Patriot’s Stand

by Mike Moscoe

  Grace O’Malley was well back in the herd that met the new Leader at the spaceport. She’d wanted to be in the front line but had run head-on into a consensus that she be in the reserves—what they’d throw at the Leader and his mercs if things went bad.

  Besides, the ones who sugared the gas and pulled off not one but two Maid in the Mist routines figured they’d earned their front seats. Actually, one Maid used a swimming pool outside Lothran, so it wasn’t quite a Mist. Still, forty mercs missed roll call on the second day of Oktoberfest. In the past two days, the mercs had been too busy searching every rock, log and toad to party with their affectionate local friends.

  Grace surveyed the mayors at this landing and noticed that most hadn’t been here last time. Some were older, grayer heads, but many were younger and less averse to risk. The politicians were gone. Those who stood here knew their lives were on the line. Glen had picked Grace up that morning and sent her back to change out of her clingy red dress. “Something frumpy,” he ordered. She wore a green affair with no waist, but doubted it would keep her alive if the new Leader wanted her dead.

  The Roughrider Command Staff was there, with an honor guard. Grace hadn’t known Alkalurops had a flag. The mercs stood well off to the right, out of the line of fire in case someone wanted to mow down the mayors. Unlike the mayors, they did not talk among themselves, but stood stiffly at what Grace had come to recognize as “parade rest.” Knowing she shouldn’t, Grace ambled over to where Hanson stood, face-forward and alone in front of his troops. It was wicked to talk to a man under those circumstances, but Ma always said Grace had no sense of grace in social situations.

  “You enjoying our fine planet?” she asked.

  “It stinks,” Hanson said through unmoving teeth. “I understand we may get tornadoes soon. Maybe even a hurricane.”

  “Hurricanes are usually later in the year,” Grace said. “You ought to study our planet more.”

  “I’m taking a quick course in its military history,” the Major said. “Have you heard anything about made in the mist, or maybe the Maid in the Mist?”

  “I thought you had intelligence specialists to find out things like that,” Grace said.

  “Intelligence tells me they’ve heard that phrase several times, but I can’t seem to find it in the planet’s history records on the Net.”

  So someone had thought ahead and taken that section down. “Maybe you should talk to our elderly, who remember the old songs or stories that never made it into the big Net.”

  “Or I might find something in backups if it was only recently taken down.” He faced forward, but his eyes followed her.

  “Might,” Grace said as the sonic boom of the approaching DropShip shook the building. “I’d better get back to my place.”

  Now his head turned, and his eyes locked on hers. “Grace, I want my people back.”

  Grace knew she should ignore the demand. She didn’t actually “know” about anything outside Falkirk. Still, Hanson couldn’t be ignored. Grace leaned close to the Major’s ear. “Your martial law says, ‘Do not kill mercs.’ You have not harmed my people. We have not harmed your people, and we will not harm them if the choice is left to us.”

  Grace turned and started walking back to her place. Glen stepped out of line as she went by. “What was that all about?”

  “He doesn’t want his people harmed.”

  “Of course we won’t hurt his people. We’re not crazy!”

  “He doesn’t know that!” Talk ended as the DropShip settled into its cradle and the terminal shivered. Grace hurried to her place among minor mayors doing their best to look harmless.

  The sounds of a cooling lander were followed by loud noises, crashing sounds, shouts and curses. The mayors’ quiet gave way to low chatter as they guessed about each loud noise. The occasion had all the suspense of Christmas with none of the joy. Still, talk relieved the tension. Grace glanced at the mercs; there were whispers among them.

  Twenty black gun trucks roared out of Concourse A, with SPECIAL POLICE and a stylized vulture painted in red on them. Or maybe it was an eagle. The 4x4s circled the mayors and mercs, machine guns leveled, then came to a ragged halt. Four or five machine-pistol-armed men in black dismounted and leaned against the jeeps, leering at the mayors.

