by Mike Moscoe
“Yes, it would,” the man agreed, and produced a scanner. As Jobe withdrew each item from the pack, the jeweler scanned it, made a picture, and estimated a value. Grace excused herself to the rest room, unstitched about half the diamonds in her clothing, and added them to the inventory.
When Chato produced the loose jade, turquoise and emeralds, the jeweler sighed. “Your gem cutters are exquisite in their fashioning. Why did these never come on the market before?”
“They are family possessions, passed down for generations. Now our lives depend upon them. Stones and minerals can easily be replaced. The life of a daughter or son cannot.”
The jeweler nodded his agreement.
It was past noon when he handed each of them a certified copy of the inventory in his care. Niki had watched the business with wide eyes. Grace glanced at her two friends, got nods, and turned back to the jeweler. “We need to change the inventory slightly. Niki, would you like to pick something?”
“Would I, but my granny would whap me something fierce.”
“Not if I tell her it’s a gift.”
“Well, she’d still whap me if I took one of those diamond ones. But that one,” she said, pointing at a silver necklace with turquoise teardrops, “she might not mind that one.”
The jeweler smiled softly. “She has chosen one of the most valuable pieces here.”
“It is hers,” Grace said, helping Niki put it on. “Now, Mr. Goldman, choose a gift for your wife.”
The jeweler chuckled, then ran a hand through the few strands of gray on his head. “You have my appraisal. You know what I consider the most valuable items in your holdings,” he said, and chose a lesser one. “My wife died several years ago. My daughter-in-law will appreciate the gift. Let this be the beginning of a long and profitable relationship.”
Niki got them to the Twenty-first Centauri Lancers well after lunch. To nonprofessionals, the regiment appeared to be a fine one, several battalions strong. The Major who showed them around invited them to afternoon tea at 1500 hours and a live-fire demonstration afterward. But the regiment was not at all willing to take on a contract to teach militia how to defend their own. “No, not done—bad show all around.” The task force the Major proposed was identical to the Roughriders’, the Lancers’ prices only a bit lower.
The Eridani Light Horse the next day were no more willing, though they were a bit cheaper. After hearing their moans about cost for two days running, Niki took them to the Ronin. Grace found out where the tall man with the long sword at the port belonged. The Ronin were operating on a tight budget, no frills at all. They even seemed to be rationing their words. Still, teaching a collection of part-time soldiers was beneath them. And their prices were not that much less than the rest.
Niki drove them back into Galaport. “You folks look like you could use a drink. Let me take you to a place I like.”
“Aren’t there any mercs that don’t cost you the whole planet?” Grace asked no one in particular as Niki settled them into a corner of Just a Wee One. A girl in shorts and not much of a top, who didn’t look much older than Niki, showed up immediately.
“What’re you drinking?”
“Whiskey for me, Kelly,” Niki said.
“Grape juice for her, Kelly,” Grace said. “A dark ale for me if you have it on tap.”
“My grandma—” Niki started.
“Isn’t here,” Grace finished.
“Nice try, twerp.” The barmaid grinned at Niki, took a beer order from Jobe, a tea from Chato, and left.
Across the room, Grace spotted Danny O’Bannon about the same time he spotted her, and raised a mug in salute. Ben was across the booth from him, head resting against its stone back, eyes closed. Grace opened her mouth to shout something, but Chato rested a hand on her elbow.
“Do not disturb one whose spirit wanders,” he whispered.
Grace closed her mouth and watched. The albino did not move the entire time she waited for her order. As the drinks arrived, the Scotsman silently worked his way out of his booth and ambled over to kneel beside Grace. “Not much company when he gets that way, but usually a lot of fun comes of it. I’m not a man to mind a bit of enforced solitude, but not if I can avoid it. How’s your search coming for a bunch of schoolteachers?”
“Not well at all, at all,” she said, finding her own brogue deepening around the man. “As you say, no real soldier wants to be nursemaid to a bunch of fumbling amateurs. Two, three hundred years ago, our great-granddams could fight their own battles. Is it that we’re made of weaker stuff, or has the battlefield gotten to be a rougher place?”
