by Mike Moscoe
L. J. doubted those mechanics were half as good as the ones the redhead had up in her valley. He also wondered how many of them were heading there. Hang a laser on an internal-combustion-powered ’Mech?! Maybe a laser pointer for a really big briefing. So the Leader was increasing his troops and his ’Mechs. Well, he’d need all the help he could get, because in three months L. J. and his battalion were out of here. L. J. printed the note and took it down to Intelligence. Mallary was away, which gave L. J. an excuse to talk to the Chief Warrant Officer, who really ran Intelligence. A mustang, he’d risen through the ranks. It was said he could smell bad intel. L. J. needed that nose.
“You got another one of those letters for us,” Chief Mohamot said, smiling eagerly.
“The same. She still won’t take my job offer,” L. J. said, handing over the note.
The Chief read it quickly. “Can’t blame her for holding on to the job she has if it comes with perks like a get-out-of-rape-free card from our client,” he said, then his eyes got wide. “How’d she get privy to table talk about ’Mech MODs?”
“Good question. She knows the cook well. Maybe she pulled temp duty as a server.”
“Possible, sir, but I wonder if this isn’t too good to be true.”
“You don’t think Betty’s authentic?”
“Sir, I have to doubt everything I know about Betty because I know so little about her. I don’t know where she comes from. I don’t know who she likes, hates, has a bone to pick with. She’s a clean slate that gets written on, that I don’t know how to interpret. That’s what you pay me for, sir.”
The room suddenly got darker. L. J. glanced around, looking for the reason, when he realized that every monitor in the room had gone blank. “Net seems to be down,” Chief said. “I’ll give Network Disservices a holler.”
“Network Services,” someone shouted from down the hall, “is not responsible for what you are not seeing on your screens. The Net ain’t down, it’s gone. Gone on this whole stinking planet!”
The Chief stood. “I guess it starts now, sir.”
L. J. held his next staff meeting on the parade ground in front of his HQ. It was the best place to be until Network Services got a backup local Net online. It gave him a good view of his command as it went, like a kicked-over hornet’s nest, from ThreatCon Three to Four-plus. To an uninformed observer such as Santorini, it might look like frantic action going nowhere, but L. J. knew what every one of his men and women were doing, and provided the supervision that got them over the few rough spots.
For example, the Chief paraded his Intelligence staff in full combat gear in less than ten minutes. “You got any assignment for us? We got no data to mine, sir.”
“You have your backup databases on this pesthole?”
“Everything on Alkalurops is right here.” The Chief patted a small bulge in his battle gear. So did those behind him.
“Hold here. When we see how bad it is, I’ll let you know.”
“We got a cycle coming up the road,” someone bellowed from the front gate. “Appears unarmed. One man, no large packs.”
“Tell the guard to stop him, search him, and send him in here on foot,” L. J. told an Intelligence guy and sent him off in the ancient role of a runner. Two minutes later he returned with a small short-haired woman in shorts, sandals and a halter top.
“After the pat-down your guards gave me, I feel we ought to at least be engaged,” she growled. “I mean, where would I hide anything in this getup?”
“I apologize for their thoroughness. Our Net has been cut, and we are still trying to figure out what’s happening.”
“That’s why the mayor, my husband, sent me here,” the woman said, spreading her feet, resting hands on hips, and taking on the gravity of a formal representative. “Our Net’s down, too. We don’t know why, but we want you to know we didn’t do it. We suspect it had something to do with what happened down south.”
L. J. frowned. “What happened down south?”
“You don’t know?”
“Would you please tell me.” L. J. knew that the woman might soon be certified as his enemy. She had to know, too.
“Won’t do us any good if you only get his side of the story.” She quickly told him what the farmer and his boys had done. “Pretty much rendered them down to liquid fertilizer fit for, say, ten acres. Some started a bit on the fat side,” she finished.
