show,” she said. “You looked good, Grace. Of course, the others looked like something a Scotsman might include in his haggis. Too bad Danny’s not around to hear that one,” she said, relishing her joke. “Danny is south of Kilkenny, setting up observation posts to warn if someone comes calling. Your Auntie Maydell also has her friends from down the valley looking out for them. But we need something of our own we can count on.”
“Good. What are we doing for practice?” Ben said, looking at the sky.
“We’ve set Condition Zed for overhead security last evening when we spotted a new satellite. No drill, no battle suits in the open. No ’Mechs on parade. It’s playing hell with training, but until we know for sure, it’s just lecture and more lecture. That and taking care of the crops, digging a bit of metal the hard way. Anything that breaks a sweat.”
“Very good. Now, Grace, where do we fight them?”
Grace had expected that question all through the drive. The merc thought in terms of stand-up fights, death’s ground. It was time for Grace to let them in on how Alkalurops made a name for itself as somewhere you don’t want to fight.
“Ben, Victoria, I’ve listened to Sean tell your stories. I was reading your history books even before I met you. But none of your stories are Alkalurops’ story. Let’s go down to Auntie Maydell’s and give Old Man Clannath a chance to sing you a few songs. Boy-wonder Hanson has no idea what he’s walked into.”
Major Hanson had a hard time making his daily report sound exciting. In two weeks he had occupied half of Alkalurops—the independent miners’ half. His client had been specific about leaving the corporate west side alone. The map showed a nice circle around Allabad. The Roughriders held all major towns and significant trade routes. This place was as occupied as it was going to get.
Also, growing the battalion was succeeding beyond expectations. Each platoon leader wanted to be a company commander. Every platoon now had several recruit platoons attached to it. Most platoons had found an excuse to confiscate an IndiMech, some several. That gave L. J. a chance to reward some hardworking trooper with MechWarrior status. With the Constabulary walking a supervised and unarmed beat in town, their jeeps were now regimental property, being up-gunned and -armored to afford the armor boys promotions. Competition always got the best out of a command.
But it wasn’t just raw recruits joining up. His Maintenance and Supply platoons were now battalions. Signals had only doubled, but recruiting there was picking up. People of this quality wouldn’t take a year to shape up, either. He’d have a major task force to show for this trip, and in only six months! Life was good.
Of course, he also needed to show he could fight. There, things were not going well. Other than a few MERCS GO HOME signs smeared on walls, there was no opposition. Unless something came up soon, the Colonel woul
d tag this mission a Sunday-school picnic. That wouldn’t help anyone’s career.
“Sir.” Mallary stood at the door of his office.
“Yes,” he answered his ops officer.
“A tank patrol’s in a bit of a situation in Little London.”
“They were attacked?”
“Not exactly, sir.”
“Then what exactly?”
“They were set upon by little old ladies upset about how their tracks are tearing up the road and interrupting their grandkids’ naps, sir.”
“And why did a tank stop for this argument?”
“The sergeant says a little old lady with a cane was in the crosswalk, taking about a month to cross, so they stopped.”
“This sergeant have a name?”
“Godfrey, sir.”
L. J. wanted to laugh. If he had an armor problem, Godfrey would be attached to it. At the same time, he had to wonder why the lead-footed tanker had stopped. A Godfrey problem would likely involve him running the old lady down.
“Tell Godfrey to negotiate his way out of this. I don’t want our tanks damaged or old ladies hurt. Tell him to get out of this mess or he’ll be back with the infantry again.”
Mallary smiled at that. “Yes, sir,” she said, and turned to go.
“Mallary, any change in our client’s arrival date?”
“No, sir. His ship just did a 1G midcourse flip. He’s two weeks out.”
“Any answer to our hails?”
“None, sir. ‘Curiouser and curiouser.” ’
“Lets us know how they felt down here while we ignored their signals on our approach.”
“Yes, sir,” Mallary agreed. “And makes me wonder why a client would want to do that to us, if I may say so, sir.”
“You may say so to me, but let’s keep this little problem under our hats, shall we?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and was gone.
