by Mike Moscoe
“That one looks like a hard case,” Jobe muttered.
“Anyone have a plan for us?” Chato asked.
“I’m thinking,” Grace said as they came to the end of the row of recruiters, where two men in tan uniforms stood in that kind of relaxed stance as only powerful men can. They were talking to each other, but the taller and older one’s eyes missed nothing. He cracked a smile as he took in Grace and her companions.
“Only the best make it this far,” he said, extending a hand.
“We haven’t made up our minds,” Grace said, taking it. The handshake was firm—maybe a bit of a test. She squeezed just a tad more than he did. Unlike some insecure men, he didn’t turn the handshake into a contest to see if he had a tighter grip than a woman. She liked that.
“Well, you’ve come to the Roughriders—one of the best and longest-surviving merc units in the Sphere. We train hard, we fight rough, and we win every time.”
“That sounds like a good unit,” Jobe said.
“To join,” Grace added quickly, smiling back at the men to keep them from saying more.
“I’m Sergeant Major Tanuso, this is Sergeant Godfrey, formerly of armor, now of our infantry,” he said as if rubbing an extra dash of salt in a fresh wound. “He will take you to our van while I see if there are any more top-notch candidates among the DropShips today.”
“Yes, sir, Sergeant Major, sir,” the Staff Sergeant said as he led the three away. Out of Tanuso’s earshot he added, “And I’ll be grinding you crunchies into the dust just as soon as I earn a tank back.”
“You prefer armor to infantry?” Jobe asked.
“I prefer riding to walking,” Godfrey replied.
“It is also good to walk good earth,” Chato said.
“Not when artillery is digging it up and throwing it in your face.” The sergeant grinned. “And you?” he asked Grace.
“’Mechs, I believe.”
“Any experience?”
“Industrial,” Grace said. “Me and Jobe both.”
“It’s a big jump from those low-powered Indi walkers to real BattleMechs, though we’ve got a few ’Mech MODs ourselves.”
Grace said nothing. The van was in the middle of the parking lot, baking under the distant sun. Grace was sweating before she got there, and found the van a furnace. “I’ll get the air-conditioning going,” the sergeant said, starting the engines. “Nothing too good for a Roughrider recruit—I mean, candidate.” Grace suspected that once they were away from the port, nothing was what a recruit would get.
The Sergeant Major showed up a half hour later with four more “candidates” whom Grace would not have taken on as mining apprentices. They looked tough, but they had that brittleness that she’d come to notice in “tough” men. They set up a chatter in the middle of the van that covered a low question from Jobe.
“What are we doing here?”
“We want to look at mercs. This ought to get us out where we can see some. You want to pay for the privilege?”
“Hope this doesn’t cause any trouble.”
“At ease back there,” the Sergeant Major growled. “If I want to hear something from you, I’ll tell you what to say. And Sergeant, turn off that damn air-conditioning. You trying to turn these candidates into weenies?”
“No, sir, Sergeant Major, sir.”
The tough guys shut up, and everyone started to sweat. Grace glanced out the window. Yep, they were leaving the city and heading out into country still barren from the last war—maybe the last three wars. Okay, tough guys, let’s see if any of you want to get out and walk back, she thought. Nope, the guys stayed quiet as pink-nosed bunnies hiding in tall grass.
The camp entrance was easy to spot; guards waved them through an arch announcingHANSON ’S ROUGHRIDERS,THE TOUGHEST OF THE BEST . They parked at the recruit barracks, a whitewashed adobe building. The Staff Sergeant was quickly out of the van, yelling at the recruits—no candidates now—to get off their duffs and start moving like they wanted to be Roughriders. The boys tumbled over themselves trying to get out fastest. Chato waited until the door wasn’t blocked, then moved with smooth speed to exit, with Jobe right behind him and Grace on Jobe’s tail.
“What took you so long?” the Staff Sergeant bellowed. “Give me fifty.” The boys dropped.
Jobe stepped forward. “I’ll give you fifty more than you can do,” he challenged the Staff Sergeant.
