by Mike Moscoe
Who was this client? He killed people who got in his way. Either didn’t like talking to his contractors, or he loved a grand entrance more. Whatever he was, the regiment was under contract, and that was that. L. J. checked his situation board. A patrol was hung up, debating nap problems with grannies. Not exactly your normal attack—but then again, other than maybe being thrown up on by a baby, his men were at no risk.
Grace parked her rig behind the Beef and Brewery in Little London. The necessary work of keeping services going was done at the Town Hall, but nothing more. Important business was done in the back rooms of out-of-the-way places. As Grace got out, a man approached. “Nice of you to make my party,” he said.
“Driving is so easy with the mercenaries directing traffic,” she said as countersign.
“I’m Glen Harriman,” the man said, offering a hand. “I’m kind of the acting mayor now that Garry’s run off.”
“What’s the matter, the Governor’s job no fun?”
“Let’s say present conditions weren’t quite what he expected when he maneuvered himself into the job. He’s running scared.”
Glen led Grace into the back of the restaurant, then took a hard left into a private room. Grace spotted a few mayors from close by, but most were young men and women, or gray-haired ladies. An unusual mix. Glen got Grace a mug of beer from kegs on a side table, seated her, then rapped his glass for attention. The room quieted. “How’s security?” he asked.
A girl of maybe twelve ducked her head out the door, then waved a thumbs-up sign as she stood back up.
“Is she your security?” Grace asked.
Glen smiled. “She and a dozen kids her age. If any patrol comes near, we’ll know. But none will. We know their schedule for tonight. Nothing like having half the patrol on your side to make sure you know where it is.” He turned to the room. “So how’s the Granny Gotcha Program going?
Several gray heads exchanged remarks, most along the lines of “You tell ’em,” before they settled on one. She had her hair in a regulation bun, and the maroon dress with large yellow flowers reminded Grace of a dress her grandmother wore.
“We’re doing quite well,” the older woman said proudly. “We’re catching at least one patrol a day in most towns. We concentrate on the off-worlders. You can call it womanly intuition, but I think some of those fellows are starting to get the proper attitude. I had two over for a good home-cooked dinner.” Other women agreed, and applauded one who’d had four mercs for supper the night before.
“Anyway, we’re putting a face on Alkalurops for these guys. Who’s handling the gals?” she said, sitting down.
“We are.” A young man stood. He had those disgustingly good looks the vids love. Grace steered clear of them; many lacked a work ethic, and she didn’t want people thinking she hired men for their tight butts.
“We’ve got dates with most of the merc fems. They’re hot, man.” This last remark got him a swat from the lovely blonde beside him wearing a halter top and miniskirt. “Anyway, once we get one going out with us, it’s easy to get her to bring along a few of her friends that want to party,” he said, distancing himself from his girl as she really wound up to slug him. “You realize that our sacrifice to help the women mercs get to know us could leave us poor guys damaged for life.”
“I’ll show you damaged for life,” the girl said.
“Mary Anne, leave something of him for Friday night. We have a major party at the Bubbles to You, and Alkalurops needs him.”
“See, I told you, I’m just doing my patriotic duty.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to enjoy it.”
“So,” Glen cut in, “as you can see, Grace, we’re doing what we can to make the mercs see us as people, not targets.”
“And we’d like to know,” the gray-haired woman said, “how you are doing raising an army.”
Grace shook her head. “As I’ve told everyone, that is a misunderstanding. Yes, I hired several former mercenaries who were out of work. They have taken out homesteads and are now enjoying farming,” Grace said, giving the official line.
“So we hear,” Glen said, “and for now, that’s fine by me. But in a week these mercs’ client lands. After that, I don’t know what’ll happen. Granny here might need some armed backup. This civil not-quite-disobedience is kind of fun. But if things start to head south—well, you know what I mean.”