“Thank you,” L. J. said. So it had started. “Specialist, escort this young woman from the post. She entered under a flag of truce. She leaves under regimental protection, understood?”
“Sir. This way, ma’am.”
“Eddie!” L. J. shouted.
“The move was started before the blackout. I’ve got the detachments coming up on backup shortwave radio. What are your orders, sir?”
Eddie Thomas had a tendency to coast on his family name. Then there were days like today when you realized being a merc was in the blood. “Have all forces commence immediate road movement. Use extreme caution. All units fall back on Dublin Town. Avoid city centers. Cross country if necessary.”
“I’ll get that out immediately, sir.”
“We have one chance,” L. J. said as Eddie double-timed off.
“What’s that, sir?” Mallary asked.
“The local opposition didn’t know what those damn farmers were going to do any more than we did.”
“I’m not sure the farmers knew what they were doing before they did it,” the Chief said. “Taking an autoscythe to unarmored people,” he finished with a slight shiver.
L. J.’s ’puter beeped and flashed red. He held it up. “I was under the impression the Net was down.”
“It is down when I want it down. There’s no reason for me to provide it to my enemies. When I want it up, it will be up.” Santorini’s voice came back at him, cold and dry and maybe a bit brittle and scared. “Are you aware, Major, of the disorder?”
“No, sir,” L. J. said, unwilling to admit he’d been talking with what now had to be considered the enemy.
“A dozen farmers attacked a Special Police patrol today. Unprovoked. Totally uncalled-for. They lured them into the farm country with a cry for help, then attacked them from hiding. They are now fleeing north, toward those troublemakers at Falkirk. I want them stopped. I want the lot of them hanging from the nearest pole, along with anyone who helps them.” Santorini was shouting now. L. J. held his ’puter at arm’s length. Everyone around him heard the orders.
“Sir,” L. J. said softly, holding the ’puter closer only when the man fell silent, “I am not in a position to immediately comply with your orders.”
L. J. got the ’puter back at arm’s length just as Santorini shouted, “And why not?!”
“Based on the worsening conditions, I began a concentration of my battalion so I would be in a position to immediately respond if you were to issue future orders. At the moment my platoons are scattered and in transit.”
“You are again telling me you will not follow my orders!”
“I am informing you that I cannot at this time launch the operation you request. The situation is in flux at the moment, and the opposition’s action is temporally inside our decision cycle, sir,” L. J. said, recording his reply for the competency hearing he was sure to face.
“Then I will do it with my own Special Police. If it is not beyond your competency, Major, please inform me when your command is once again able to function in accordance with the contractual commitments signed by your regimental commander.”
L. J.’s ’puter clicked off, and his access to the Net vanished with his client’s call.
Art whistled. “Better get my dress uniform pressed.”
“Better get your head on straight or you won’t be alive to wear it,” L. J. snapped. “All of you. Forget peacetime drill, forget the candy-assed garrison shit. This is no sim. The worst that can happen to you is not an umpire bawling you out. Now you can end up very dead. Understood? Now it’s real!”
Ar
t and Mallary looked on the pale side. So did a lot of the troops standing close at hand. The Sergeant Major and the Chief exchanged a look, let tight hints of smiles cross their lips, then turned to him, came to attention with a soft snap, and saluted. “Yes, sir,” they said.
There are moments that a commander will treasure forever.
Assuming they live the week out.
“Sergeant Major, Chief, see that the word gets to the troops here in camp. Mallary, get that word out to the troops in transit. This is no longer a Sunday picnic.”
“Sir,” and those with orders were gone. L. J. looked at Art. “So, XO, how fast can we concentrate the battalion and move it to the mouth of the Gleann Mor Valley?”
Art pulled a map from a case he wore at his side. “Always knew there was a reason why I kept paper maps around.” He unfolded the right map and they stooped in the sun to study it.