The Sergeant Major stood like a statue, his arms behind his back, only his eyes moving. Grace joined him.
“You want to be a MechWarrior,” he said through tight lips.
“I’ve fought my ’Mech, Sergeant Major. May I clarify? I am Grace O’Malley of Alkalurops, and my colleagues and I are here to hire mercs.”
“Alkalurops,” the Staff Sergeant echoed.
“You heard the man, Sergeant Godfrey,” Sergeant Major growled. “He’ll give you fifty more push-ups than you give him. Assume the position. And who told you tourists to stop and gawk? You will give the Staff Sergeant one push-up for every one he gives this potential employer.” The kids groaned, but went back to bending and raising as Jobe and the Staff Sergeant did their guy thing. God, I’m glad I wasn’t born with one of those things between my legs, Grace thought for the millionth time.
The Sergeant Major watched the proceedings, sweat darkening his tan uniform. Grace and Chato stood beside him, sweating as well. After the count reached three hundred, and two of the “tough” guys had collapsed on their faces, the Sergeant Major removed a com device from his belt. “Major Hanson, we have three potential clients at the recruit barracks. I thought you might want to deal with them. They’re from Alkalurops.”
4
Roughrider Base Camp, Galatea
Prefecture VIII, The Republic of the Sphere
26 May 3134; local summer
Major Loren J. Hanson was enjoying himself. He had a new promotion, a new staff job and responsibility for seeing that the forty-seven IndustrialMechs recently acquired by the regiment were properly modified. There were hints that he might get command of the new battalion being formed from them. Life was very good.
Then Topkick called and dropped a whole bushel of hot potatoes in his lap. No one else’s lap. The Colonel seemed to be enjoying himself far more than L. J. thought senior officers should with their clothes on. “You are our leading expert on Alkalurops, Loren. Handle it.”
“Yes, sir. Colonel, do we want a contract from them?”
“I’m not sure we could accept one. Your contract has an options clause on it. Client has two years to call it in. I don’t see how we could accept any other contract involving that backwater for at least twenty more months.”
“And I can make no reference to the existing contract. It has a gag clause covering the next twenty-five years, sir.”
“So go find something else to talk about with her. I understand she’s not unpleasant on the eyes.”
L. J. saluted. “Yes, sir.”
Halting his jeep at the recruit barracks, L. J. took in the scene. Sergeant Major Tanuso and two civilians stood in the sun. Someone had extended them the hospitality of the regiment in the form of large mugs of water. Staff Sergeant Godfrey and another civilian were doing push-ups, a bit slowly. When he heard “five hundred and fifty,” he excused the sluggishness. Four recruits groveled in the dust, apparently overwhelmed by this display of athletic prowess.
“Atten-hut!” the Sergeant Major shouted on L. J.’s approach.
The recruits stumbled to their feet. The Staff Sergeant tried to do a smart conversion from his position to attention, but something in his gut didn’t cooperate, and he ended half bent over, gripping his left side and trying to suppress a groan.
L. J. extended his hand to the woman. “I understand you are in the market for mercs. My colonel has asked me to introduce you to the Roughriders—the best force your money can buy. I’m Major Loren J. Hanson, at your service.”
The woman, a few centimeters shorter than L. J., with the flaming red hair and crea
my complexion that turned heads, accepted his handshake firmly. “I’m Grace O’Malley, mine owner, mayor of Falkirk and representative of Alkalurops in negotiations for mercenaries to assist us in the defense of our planet.”
Falkirk! Had he been trying to kill this woman a couple of months ago? If so, she had returned the compliment—very well, thank you. He forced his face into a mask, showing nothing at this turn of events. Topkick did raise an eyebrow. Godfrey made a face, but in his condition, L. J. doubted anyone would notice.
“If you and your associates will come with me, I’ll be glad to introduce you to what the Roughriders can do for you. Sergeant Major, are you busy this afternoon?”
“No, sir. Sergeant Godfrey can handle the recruit situation.”
Godfrey pulled himself up to full attention, struggled through a salute, and said, “Yes, sir,” through gritted teeth.