Grace shook her head. “No, I don’t know what you mean, and I’m not sure I want to know what you mean. Let me be perfectly clear. There is no army being raised, and there won’t be anything of the sort . . .” Grace let the pause hang as the room fell into total silence. “Until and unless we need it. You get my drift?”
“Deep as any snow I ever floundered through,” the gray-haired woman said with a chuckle. “I didn’t hear nothing, and I know exactly what to tell my lady friends.”
“I think a lot of us will be glad to hear that we aren’t all that Alkalurops has going for her,” the young boy said.
“You’re serious about this? This isn’t just another excuse for guys like Romie to play around?” the girl next to him asked.
“Lots of people are playing at this,” Grace said. “And when the Roughriders’ client lands, we’ll find out what kind of game he’s playing. Then we’ll do what we have to do to close it down and send him and the mercs packing. Until then, play it cool. Put a face on Alkalurops for the off-worlders. And you girls—there’s no reason why you can’t take a merc to the party if your guy is taking one of their gals.”
“That sounds pretty fine to me,” Mary Anne said.
“Hey, that’s not what I had in mind.”
“Well get used to it, Romie; it’s what I have in mind.”
“I think I’d better go talk to a few folks,” Glen said, getting up from the table.
“Did I do something wrong?” Grace asked.
“No. I’m kind of surprised it didn’t come out sooner. But now it’s out, and I think I’d better talk a few kids through it.”
“Enjoy your job,” Grace told him.
“Oh, don’t I just?” he said, sighing.
Grace stayed in her chair as others circulated by her. There were people to praise and fine points to help them work out. She spent some time with the Harper Street Irregulars, their name taken from a vid program the kids liked. They blushed and stammered when she told them they were doing well. “But be careful,” she said, which got her accused of being just like their moms. She was late leaving the Beef and Brewery that night.
Glen needed a ride home and she provided it. “They’re a good bunch,” he told her.
“Have they had much trouble staying nonviolent?”
“A bit. A young hothead here, a boyfriend there. Not all the girls are toying with the mercs. A few have lost their hearts, or at least think they have.”
“I’d hate to be young, fragile and in the middle of this.”
“There’s something else. This Hanson guy thinks he’s won. Some of us think we ought to show him things aren’t done yet—like just before his boss lands.” Glen talked a few minutes about a small operation that would leave no merc dead, but their boss clearly on notice that things weren’t finished. She liked it.
“Your mom must have told you the story from the old wars about the Maid in the Mist?” Grace said when he was done.
He chuckled. “My grandma swore her grandma was the original Maid. ’Course, my other grandma made the same claim. Even my five-year-old mind was a bit skeptical. Still, they were fine, tough gals—just the type to pull it off.”
“Think Mary Anne is up to being the next Maid in the Mist and sending Hanson a message?”
Glen laughed. “It would serve Romie right.”
Grace slept at Glen’s house, on the couch among toddler toys. It was a risk to him, but it beat her using a smart card that was probably flagged for any use. She got gas from Wilson’s tank and always carried enough in spare cans to get her back to Falkirk. Being a leader of an under
ground revolt was not on her short list of fun things to accomplish during her lifetime, but it seemed to be what she had to do this year.
A hungry baby woke her at five-thirty. Child and mother were back to sleep by six. Grace was on the road by six-fifteen.
Major Hanson frowned at the message. Alkalurops’ “Leader” would land in two days and “required” him to have all significant town mayors present, as well as himself. Grace O’Malley had earned specific mention.
“Mallary, get this list distributed. Two days isn’t a lot of time. Tell Grace O’Malley we’ll provide her a high-speed transport if she can’t make it otherwise.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Raise the alert status to Condition Three. There haven’t been any problems, but now is no time to have any.”
“I’ll get the word out immediately,” she said, then paused. “There’s a kind of celebration tonight, they call it Oktoberfest, and there’s going to be a big town party.”
“This isn’t October,” L. J. said.
“Yes, sir, I noticed that, but it has to do with the hops harvest up on the caprock. They come in in late summer, sir. At least that was what they told me.”
