by Mike Moscoe
“Oh, dear,” the man said. “This could be a problem. Where do they want to spend that money?”
“A place called Ally’s Goods and Not So Good,” she said.
“Ally Portencallens!”
“The selfsame gentleman we have in mind,” Ben said.
“I will be there by the time you are,” Abe promised. “I can’t think of a better man I’d love to help cheat himself,” he said, sounding very much like a man who had been offered a spare berth on the Olympic Haggling Squad.
6
Galaport, Galatea
Prefecture VIII, The Republic of the Sphere
29 May 3134; local summer
The yard of Ally’s Goods stretched over an entire block—a big one. A towering hangar with several bays ended with a glass-enclosed showroom displaying two nearly new BattleMechs. In the lot around it stood several used models showing wear and tear, or even major battle damage. A dinged ’Mech with a newly painted arm was pretty clear evidence that one had recently been ripped off. Several IndustrialMech MODs were also on display.
Sven took them to a human-sized side door. “Got some folks interested in your yard out back,” he told a mechanic working in a ’Mech’s cockpit.
“You know where everything’s at,” the mechanic shouted, waving them through. “You put most of it there.”
“Out back” stretched wrecks as far as the eye could see.
“I’ve heard there’s a nearly complete Mackie somewhere back there,” Danny said. “You ever seen it, Sven?”
“Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t—but it’s not that antique we’re after. Let’s see how good you ’Mech sissies are at walking.”
“Ah, such disrespect from the likes of grease monkeys,” Danny responded.
“No ’Mech, no MechWarrior,” Sven said, and took off at a pace Grace would not have expected from an old man. They walked down dirt paths with ’Mechs hulking over them on either side, some looking ready to walk out, others barely able to stand up. Many were already being parted out; right arms for assorted ’Mechs were piled next to a larger stack of left arms.
“I found what I want,” Danny announced.
“And what might that be?” Victoria asked.
“Here’s an Atlas with a kilt.”
“A kilt?” The normally perfectly controlled woman almost missed her step. Grace turned to find Danny eyeing what looked like a complete, if greatly scarred, Atlas BattleMech. Towering over them, it offered shade against the sun, but Danny stood well back to get a good look at his heart’s desire.
Grace studied the monster. “I don’t see a skirt on that thing,” she said, making sure to put a smile on her face.
“It’s there, sorrowfully just painted on,” the ex-Highlander said. Now Grace spotted a faded tartan among the rust marks and slashes from a line of slugs across the midriff.
“Now, I ask you, how could such a good ’Mech, with an obviously bloodthirsty pilot at its helm, ever end up in a place like this, I ask you,” Danny said, shaking his head.
Victoria sighed. “The pilot, no doubt, had tastes and misjudgments similar to our friend’s here, and paid the price for them. Mark the lesson, Sean: Intellect is nothing without discipline and control.”
“And life is not worth the living if you let Biddy keep you on a leash, boy.”
“Ms. Birdwell does know her battles and tactics, sir,” Sean said, the first time Grace had heard anyone “sir” Danny O’Bannon. He ignored the honor and continued to gaze at the Atlas as the others followed Sven.
“What are we looking for?” Ben asked the mechanic.
“The lady here can’t afford to buy the BattleMechs she needs, but she’s got ’Mechs of her own. Well, what we’re looking for are the tools to make the ’Mechs she’s got into the BattleMechs she needs. Tools, me boy, tools will do it.”
When they found a rusting collection of junk against the back fence, Sven grinned. “Now, there, young woman, are the tools that will turn your worker machines into BattleMechs.”
To Grace it looked like a pile of junk metal that ought to be recycled. “I don’t see anything,” she said diplomatically.
“See that rolling sheet over there?” Sven pointed. Grace saw a large metal box. Beside it were two sets of rollers, one upside down in the dirt. “I bet you thought when your friend Mick welded a double thickness of StrongArm plate to your pet ’Mech that he’d doubled your protection?”
“He said he did,” Grace said.