“Much rougher place. I’ve heard retired sergeants mumbling tales of doing things in battle that would get your hind end waxed but good if you tried them with the weapons and kit even a second-rate batch of mercs take to war. It’s just no place for the temp employee. You use many temps in your mines?”
“No, though I hear the corporation mines do. Doesn’t help their safety record none,” Jobe said.
“There you got it.”
“Doesn’t the fact we’re standing between our homes and those killing bastards count for anything? We’re fighting for friends, parents, husbands, wives . . . ?” Grace let the long list run down.
Now Ben was out of his booth and walking their way. “No one interested in taking your contract?” Ben said.
“No one,” Grace answered.
“You want to fight for your hearths and homes,” he said, as if still half in a dream. “Not mercs fulfilling a contract, but patriots standing between war’s fire and their homes, land, loved ones. That is not something we have seen a lot of lately.”
“Might count for somethin’,” Danny said.
“It should,” Grace said.
The ex–Nova Cat blinked and slowly glanced around the room as if seeing it for the first time in a long time. “It is not as if we would be passing up a grand contract, now, is it, laddie?”
“I joined the Highland Regiment ’cause they were lads who enjoyed a battle or two and a good scrap in between. But no part o’ me is enjoying this police work we’ve been surviving on of late.”
Ben nodded, looked around, spotted a long table and waved the group over to it. “Even you, short stuff,” he said to Niki. They settled down at the table, looked at one another, found nothing to say and just sat, occasionally sipping their drinks.
Jobe shuffled his chair after a long five minutes. “What’s supposed to be happening?”
Ben turned from staring at the door, put a finger to his lips, and said nothing.
Ten minutes later, by the clock above the bar, and the door opened. A tall woman wearing a tartan skirt, carrying herself ramrod straight, came in with a shorter, sandy-haired lad in plaid britches.
“Oh no, not Biddy and the boy wonder.” Danny sighed and took a long pull on his drink.
“What are you drinking?” Ben called to them.
“It seems to be about lunchtime,” the woman answered. “I thought I’d have a bite to eat. Sean, being of an age, was hungry, too. I didn’t expect to see you up this early, Ben. Daniel, I didn’t think anything could get you out of bed before three.”
“Maybe you’d like to have me in your own?” Danny shot back.
“You would need a hospital bed first, you drunken Lowlander,” the woman shot back, but she and the boy came to the table and sat beside Ben. “Who are your friends?”
“Their planet, Alkalurops, got tapped in a little smash-and-grab affair. They had some luck defending themselves and came looking for a mercenary unit that might contract for a detachment to teach their militia how to put up a better fight next time.”
The woman snorted. “Nobody is that hard up. Any takers?”
“None,” Grace said, tired of having people tell her she was dreaming to think a militia could stand a chance.
“Good luck to you and yours,” the woman said, and waved to the barmaid. “Kelly, the usual for me and him.”
The young man at her
side leaned forward to make eye contact with Grace. “Y-You’ve set a h-h-hard task for yourself. I-I studied for five years b-b-before I could even s-start practicing in a BattleMech.”
“I was driving a MiningMech before I was Niki’s age,” Grace said. “I’ve kept Pirate upright when half a hill was sliding out from underneath me.”
“But what do you know of preparing a battlefield?” the woman shot back.
“We dug pits, fighting holes and sapper traps, and covered over a draw to capture a hovertank intact,” Chato said.
Ben cracked a tiny smile. “Captured a hovertank. Is it working? Have you hooked a plow to it and put it to work?”
“Yes and no,” Grace snapped. “One of Chato’s boys got it working. He was studying the sensor suite when last we saw him. Might have copies of it by now.”
“So the farmers can learn,” the woman said, raising an arched eyebrow to Ben. He nodded.