“ ‘They?” ’ L. J. said, raising both eyebrows.
“Okay, Heinrich told me. His beer hall’s brewed up triple stock, and if they don’t have a party full of drinkers tonight . . . well, he won’t be a happy little camper for us, Major.”
“And he’s made at least one merc a very happy camper, huh?”
“Personal business, sir. What I do on my own time is my business, right, sir? Colonel knows there’s little enough of it.”
“Maybe too much lately, since there’s been damn few bad problems,” L. J. snorted. “Okay, enjoy your party. Make sure your desk is as clean as it always is when you leave, and be back at it by 0800 tomorrow. How long is this party?”
“All weekend, sir.”
“Lord, we’ll get to know real quick what our new Leader thinks of this stuff,” he said, dismissing her. And if there is any God up there who gives a fig about mercs, let things keep going smoothly for another forty-eight hours.
MechWarrior Brevet Sergeant Steve Torman, newly promoted, led his patrol. Eight years of putting in hours on night courses and every spare minute of sim time he could beg had paid off. His LoaderMech MOD wouldn’t stand up to a Jupiter, but, by God, it could face down anything this stinking hot planet could field.
Not that the locals had put up any kind of a fight. Not when you led a patrol that included a Joust medium tank and three trucks from the Constabulary’s impound lot. They were armed and armored and commanded by newly made corporals who’d only dreamed of getting a command when they landed.
So why was the lieutenant so hot for patrolling? Maybe the last ’Mech repair shop owner did have an overstock of gyros he couldn’t account for and three units stripped down but not being worked on. So what? Besides, patrolling wasn’t bad with the local kids waving and dancing along beside his ’Mech. The world was fine.
“Ah, Sergeant,” the motorcycle on point said on-Net.
“Yes, Private.” Technically he was a recruit, but being one of the first to join, and bringing along his own transport, he was already being treated as part of the regiment.
“Sir, on hot summer afternoons like this, we cool down at the swimming hole. It’s up here about half a mile.”
“Sounds great by me,” Sergeant Godfrey said from his Joust tank. “I could use some cooling down right about now.”
Some might consider Sergeant Godfrey senior, his being the highest nonbrevet rank. Steve started to say they’d skip the swimming hole just to show who was in charge, but the rumble of “I could sure use a swim” and “Damn, it’s hot” on-Net made it clear he’d have a leadership challenge on his hands if he called for a pass. Why not let them have some time to cool down? He’d hit his last checkpoint on the nose. HQ wouldn’t mind if they were an hour late returning. They’d be on their own time, and other patrols had taken to eating supper at good—and free—restaurants on their way back in.
“Let’s go swimming, folks,” he ordered.
He was just coming around a tree-lined bend when he heard, “Oh crap, the girls got there first,” from his point cyclist.
Through the trees, Steve couldn’t see the water. What he could see was a rock and a beautiful blonde doing a perfect swan dive off it—wearing nothing but a smile.
“Is there a problem?” Steve said, loosening his harness.
“Sir, it’s our folks’ rule. Everybody skinny-dips—like, who owns a suit on this planet? So if the boys get there first, the gals leave it to them. Gals got there first today.”
Three girls, giggling and laughing, went off the rock feet-first, hand in hand. No question about the skinny-dipping part.
Steve popped the release on his cockpit. “Recruit, let me explain a thing to you. You’re a merc. The Colonel makes our rules. You cross one and you’ll be up on charges so fast your head’ll be left behind with your ass. But if the Colonel didn’t make it, we don’t pay it no heed. Right, Sergeant Godfrey?”
“Right behind you,” the armor man said, bailing out of his tank, stripping off his shirt, and loosening his boots.
“Recruits, you’re on guard duty until some of us cool down and take your station. Understand?” Steve said, dismounting.
“Yes, sir,” came with a hint of “Why’d I have to open my big mouth?” but the recruits stood by with their weapons.