“Sorry to argue with a man who knows his motors,” Sven said, “but one plus one does not equal two in the armor business. Two centimeters of plate laid on top of two centimeters of plate is not as strong as four. You need four, or even six centimeters all the way around to distribute the hit, to give you the strength. That pile of junk over there lets me make a solid six-centimeter plate with all the composite layers in the right place. We need that,” he said, turning to walk up the back fence. “We’ll also need that shaper to form the plate to your frame,” he said, pointing at another contraption.
“How many autocannons you got on your planet?” Sven asked.
“I don’t know of any,” Grace admitted.
“I’m gonna need that and that to forge barrels and machine action,” Sven said, pointing, a grin coming over his face like a kid let loose in a toy store. “We’ll need to soup up the engines. Mick good at that?” Grace nodded. “I’ll need that carbon extrusion plant over there,” he pointed. “Adding all that weight to your IndiMechs means we’ll be needing to reinforce the frames.”
“Is there anything here for making rockets?” Grace asked.
Sven laughed. “You did homemade ones, right? They go corkscrewing off in all directions?” Grace nodded. “An autoclave is what you want. There’s a beat-up one down the other end. You said you used a Gatling gun. Six barrels. How’d you hold ’em together?” Grace described steel bands to hold the barrels to a central core and carbon blocks to hold the barrels in place.
“Did it stay sighted in?”
“No. I had to fire a few slow rounds each time to work the gun into the target,” Grace admitted.
“And I bet the raider just stood there while you did that,” Sven said. He wasn’t smiling now. Grace shook her head.
“That drill press,” he said, pointing to a machine on its side, “will need work but it’ll drill out face and butt plates that’ll keep Gatling guns sighted in from now till doomsday.”
Grace studied the man in front of her, walking through what seemed to her was junk and tossing off opportunities like sparks came off a mining drill. She’d come to Galatea thinking she needed MechWarriors. Thank God she’d found a warrior who knew how much she needed a mechanical genius.
“Thought I’d find you here,” someone said, accompanied by a soft hum. Grace turned to see a huge belly with a man attached driving up in a small electric cart. Abe Goldman was right beside him, a large strongbox clutched in his lap. Mr. Belly must be Ally, the owner of the Not So Good stuff she wanted to buy.
“Hi, Abe,” Grace shouted, then put on her best mayoral face and said, “And you must be the famous Mr. Portencallens.”
“Ally,” Belly said, extending a hand and a smile that had enough oil in to match half of Alkalurops’ annual production. “I understand you’re in the market for some ’Mechs. Why’d you let this old bum”—he waved at Sven—“bring you out here. The good stuff’s in front or in my new showroom. Why swelter out here when we can go inside, stay cool, and buy the latest model?”
“I don’t think I brought quite that much cash,” Grace said with as much sorrow as she could dredge up for the occasion.
“We do have some fine used ’Mechs. Repair work guaranteed for eighteen thousand kilometers or their first major fight, whichever comes first.” Ally’s smile got even broader.
Grace wondered how the guarantee defined “major” and decided she really didn’t need to know. She also noted the way Ally had deftly offered her the more expensive side of his bu
siness without denigrating the junk pile here. Tough bargaining ahead.
“What I was really checking out was your obsolete servicing jigs. Sven here thought they might have a few more hours in them. Not much, maybe just enough to make them worth shipping back to Alkalurops to see if they were what we needed.”
“These are not obsolete,” Ally said, and almost looked like he might come out of his cart. “We’ve expanded our service options for BattleMechs, things being what they are. I’ve already placed an order to expand my service bays so we can get back to meeting our customers’ needs for IndustrialMech maintenance. In a couple of weeks—a month at most—we’ll be cleaning up this, ah, stuff and putting it back under cover.”
“Looks to me like it’s been out here for quite a while,” Grace said, kicking gently at the drill press where it lay in dried mud. “When was the last time it rained in Galaport?”
“Six months ago or more,” Abe said under his breath.