  The unmistakable clomp, clomp of heavy BattleMechs shook the terminal. More gun trucks drove down the walkway of Concourse A. BattleMechs stomped beside them on the heavy-equipment road. As the trucks gunned in, one BattleMech stopped, took two steps and climbed onto the floor of the terminal. The ceiling was just high enough for the BattleMech as it began a slow, menacing tread toward the mayors.

  “That’s a seventy-five-ton Ryoken II!” a merc gasped.

  “At ease in ranks,” the Major whispered through drawn lips.

  A few mayors took a step back. Beside them, others gently pulled them back into ranks. “Nobody runs,” came from somewhere.

  “We’re all in this together,” another whispered.

  Grace gritted her teeth and examined the ’Mech closely. The cockpit was surrounded by missile launchers. Four autocannons all seemed aimed at her. The fists on the thing could smash her flat. Something behind the hands looked like meat cleavers. Mouth dry, Grace focused on keeping her feet in neutral. I will not run. Everyone else can. I cannot.

  No one ran.

  “Isn’t that the Legate’s Ryoken?” someone whispered.

  “His wasn’t painted red and black.”

  “Yeah, but that dent in the left cooler. Remember two years back when that trainee, what’s-his-name, backed a truck into it?”

  “Shut up,” came back from Glen. Not as elegant as Hanson’s “At ease,” but effective at getting the civilians quiet. But if this was the Legate’s ’Mech, how had it gotten off-planet? Was that why Santorini showed up when Grace had chased that poor steward? If she’d looked in the right place, would she have found a Ryoken? More evidence that Santorini had the blood of Alkalurops’ two murdered planetary leaders on his hands.

  Behind the Ryoken came a Jupiter and a Legionnaire in black and red. The terminal shook with each step they took. One mayor whispered, “This building wasn’t made for those things. If they aren’t careful, they’ll bring the place down.” But the ’Mechs spread out, distributed their weight, and the terminal shivered less. Other black-and-red BattleMechs and ’Mech MODs came down the heavy-equipment road but stayed on it, heading outside.

  The Ryoken turned to face the mayors. It tried three times, like a new driver trying to parallel park a rig. There were snickers among the small-town mayors who spotted the problem.

  Then the room grew silent. Even the gun truck drivers quit revving their engines.

  The silence was broken only when the Ryoken’s cockpit opened to show Alfred Santorini in a jet-black uniform with silver piping. There was another long pause as he glowered down at them and they looked up at him. Grace froze her face in the blankest expression she’d worn since birth.

  “People of Alkalurops,” Santorini began. “You turned down my reasonable proposal to keep you safe from marauders and raiders. Now I’ve shown you how easy it is to pick off a planet like yours in these harsh times. Do not expect me to repeat my offer. I do not come to help you. This time I come as your conqueror.” That brought a ragged cheer from the gun trucks.

  Santorini leaned forward. “Here are my terms. Martial law will continue. Failure to comply with any and all of my legal regulations will result in summary execution.” There was the slightest movement among the mercs. Their posted martial law covered some minor stuff. Would the rules of war allow them to shoot people for such infractions?

  “Second, to support the security I now bring you, all sales will immediately include a thirty percent tax.”

  “What?” “That’s outrageous!” “That’ll mess up the economy,” was whispered among the mayors.

  “In order to provide an immediate source of operating funds for my administration, I am levying a twenty perce
nt tax on all lands and buildings based upon their latest sales value. Such taxes will be paid within the week.”

  Grace started figuring what twenty percent of her mom’s house and the mines would be—and if she had that much cash. Falkirk could go to a barter system to avoid money changing hands. Preoccupied as she was, she didn’t miss the looks that passed around the gun truck drivers. So they were Santorini’s tax collectors. None looked smart enough to count to ten.

  “Some of you may be wondering if I have the will to hold on to what I have taken.”

  The autocannons on the Ryoken came to life.

  In a blink, twelve mayors went down in a spray of lead that splattered blood, flesh and bone over the thirty meters behind where they’d stood. Grace touched a sting on her cheek, and her hand came away bloody. The woman next to Grace had a splinter of bone sticking out of her arm.