“Someone say something about a tank?” Coming through the door was a small man in patched gray uniform pants and shirt, polished black boots and a hat. “Kelly, you got a brew and some more of that stew Victoria is so daintily eating?”
“On its way,” Kelly said from behind the bar.
“What’s this I hear of tanks?” the man repeated, taking a seat beside Danny. Before Grace could open her mouth, Ben quickly filled him in on Alkalurops in MechWarrior fashion.
The newcomer snorted. “One captured tank does not an army make.”
“We know that,” Grace said. “The raiders didn’t get all our ’Mechs. We can strengthen armor. We were working on rockets and Gatling guns.” That got raised eyebrows from the others, but the short man in gray shook his head.
‘ ’MechWarriors, MechWarriors, MechWarriors—that’s all you hear. But let those big walkers try to tramp across the battlefield without tanks and infantry to cover their flanks, or take down a temporarily disabled ’Mech or tank and you fancy-steppers will be in a world of hurt. Give me some solid treads on the ground and I’ll show you a thing or two.”
“We have hovertrucks and all-terrain tread layers,” Grace said. “We have 4x4s that can take some armor and guns. We have the start of an army. What we need is someone to show us what to do with it. How to use it. Won’t anyone give us a fighting chance?” she ended, looking around the table.
No one met her eyes. But this time no one told her to forget her dream.
The short man extended a hand to Grace. “I’m George Stillwell. I fight tanks. Would you mind showing me what this planet of yours looks like—the terrain? Is it good ground?”
Being a miner, Grace had a good chunk of the topography around Falkirk in her ’puter. She set it to PROJECT, and a good representation of the Gleann Mor Valley appeared, running down the table. Victoria and the boy moved their bowls aside and studied the map. “Raiders came up from the south,” she said, “the hovertank in the lead, a short ’Mech that I think was a Koshi next, then a taller one with small wings and lasers.”
“Probably a Spider,” Sean said. Others nodded.
“Mixed in with them were two armed buggies and two hoverbikes. They went off to shoot up Falkirk, here.” Grace stopped there, letting the mercs examine the situation.
“What was your defense force?” Ben said.
“Three modified MiningMechs and three modified AgroMechs. MODs consisted of extra armor and hunting rifles forged into Gatling guns, field burners and rockets. Also fifty or so infantry with hunting rifles. A few had short-range rockets.”
Victoria and Sean stood up, and came around to the side with George and Danny to look at the terrain. Sean started to say something, but Victoria talked over him. “You set up your ambush at this bend in the road. Probably split your ’Mech MODs two, two and two. Same with your infantry.” Victoria stooped to look up the valley from about where Grace’s Pirate had stood.
“They spotted you way back there,” she said, pointing to about the place Grace first spotted the raiders. “He would have deployed against you, one of him against two of you being very good odds. Did any of you get out?”
“I got my entire command out with only a few wounded,” Grace said.
The mercs emitted low whistles. “What didn’t you tell me?” Victoria asked.
“She forgot to mention the work my diggers did,” Chato said, and described his side of the battle.
“Surprises, surprises,” the woman said.
“Coyote is a fine trickster.”
“Ah, Ben, one after your heart.” The albino said nothing. “Still; cannot be done,” the woman said, returning to her place and the cooling stew. So did the boy.
“You got somethin’ better on your dance card, darlin’?” Danny asked. Victoria said nothing.
“You the folks from Alkalurops?” a woman said from a table well across the room. Grace had noticed her come in by the back door and take a seat. Her hamburger was just arriving as Grace killed the display.
“Yes, we are,” Grace admitted.
“I hear you want to hire a training detachment.”
“Yes.”
The woman, dark haired, with an olive complexion, took a bite of her burger. “Interesting set of tactical problems. Don’t see the political forces behind them, though.”
“You interested in taking the contract, Betsy?” Ben asked.
“A girl would have to be really crazy or really desperate to take that on. ’Course, I bet some of the kids volunteering for infantry duty might be cute. Let me know if you find anyone, honey. Gracie, isn’t it?”