L. J. offered Grace the front passenger seat of his jeep. The two unnamed men loaded their baggage in the back. The backpack looked heavy for its size. Were these people lugging around their wealth? He’d never met hicks unwilling to trust a bank, but then, Alkalurops had been an interesting assignment.
“It’s getting on toward noon. Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Ship’s breakfast was a while back,” Grace told him.
“Why don’t I take you for lunch at the Officers’ Club?” That seemed to go over fine with her and the men in back.
“Sir, if you could just drop me off at HQ,” Topkick said, “you could pick me up after lunch.”
“That would be fine, Sergeant Major.”
L. J. dropped him off, waited until he was halfway up the path outlined with white-painted rocks, then said, “Oops, I should have mentioned something to him. Just a moment.”
A soft “Sergeant Major” got Tanuso to pause. “Print me out a cost sheet for a battalion. Add a fifty-percent surcharge, but don’t let it show up on the sheet.”
“Understood, sir. We don’t want to encourage them.”
“You got it, Sergeant Major.”
As L. J. returned, the three cut short their conversation. “Isn’t the sergeant allowed to eat with us?” Grace asked.
“The Officers’ Club is open to me and my guests. Sergeant Major could be just as much of a guest as you will be. However, the regiment has a long tradition of officers dining with noncoms only under specific circumstances. Tradition is often what holds a regiment together. For Sergeant Major to share a meal with me today Just Is Not Done.”
“I think I understand traditions,” Grace said with an unreadable smile.
At the club, Grace asked him to order for them—none objected to T-bone steaks, baked potatoes and mixed vegetables. During the meal Grace talked of Galatea’s hot weather and the ugliness of the war-ravaged land. Only when they were finished eating did she bring up her strong desire that Alkalurops avoid anything that might leave her planet similarly ravaged.
“Defense, yes, we need that. But we don’t want to become a target like Galatea. Yet at the same time, we don’t want to become a victim,” Grace said, putting down her water glass. “In past wars, we defended ourselves. Today, defense seems to be a bit harder than it was for earlier generations.”
L. J. studied the last of his steak. “Have you had some recent experience in defense?” For the next five minutes he listened as she gave him her view of the battle from the modified MiningMech that had opposed him. A woman mine owner was giving me all that grief! He kept that thought off his face as the Navajo, Chato Bluewater, described preparing the traps that caught his hovertank and damn near broke his Koshi’s leg. Maybe the Roughriders should pay more attention to combat engineers, he thought as he nodded to Chato. Then Grace explained what they had learned from the hovertank, which was not quite as disabled as he had been told.
“Yes,” he said, nodding as Grace ended her story, “our sensors are calibrated to detect heat, metal concentrations and electronic activity kilometers ahead of our scouts. You can understand how much a professional military unit wants to avoid a trap.”
“And how much a militia needs such ambushes if they are to have any chance of withstanding such attacks,” Grace answered.
L. J. waved for the check, signed it over to the regiment’s account and thought furiously. He still wasn’t sure what kind of contract this woman wanted. Until he figured out what she meant by militia, a general introduction to what a professional merc unit brought to the battlefield seemed in order. With luck, he’d put enough fear of the Lord into this redheaded Fury that she’d fold her tent, give up any hope of fighting mercs, and meet the next batch of raiders with milk and cookies.
“Let me show you our ’Mech practice grounds. Even though only a select few command BattleMechs, we introduce all our infantry to them. You never can tell when you’ll come across the occasional recruit with a natural knack for ’Mechs. Also, any infantry may be called up to close assault and capture disabled ’Mechs. We have mock-ups for assault practice, but they’ll give you a feel for what you were facing. You don’t know how lucky you were to have a mountain to—” L. J. bit off the “run away to,” and chose a more professional “retrograde up.” He had not seen this woman’s temper and suspected it might be easier to dissuade her if he did not get her hackles up.
“We met some troops without our luck,” Grace said as she settled into his jeep. The two men loaded themselves and their backpack into the rear. “Strange. The raiders didn’t stop to strip the bodies of personal armor. I would think that they would,” she said. “What’s your professional opinion?”