  “Rest assured, good people, I will hold what I have taken. I have no patience for opposition. Do it my way, and we’ll all survive these hard times. Annoy me, and you and your families will die. There are those on my staff who will make you welcome death—a long-delayed death.”

  Beside Grace, a young man stood as if in a trance. A shiver went through him. He uttered a low moan and took a step forward. Grace brought her heel down on his stationary foot, and he stumbled. People in front realized what was happening and fumbled for him. The man silently fought them for a moment, then dissolved into a hopeless rage of tears.

  “Is that you, Grace O’Malley?” Santorini said, adjusting his seat and aiming the Ryoken’s cannons at her.

  “Yes,” she said, then added, “sir.”

  “No more chasing after windmills, is it?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Grace said, backing down only so far. “Your way looks like a better idea just now.”

  “And for the foreseeable future, I assure you,” Santorini said. He turned his head to the mercs but kept his guns aimed at Grace. “Hanson, you have done well. I consider Allabad and the major cities pacified. My special police will take over your quarters here. Redeploy your units.”

  “Yes, sir,” the merc commander said.

  “Now I think we understand one another. Obey me and you will live. Disobey me and you will die slowly. You may go now.”

  Grace turned her back, not sure if at any moment the Ryoken would splatter her across the terminal concrete. She walked for the exit, setting a pace neither suicide slow nor obviously hasty. Others followed her. Only after they were outside and the door closed did any mayor break ranks. Some ran. Others fell to their knees and vomited. More sat as their shaking legs could support them no more.

  Grace searched the crowd for people she knew. “Where’s Glen? Where’s the new mayor of Lothran?” No one knew until a man, covered on one side with a thick spray of blood, looked up from where he had been emptying his stomach.

  “They’re gone. They were standing next to me, and then they were gone.” Grace nodded—those two had pulled off the Maid in the Mist drill. She glanced around and found that about half the towns that had sugared the motor pool would need new mayors. A coincidence? Grace doubted that. The DropShip might not have been talking to Alkalurops, but someone down here had been keeping them up on what was happening. Hanson? Maybe. She spotted the mercs leaving by a different door. Hanson glanced her way, made eye contact, then broke it quickly.

  Grace stood, wondering how she’d get back to town now that Glen wasn’t there to drive. “How do I tell his wife? His kids?” she murmured. Suddenly, getting back to town seemed a minor problem.

  “Major Hanson, sir,” Arthur St. George, the XO, said with a nervous laugh, “any rumors you might have heard that I wanted your job. Believe me, they are exaggerated.”

  “Stow it,” L. J. shot back through clenched teeth.

  The rest of the walk to the command van was quiet, and at the cadence L. J. set. He waited until they were moving, Topkick driving, before he let another word out.

  “In case any of you missed that, our client just splattered the mayors from the two towns with the missing patrols and about half of the mayors from towns where our vehicles were sabotaged. That is either an amazing coincidence or evidence that our client has sources on this planet reporting to him.” He eyed each of his subordinates. Each met his stare. “We will assume the source is civilian. However, I am feeling less and less trust for anyone from this stinking hole.”

  Does that include a redhead?

  “Our client wants us out of town, and wants our quarters for his . . . associates.” L. J. would not call them either police or a force. Maybe against helpless civilians they’d be dangerous.

  “Adjutant, see that all our troops, equipment, supplies and anything else with letterhead, a property number or anything that could be traced to us is on a truck out of here before sunset.”

  “Everything?” Eddie squeaked at the workload.

  “Everything. We will not leave behind so much as a scrap of paper that could be dropped at a crime scene to connect us to it. You understand me?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “XO, drop your sense of humor in the next trash can. Our troops will need all the steadying we can give them. That leaves no room for jokes. I want you to . . .” L. J. called up a map of the area around Allabad. The capital, Little London, Lothran, Banya and two others were taken. He looked for a good place to center his command. If trouble came from anywhere? There was Falkirk, way up that lovely valley. If he centered his troops on that threat axis . . .