“Grace O’Malley,” Grace shot back, feeling ready to throw in her cards and catch the next DropShip for home.
An old man sauntered into the bar, wiping his hands on a blue rag. He ordered a beer, finished with his rag, and when the stein arrived he turned to the full table, saluted them with the suds, then took a long pull. “Now, that’s a collection of bad luck if ever I saw one. Back in the days when I had a real job, just the sight of all you hot jockeys would boil my blood.”
Danny was out of his seat in a moment. He took Grace by the hand and pulled her across the room. “Here’s a guy you really need to meet. He’s the only man I know who can take in three smashed-up ’Mechs and give you back four. Sven, I want you to meet a miner from Alkalurops, presently in the business of adding armor and guns to IndiMechs so they can stand up to BattleMechs.”
“Glad to have known you,” the man said, ignoring Grace’s extended hand. “Let me know when the funeral’s gonna be.”
“Been in one fight and didn’t need any funerals after,” Grace said, tired of it all and ready to lose her temper for a full, redheaded run. “Don’t plan on needing much from the preacher woman after the next fight, either. Got a guy named Mick who can fine-tune a ’Mech so well, I once took Pirate dancing, not wanting to get tired on my own feet.”
“Your Mick that good with his gyros, huh?”
“Did just fine,” Jobe tossed in. “Danced better than my number one wife.”
“And don’t you know, that when that eejit Brady got himself buried in a cave-in, Pirate pulled out three loaded dump cars with their full loads and what had fallen in on top of them. Three loads at once.”
“So your Mick knows how to soup up an IndustrialMech engine as well as make a good gyro,” the mechanic said slowly.
“And get fifteen percent more from a myomer bundle than the book ever claimed,” Grace said, adding to Mick’s accomplishments.
“Hmm,” was all the old man answered.
A woman in a red bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination came in the back door and joined Betsy. Kelly took her a salad she had already prepared and a drink.
“Syn, you’re late. Missed out on a great discussion of how to get yourself killed helping hicks who don’t want to be fleeced by the next raider coming through,” said Betsy, her tablemate.
“There an empty slot in the raiders I can bid on?” the other woman asked.
“Thought you might want to help the farmers,” Be
n said.
“Me! You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone with time on her hands. I’ve got a hot date tonight. Poker. No limit.”
“The guy’s wife know about this date?” Betsy asked.
“What she don’t know can’t hurt my tight little butt.”
“Well, if you’re looking for something to do to make up for your wasted youth, you might check in at the port around midnight tonight. There’s a DropShip headed for Alkalurops,” Ben said.
“You going to be on it?” came from several mouths around the room, including Grace’s. All she’d heard so far were nos. When had yes entered the conversation? Hell, she wasn’t sure she wanted this bunch, anyway. There had to be better available than this crew of unemployed misfits. Yeah, right.
Ben shrugged. “I grow tired of doing the cops’ job simply because they fail to do it themselves.”
“You see something in that nap?” Danny asked.
“What I saw was my future. What you will live, you must see for yourselves,” Ben said, standing up. “Sven, these good people tried to do what civilians are not expected to do. Their mechanics tried their best with tools never intended for such use. I think it is time that you and I spent some time in a junkyard. You know a place with what they might need?”
“Ally’s Goods and Not So Good?” Sven said.
“I fear that Grace’s financial limitations will require us to spend most of our time among the not so good.”
“Can’t think of a better place to be.” Sven grinned, then downed his drink.
“You guys going shopping?” Grace said, nailing down proof that this was a serious, for-real deal. She glanced at Chato and Jobe. They were grinning from ear to ear. So was she.
“Yes. I hope your smart card has plenty of room on it. I suspect my good friend Sven and a few MechWarriors may have some ideas about how they want to customize their ’Mech MODs.”
Grace tapped her ’puter. “What’s Abe Goldman’s number?” Niki rattled it off before the Net answered. Grace called him. “Mr. Goldman, some newfound friends would like to spend some of the money you haven’t found for us for our gems and jewelry.”