Betsy Ross dusted the books in Alfred Santorini’s library, which also served as his office. The books were old-fashioned, bound in leather. She had never seen him actually open one. She’d heard that the books had belonged to the Legate. The man probably hadn’t been killed for his library, but lately people had died for less.
Bad times. So Betsy wore makeup that splotched her skin, thick black-rimmed glasses, and a frumpy gray dress with no waistline. Today the loose clothes that hid her figure from leering eyes also covered a comprehensive electronic suite.
She dusted as Santorini screamed at the poor Major. Loren Hanson had drawn a hell of a mission. Reports placed him as smart and a comer. He might survive Santorini. Slamming his hand down on the com link, Santorini stormed out of the room, leaving his work-station on. He’d done that before but never after turning off the entire network. Suddenly, Betsy had access to everything Santorini had, no competition to share it with.
Betsy continued dusting as she slipped her right hand inside her dress and began keying her ’puter to action. A quick glance showed that Santorini’s computer presented the same screen to the world even as Betsy’s computer hijacked its processing. Betsy’s ugly glasses now showed her both books to dust, and file after file of coded and encrypted data. Quickly her spy system ducked inside files, hunting for keywords. Any that matched her interest were dumped to the storage that hung between her shoulder blades.
As she dusted, she viewed the files that produced strong hits. Some files by their very nature told her a lot. She wasn’t surprised to find two sets of books, one for Lenzo Computing and one that seemed to match more with what she knew was going on. She was surprised to find a third set and a fourth. That was something Ben and Grace might want to see.
She was examining the fourth set when Santorini stomped back in, one of his more nasty minions following. “None of them—not one of those farmers gets out alive.”
“They’re heading for that damn valley,” Field Marshal Pillow said, his short frame resplendent in a silver-encrusted uniform.
“Get them before they get there.”
“Might have some trouble with the locals along the way. They might not want to tell me what they know.”
“Hang ’em. Hang ’em upside down with their—” What followed was a plan for mutilating the dead—no, the dying—that exceeded anything Betsy had ever heard of, and she considered herself very well read in her specialty. She dusted and dug out more files. That fourth spreadsheet had to have some documentation around it. Just having a “What if I don’t have to pay my mercenaries?” spreadsheet did not constitute a conspiracy to violate a contract. But how could Santorini avoid paying his bills? What would he do with the mercs he wasn’t paying? Somewhere there had to be a letter, an e-note.
She’d dusted all there was to dust—or at least all she’d risk dusting with Santorini around. She gritted her teeth and slid the ladder out. Climbing it would let her dust the high shelves. It would also show her legs—something cosmetics and frumpy dresses couldn’t hide. Still searching Santorini’s files, she climbed, dusted, rolled herself along, dusted, searched files, tried to ignore the horrors spoken below her, dusted, searched.
Cackling, the Black and Red ushered himself out. Betsy found the memo that explained the last spreadsheet and swallowed a low whistle at Santorini’s audacity. Ready to leave, she started down the ladder only to find Santorini’s cold eyes on her.
“You have very nice legs,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Santorini.”
“Call me Alfred,” he said, coming to steady the ladder and running a cold hand up her leg well past the hem.
“I—I couldn’t do that,” she said, feigning growing terror as she calculated the situation. Given the right circumstances and distractions, she could twist out of her dress and her search suite in one easy motion that would leave Santorini none the wiser. She managed to get down the ladder with her dress still on. That offered her more options. Hiding coyly behind the feather duster, she let him see her undo her top button, then whirled away to put distance between them. She didn’t think he actually killed his sex partners. Most departing staff left in a hurry, but only three had not come back for their last paycheck.
Betsy could live with those odds if that was what it took to stay alive long enough to give Grace the answers to all her questions.
Grace tried to look as confident as Ben did standing beside her. Around the table, now covered with the best map they had of the valley and the high plains beyond, stood the new commanders. Months ago most had been farmers or miners or store owners. Now they led the army on which the future of Alkalurops hung.