  “Art, get to Dublin Town. Call ahead and tell the lieutenant to prepare to receive the command and support company.”

  “And a big chunk of three battalions?” the XO asked.

  That brought L. J. up short. Taking three battalions back to where he’d led out one had sounded great. But the vehicles with sugared fuel tanks had been under guard, and someone had to lead those patrols into whatever black hole they disappeared into.

  “Eddie, message to all detached commands. Effective immediately all local enlistments are canceled.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me. This planet isn’t nearly as pacified as it’s tried to look. And with a client running this place like his private madhouse, it’s going to be a lot less pacified this time next week. Anyone remember reading the histories of mercs used as covering force for power-crazy clients?”

  Nobody had.

  “Not likely to be posted in a Regimental Hall of Honors.” The van was approaching his HQ . . . his former HQ. “All right, boys and girls. We are about to face leadership challenges the likes of which you never dreamed. And that’s just among our own. What the locals throw at us will match nothing you’ve ever studied. ‘O Lord, for what we are about to receive, make us truly thankful,” ’ he recited, an ancient soldiers’ prayer.

  11

  Allabad, Alkalurops

  Prefecture IX, The Republic of the Sphere

  9 August 3134; local summer

  Dazed with shock, Grace talked with the mayors and Guild Masters in Allabad. They reached a consensus: they would keep their heads down and see how things developed before doing anything. Grace hoped that Betsy would contact her that night, but there was no knock at the window and Ben was emphatic that they not hunt for her.

  “You could not find her if she did not want finding, and she would not like the attention you would bring as you failed.”

  So Grace kept talking to people. Angus was outraged. “Killing those mayors was cold-blooded murder. Mark my words, we are in a land without laws. And this lawyer does not want to live in such a land.”

  The next morning the coroner’s office called. “You wouldn’t be headed north by way of Little London, would you?”

  “I guess I could,” Grace said.

  “I have Glen Harriman’s body—what I can piece together of it. Could you take him home or do I just ship him?”

  “I’ll take Glen back to his wife.”

  Wilson’s new 4x4 served
well as a hearse, but the stop was more than just a good deed. Little London was mad. When Grace brought their mayor’s casket to his widow, she walked into an impassioned argument over which street poles to hang the captured mercs from. That they would hang was already settled. Ben reddened and was opening his mouth when Grace stepped in.

  “Did any of these mercs kill anyone?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Have any of the mercs done anything since they arrived in Little London that made you want to kill them?”

  “No, but—”

  “No buts. Glen led you. He kept this place safe and the mercs decent to you. The son of a bitch who killed him is back there in Allabad, not here. What kind of songs do you think they’ll sing about the Maid in the Mist if we string them up?”

  “But what do we do with them? There’s a story going round that the mercs are pulling out and those Black and Reds will take over Little London. We can’t hold the mercs here.”

  “Send them to Falkirk. We’ll keep them locked up tight.”

  So Ben drove a small van north with ten prisoners, and Grace made a quick detour to Lothran to collect ten more. She was back at Falkirk and eating breakfast after her first good night’s sleep in a week when Chato and Jobe knocked on her door.

  “Have you heard the latest news?” Jobe asked.

  “I was enjoying a quiet cup of coffee and figuring how to pay my taxes,” Grace said, pointing at her ’puter and its sad proof that owning a mine conferred no income unless it was worked.

  Chato turned on the kitchen vid as Jobe poured coffee. A familiar business reporter was talking to Robert Carey, eldest son and scion of one of the first families to settle on Alkalurops. “I had my tax money in hand,” he said, waving cash. “But as the tax collector pulled up, another guy jogged up and made an offer to buy my family’s home, mines, ranch—everything. It was a good offer, but I can’t sell out my family. This land is ours. So as he’s leaving, he gives his offer to the tax man, and that’s the bill I get. Not what my inheritance was taxed at but this new price, ten times higher. I can’t pay that.”