“I’ll have to get on my foreman. I had no idea he was treating the temporarily out-of-use equipment so poorly.”
“Ahem,” Abe said, opening the strongbox in his lap and retrieving one of the gaudier African works in gold and diamonds. Ally took it in with a glance, then betrayed himself by letting his eyes go back for a second look. As he reached out to finger the gold and jewels, his eyes widened even more.
“Hand-worked,” Abe said. “Want to feel the heft of this necklace?”
“If you don’t mind my looking at your bauble. I didn’t know you handled costume jewelry,” Ally said. There was a noticeable sag as his hands took in the full weight of it.
Jobe stepped forward. “I dug the diamonds from the earth. My nephew panned the gold. My first wife cut the diamonds, poured the molten gold into a unique mold of her design, and hammered the diamonds into place to finish it. You will not find a finer piece of gold jewelry within the human sphere.”
“So you say, but I might want to have it appraised myself.”
Abe produced his ’puter, snapped a picture of the glistening necklace, and asked, “Who do you want to do the second appraisal?”
“Let me see yours,” Ally said, and whistled when Abe handed him a sheet of paper. “I should have my security man throw you off my lot. I don’t let thieves in here.”
“Pay a stone less and you’re the thief.”
And so started the haggling. It went on for hours as Sven and the MechWarriors dusted off items, prepared them for shipment and loaded them on a hauler. Ally ignored them, except to reject the drill press. “That’s gonna be needed here real soon. Steal it from somebody else, Sven.” Sven pouted, but grinned at Grace when Ally wasn’t looking.
“Had to include something he could yank. No worry, if you can’t find a spare press in Allabad, I’m sure I can steal one.”
Abe had surrendered about half of their stash by the time the negotiators were exhausted. That was when Sven turned to Ally and said, “We will need a few items out of your used-parts bin.” That took them inside as Sven dug through the back nooks of the parts room, bringing out three targeting computers, several targeting-acquisition systems, two very old but usable sets of electronic counter-measures gear, and a dusty tool box Sven said might be usable to upgrade Indi helmets to something close to modern neurohelmet levels.
Ally looked at the stack, eyed the rest of the jewelry, and called for coffee. Abe asked for a bathroom break. The two hagglers went their separate ways, with promises to resume momentarily. Ben ordered a flatbed truck to haul what they’d scrounged out to the port, and Grace bought tickets on the next ship out.
Abe came back, but Ally was nowhere in sight. “He must have a lot of daughters. His wife can’t wear all that,” Grace said.
“He has a lot of mistresses,” Abe said. “His poor wife will be doing well to get a pair of earrings out of this.”
“You didn’t bring the Navajo jewelry?”
“It’s silver; he’d dismiss it in a moment,” Abe explained. “Do you have enough for tickets? Your group seems to have grown.”
“I was about to ask you if you could help with that. I have some more diamonds I held back,” Grace said.
“There are three of us who will take about half the silver and some of the less flashy gold pieces. Do you want me to return the rest to you?”
“Would you be willing to serve as our agent and sell items here?” Grace asked. “None of the mercs have asked about their pay, but I’m sure I’ll need cash on Galatea for that.”
“I will, gladly,” Abe said, offering his hand. They shook. “Now, Ally is back, and I do not think I should have let him get away.” They had two hours to make the DropShip when the bargaining ended. Abe offered his car. From just three, Grace’s group had grown to include Ben and Danny, Victoria and Sean, and George and Sven.
“I would have liked a few more. The infantry slot is still open,” Ben said as they dismounted at the cargo terminal.
“You have room for one more?” Betsy Ross asked, sauntering over from where she’d been leaning against the ARRIVALS sign. “I don’t have anything going, and this place is getting boring.”
“I doubt Alkalurops will be boring,” Danny offered.
“Could be just garrison duty,” Victoria said. “Long hours of tedium interrupted by explaining to civilians who don’t know a thing about our work why they should pay us for doing nothing productive,” she said, eyeing Grace.