The patrol’s mercs made quick time through the bushes to the swimming hole and just as quickly were naked. Steve counted two dozen—plenty to go around. He hadn’t seen an ugly girl on this planet; those in the water were drop-dead gorgeous.
None compared to the one who did another swan dive off the rock ledge. Steve was first in the water, splashing and running for where he expected her to surface. She came up, wiping water and maybe surprise from her eyes, then brushed back her hair.
Steve stood only knee deep, letting her have a good look at all he had to offer. “I am Steve Torman, and you are my date for tonight,” he said, grinning.
She smiled at him, took a few strokes to get closer, then stood up, coming out of the water up to her thighs and offering him a view more spectacular than his wildest dreams.
“I am the Maid in the Mist, and you are my prisoner,” she said, smiling back.
It took him a moment to disconnect the smile from the words. “Huh,” he got out before the soft snick of rifle safeties clicking off drew his eyes to the bank. Seven recruits stood with weapons aimed at their maybe-not-comrades in the water.
“You heard my sister. You are prisoners of the Maid in the Mist. Get your arms up. What you do with whatever else is up is your business, but I’d be letting it down real fast.”
Steve glanced around for Sergeant Godfrey. “Oh, shit,” the man whispered. “L. J.’s gonna have my head and my ass.”
Steve raised his hands as a whole lot of him deflated.
L. J. came in that morning to a clear desk, a clear board and nothing but routine matters to cover. Not a bad way to start the last day before the client or Leader or whatever he wanted to call himself showed up. Mallary came to his door as he was settling into his chair. She had two mugs of coffee, a service not usually offered by a captain in the mercs. Then again, she looked as though she could use the coffee. “Good beer?”
“Heinrich said it was the best—no hangover unless you really swam in the stuff.”
“And you did the backstroke?”
“I did some swimming,” she admitted as her clipboard beeped. L. J.’s board did the same thing. They glanced at their com units, and said “Oh, shit” in unison.
L. J. mashed down his com link’s REPLY button. “Why wasn’t this reported sooner?” he demanded.
He found himself eye-to-eye with the duty recruit at the Little London Com Center. She gulped and hit her own PANIC button—the real one that passed the message straight through to the lieutenant
commanding the occupation platoon.
“Sir, they did not report in before quitting time. We had the watch set to keep an eye out for them, but patrols have been stopping for dinner at some of the high-end joints that offer them free meals. I don’t know if you are aware, but this weekend is a long one in celebration of the hops harvest, sir.”
“I know. Get to the stuff that matters.”
“Well, the sergeant of the guard was a brevet, and after a local recruit explained Oktoberfest is ‘party time’ spelled long, the sergeant kind of relaxed how much he was looking for them.”
“And didn’t inform you.”
“No, sir.”
“Even when you made your night rounds.”
“I was kind of delayed in my night rounds, sir. The Queen of the Hops kind of wanted me as her date, sir.”
L. J. rolled his eyes. Mallary frowned. Did they have a King of the Hops? Was Heinrich . . . ?
“Get a patrol out to find that bunch. When you find them, take their boots and let them walk back to post. Then we’ll talk punishment. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mallary, did Heinrich distract you from your duty?”
“I don’t know, sir. Maybe so, sir. But I think we have worse problems than that, sir.”
“Worse!” L. J. said as his board lit up, flashing red.
“Somebody sugared the fuel tanks at three—make that four posts, sir. I’m alerting all occupation platoons to check their fuel condition before firing up any vehicles. Sir, that may slow down Little London’s search for their wayward platoon.”
“Better to drain the gas tanks than to carbon the engines.”
L. J. paced to the window. Outside, everything was normal. So this is how it happens. Lull us, seduce us, then hit us when we’re fat, dumb, drunk and have our pants down. Damn!
If I had bodies. If I had hurt men, they know I’d hammer them. But this. Nothing! Damn! Damn! Damn!
10
Allabad, Alkalurops
Prefecture IX, The Republic of the Sphere
9 August 3134; local summer