God, St. Patrick and St. Michael help us all.
“Sean and I will lead twelve of our ’Mechs, the armed hovertrucks and all the infantry we can cram in them down the west foothills along this road.” Ben tapped the tiny town of Nazareth, just south of where the Galty Range petered out. “Once here, my force will strike into the badlands and make contact with the running farmers. I assume they will be racing up side roads as fast as their trucks and ’Mechs can go. If I make contact, I will lead them into the valley, give them a guide and set up Blocking Force West.” The others around the table nodded.
“Victoria, you get the center. Take most of what we have, advance up the valley on the main road to here.” He pointed at Amarillo, the largest town anywhere in the valley, “Organize your defenses in front of Amarillo and dig in.”
He nodded at Chato. “The Navajos will help anyone still unclear that a shovel is the infantry’s second-best friend after his rifle or rocket. The only good road into the valley runs through Amarillo. They will hit it first. As soon as I get back in touch with you on our right, we can look at me nibbling their left. If I’m engaged, we will modify our plans.”
“I just love the smell of freshly baked plans in the morning,” Danny said with a fraudulent sigh.
“Which leaves the rest to me,” Syn said, crinkling her nose at the map. “Who’s all mine?”
“I’m with you,” Jobe said, “and the Donga River crew.”
Grace knew Ben wanted that crew. The west side put them closer to their homes, but Jobe and Syn’s affair was too hot to ignore. “Just remember to keep your ass in your ’Mech when it matters,” Grace said, “or someone may shoot it off you.”
“Nobody’s done it yet,” Syn said in a sultry voice.
“There is always a first time,” Ben pointed out.
“That was a long time ago. Who else do I get?”
Ben turned to Danny. “You go with the eastern detachment if Victoria does not want you.”
The woman sniffed at the man as she might at a rat six days dead. “I’ll need him,” she said.
“Wilson, you back up to the east side,” Grace said, putting at least one levelheaded adult with that team.
“I’ll pick up more ranch hands as we move down the valley,” he said, fingering the map. “This edge of the valley is rough. You need to know it or you lose a lot of cows up these draws. If I get some rangers right off these spreads, we can tickle those mercs where they aren
’t expecting.”
“You do that,” Ben said, imitating Grace ordering people to do what they wanted to do. A chuckle ran around the table.
“Is Amarillo where we m-make our stand?” Sean asked.
“No,” Grace said, stepping closer to the map and taking full command. “We’re trained, but nowhere near good enough to survive a stand-up fight with the Roughriders. No, we’ll fight a series of short skirmishes, causing what casualties we can, then fall back before they can cut us up. Fight, fall back, fight, fall back, that’s the best we can hope to do at first.
“However, as we gain confidence and experience, we’ll fight longer and fall back shorter. Here—“she slammed her fist down on Falkirk—“here is where we make our stand.”
“Our last stand,” someone whispered.
“A patriot’s stand,” Grace shot back. “Ho will stay here. The women and bigger kids from up in the hills will take over Falkirk once we’re gone. They’ve got a lot of digging to do. When we get back, you’ll find their sweat and blisters have made this land ready for a fight.”
Grace let her eyes travel around the table, taking each person in for a moment, then going to the next. “Battle-tested and true, here we will make a fight. A fight that no one will forget, so long as Alkalurops spins among the stars.”
13
In and Around Nazareth, Alkalurops
Prefecture IX, The Republic of the Sphere
22 August 3134; local summer
Benjork Lone Cat led the ’Mechs and gun trucks of his task force south as quickly as he dared push trainees. Aware that the farmers were fleeing north, hounded by Black and Reds, the militia responded like pros. Only twenty hours later Benjork strode up the dusty, wide road into Nazareth. As Sean oversaw refueling the ’Mechs and rigs, Benjork dismounted and turned to the half-dozen men lounging in front of the town’s one store.