“If it comes down to that, I could sure use you working my mines. I have three of them that I haven’t been able to open for lack of ’Mechs.” She smiled wickedly, and Danny groaned. “But we do have good whiskey up the Gleann Mor Valley.”
“Maybe driving a MiningMech would be tolerable under those circumstances,” the Highlander muttered.
Poor Sean looked ready to burst out crying. “I’d really like to face one b-battle in my life.”
“You will, boy,” Victoria promised.
LoaderMechs sent their cargo off to the Good Sense to Stay Home III, leaving Grace with a bigger bill than she’d been told. Taxes had not been mentioned when she’d asked the cost before. Abe presented his smart card to cover the balance.
As they turned to the passenger lounge, a car disgorged a red-suited figure. The click of heels came quickly, as did her perfume that managed to overpower the smell of ozone and diesel. “What have we here?” Betsy asked. “Date not so hot, Syn?”
“Date was plenty hot. He didn’t tell me his wife was combat-trained. She showed up halfway through drinks and wanted to know who I was. I excused myself to the ladies’ room while he explained. He was on the floor with her standing over him when I got out, so I decided maybe I could use a job off-planet for a while. Ben, you still have an opening?”
“Grace, can you spring for one more ticket?” Abe said.
The eleven of them boarded a mere five minutes before the ship locked down for launch.
“Colonel wants to see you,” is not the best way for a Major to start his day. L. J. knew there were worse things, and a morning visit with the Colonel need not be viewed as a challenge. It could be an opportunity. Their last meeting had been to pin on his Major’s insignia. The one before that ended with orders to develop operating procedures for a raiding strategy. “An old military practice,” the Colonel assured him, “that though somewhat unused of late, is sanctioned by long years of use on ancient Terra.” Had there been a smile behind that?
L. J. paused before knocking on the Colonel’s office door to clear his mind of the thought that kept running through his head, like what had he been doing, working for a cold-blooded killer? Face set, L. J. knocked.
“Enter,” he heard immediately.
Colonel Ludwig Hanson V sat squarely behind his desk, looking as determined as the portrait of their grandfather behind him. His commitment to their grandfather’s glower often made it hard to figure out exactly what he intended. Beside him, Major Keith Thomas, the legal officer, stood at parade rest, imitating his own regimental ancestor’s port
rait hanging in the hall. His staff officer’s paunch made the image harder to carry off. Cousin Amadeus Hanson, the regiment’s Chief Accounts Manager, and committed civilian as his loud vest emphasized, lounged lazily in a chair across from the Colonel as L. J. reported.
Without preamble, the Colonel said, “You recall a few days ago when we talked about that potential client from Alkalurops that I mentioned an option clause in your earlier contract.”
“Yes, sir,” L. J. said, remaining at stiff attention.
“It seems your earlier client has contacted us about activating that option. Were you aware of a pair of murders that occurred around the time of your raid?”
“I believe the planetary Governor and Legate were murdered just before we landed.”
“Yes,” the Colonel said, turning to Major Thomas. “I asked our legal staff to examine our duty in such circumstances. Unfortunately, he finds no governing legal precedent. Amadeus assures me it has no impact on our contractual obligations.”
“I wonder what a first-year-cadet Honor Court might say,” L. J. risked. Legal and contractual finagling must have some honor.
The Colonel glowered at L. J. in step with the portrait behind him. “I had similar thoughts. Sadly, my duty to the regiment goes beyond what one dreams about in school. We have a contract, and our client has asked for the full six-month extension.”
“Six months, sir? The raid took barely three months, even with that long drop interval,” L. J. said, allowing a frown on his face for the Colonel to see.
“Yes, initially I found that interesting as well.”
“Is it another raiding contract?”
“No, Loren. We just received the full contract language, and this time he wants you to seize and hold.”
“The contract allows for that change of scope?”
Now cousin Amadeus had the good grace to fidget. “It seems that sections of the fine print are new language,” the Colonel said with a scowl directed at the civilian.