“I’m not trained as a raider, ma’am,” he replied, which was true. For the Alkalurops mission he’d had to develop his own procedures. That was one of the reasons he’d gotten the job. “None of us know anything about this kind of op,” the Colonel had told L. J. when he got the assignment. “Why don’t you see if you can figure it out.”
L. J. chose his words carefully. Now was no time to show too much knowledge of this raid. “From what you say, I would guess it was thrown together at the last moment. Used low-quality personnel”—Godfrey, for example—“who were quite inexperienced with this sort of thing. With the HPG down, there are many reports of lawlessness. Pirates and bandits who were small stuff in better times now try their hand at bigger prizes. Planets with no professional force can’t stop them.”
“Fortunately, they didn’t have enough backup or spare time to really strip us down,” Grace muttered. “What I can’t figure out is how they killed the Legate.”
“I was wondering about that,” L. J. risked. “You didn’t mention him in your battle critique. Why didn’t he fight?” L. J. had wondered about that when his client’s last report assured him that the Legate would not interfere with the raid.
“Because he was bleeding out in bed,” the large black man, Jobe Kang, said, “his throat cut before the raiders’ DropShip touched down. Somebody on Alkalurops was helping things along, killing him and the Governor.”
“Oh,” L. J. said, and forced his face into neutral as he drove them to the training field. His regiment had not contracted for murder. All he had was a faceless client’s promise that the local government would not interfere with the raid. Remind me not to do business with that man again, L. J. said to himself. Killing a man in compliance with a contract entered into by his colonel was occasionally unavoidable when two BattleMechs met. Slitting a man’s throat in bed—that was not something L. J. wanted to be associated with.
In the shade of the hangar, it was almost cool. “What ’Mech would you like to have a go at?” L. J. asked, pointing Grace at a dozen ’Mechs or mock-ups connected by supports and scaffolding.
“That short one,” she said, pointing to a Koshi hulk. “If I wasn’t fighting that one, I was fighting its sister.”
“Very likely,” L. J. said, taking her up two flights of stairs to the scaffolding that allowed access to the cockpits. “The Koshi is a light unit, good for scouting, and one of the less expensive to acqu
ire or operate.” There was a step down to the platform around its cockpit. “This unit is a hulk, so you’re not feeling the heat one of these fusion power plants gives off. Your MiningMech uses a low-powered internal combustion engine, doesn’t it?” The woman flinched at that observation.
“I never thought Pirate was low-powered, but is this for real?” she said, examining the painted wooden power readout. “What are these other things?”
L. J. knew a Koshi cockpit in the dark and blindfolded. “That power readout is a replica, but its values are real.” He pointed out and named the targeting computer and the ammo supply gauge. Grace whistled in awe at the number of reloads. L. J. casually dismissed the sensor suit with, “These may not be what spotted you. The benefit of a combined-arms force is that we blend the strengths of ’Mechs, armor and infantry, using each for what it does best.”
Grace swallowed hard, maybe more than a bit intimidated. “This monster was enough to keep me and another AgroMech running up the nearest hill. You train people to capture this thing. How could a single person do that?”
L. J. considered his options, and chose to apply the full power of the truth. “One person can’t, but a team is another matter. See that hatch just above the knee?” Grace nodded. “It’s locked and armored, but a close shot from a high-powered nine-millimeter slug can blast it open. Inside are the control wires for the lower legs. Yank them and the machine isn’t going anywhere. Work your way up higher to that hatch on the back—the lower one. Blow it open and you can disconnect the controls to the missile launchers. Now he can’t run and he can’t shoot. Slap a sticky bomb on the back and give him a call on the emergency channel. If he doesn’t pop the cockpit and come out, you blow the reactor and he’s a very dead MechWarrior.”
Grace shook her head. “Assuming his friends don’t shoot you down while you’re doing any of that.”
L. J. chuckled. “That is the usual problem in an assault.” While the redhead mulled that over, L. J. continued to overload her. “Would you like to refight your battle?” Few MechWarriors ever passed up a chance to go over a victory or a loss.