“Yes,” Betsy agreed. “He’s a loose cannon there, full of talk about his contacts with Landgrave Jasek and the Stormhammers. Strange, you don’t hear much about him from Jasek.” Betsy smiled. “For what it’s worth, I’m betting Santorini is deep into this—but what I’m willing to bet on and what I know are not the same.”
Grace nodded at the ambiguity. She also noted the quality of information Betsy had just given, far more than she would have expected of an out-of-work merc-infantry type. Who would know what was going on across three, four planets? Interesting. Back to what mattered now. “Will you be at the port tomorrow?”
Betsy shrugged. “Never know where I’ll be until I get there.”
“Have you heard anything about what’s going to happen at the port? Uh, some of us are—”
“Wondering if you need to bother buying a round-trip ticket?” Betsy finished for Grace. “No guarantee on this, but I’d buy the extra ticket. Worse comes to worst, your kids can inherit it.”
“I don’t have kids,” Grace said.
“Don’t blame me for your poor planning, honey. Now I’ve got to go. My break is sure to be over, and I’ve got floors to clean.”
Grace turned to say something to Ben, but he was gone as silently as he had come. She closed the window, locked it, and went to bed. Tossing, Grace tried to assess what Betsy had let spill. She wondered if more than the people on Alkalurops were concerned with what happened on this planet. No answers came to any of her questions, but she fell asleep trying to make some up.
The port parking lot was mostly empty when Grace drove into it. She’d skipped breakfast. Even with Betsy’s erstwhile promise, Grace’s stomach was little interested in food. Others got out of cars and walked toward the terminal. No one hailed anyone. Alone, they walked in silence. In the terminal hall, no one worked the ticket booths. No one was visible at all. Grace took her place in a group of people growing in disorder around Garry. She found a metal trash can next to a pillar; it should provide cover.
The building shook with the sonic boom of a DropShip entering atmosphere. Several mayors made a hasty retreat to the rest rooms. All came back sheepishly by the time the weight of the DropShip settling into its berth made the terminal groan.
For five long minutes they waited. Then sounds began to come from the concourse that led to Drop Bay One. Grace could not make out the words, but she didn’t need to. She’d heard orders being shouted at the merc camps. She’d heard feet moving in unison. Troops were disembarking, forming up. An engine gunned to life, and hoverbikes moved unseen. Deeper down, on the heavy-equipment level, she heard the unmistakable tread of BattleMechs. The building trembled as if a tornado was loose inside it.
The next order she did understand. “Forward, march.”
The tread of a hundred fighters marching in step came up the concourse. Two hoverbikes came out first, their drivers eyeing the group as they circled them. The gunners kept their weapons pointed at the roof, but it was clear that the machine guns rode free on their pintles. A quick bend of the elbow, a twitch of the fingers was all it would take for them to turn deadly.
Running feet added to the noise level as several mayors broke for the rest rooms, some for the second time.
Now marching feet filled the terminal. Two platoons, two companies—Grace had no idea, but there were plenty of hard men and women in khaki with guns held at the ready. They moved as one as they marched into the hall. Behind them marched a small group. Grace didn’t need to be told this was the command group—the Sergeant Major was there, towering like a rock.
Grace spotted him before she recognized the commander. “God damn you, you mercenary bastard,” she breathed, and meant every word of it with a flaming anger that fit her red hair and would get her a long penance from the padre next time she was in town. “God damn you to hell,” she said, “Major Loren J. Hanson.”
9
Allabad, Alkalurops
Prefecture IX, The Republic of the Sphere
11 August 3134; local summer
L. J. enjoyed the rush. He loved the cadence, the movement of uniformed and armed troops through the military ballet that allowed large numbers to move from one place to another with efficiency and poise. He’d been told by civilians more than once that it was terrifying, but to L. J., it was a thing of beauty.
Then civilians galloped for the latrines. Did they really think he’d shoot them? “Battalion,” he called, to be echoed immediately by “Company,” from the company commanders. “Halt,” he ordered.
The tromp of marching feet cut off like the sound of death itself. Well, maybe there was good reason for civilians to be scared. L. J. stepped forward. He spotted the fool who’d made himself Governor. L. J. didn’t know who his client was, but he wouldn’t give a handful of wet sand for this man’s chances.
“Leaders of Alkalurops, now hear this. I am Major Loren J. Hanson of the Roughriders. I am under contract to conduct the seizure and occupation of your planet. There being no military opposition in evidence, I will consider your planet seized and advance immediately to occupation. Are there any objections?”
He eyed the collection of trembling civilians huddled before him. They seemed hard-pressed to stay on their feet, much less to resist the troops surrounding them. No, not all. That redhead way in the back—she was more mad than scared. She must be from a small town because he didn’t have her picture. She did look familiar, though…
“There being no objections, I am placing Alkalurops under martial law. Violation of any of the articles of this law can and will be punished accordingly, up to and including summary execution. Your ’puters have received a copy of the new laws. Read them. Obey them. Copies are also being posted on your global Net. Note that civil gatherings of more than ten people are now illegal. That means the gabfest at the Guild Hall is over. All civil appointments are now subject to the confirmation of my officers. For now, you mayors will continue to function and maintain civil order. Fail in that and you will be replaced and punished as seems appropriate.” Damn. L. J. had read the riot act to drunk and disorderly troops, to troops on the verge of mutiny. He’d seen more life in the eyes of a two-week-dead dog. How could people call this living?
“If there are no further questions, you are dismissed.”
The mob broke for the doors. In a moment his troops were alone in the echoing hall. Not quite. The sound of one woman walking toward him with the measured tread of a soldier drew his eyes to the redhead. Lovely woman. Be a shame to kill her.
“Redhead is Grace O’Malley, sir,” Topkick said low behind him. “She tried to hire us a short while back on Galatea.”
“I remember her now. Sergeant Major, dismiss the troops to guard duty or work details. Adjutant, see to quartering the troops. XO, oversee the unloading, please.”
The woman approached as the Sergeant Major sent the troops to their duties.
“Should I thank you for not killing us, Major?” she said.
“Wasn’t called for in my op orders, Grace,” he said.
“Thank God and St. Patrick for small favors,” she shot back. “So that was you in the little BattleMech I fought.”
“I’ve never thought of a Koshi as little. Agile. Perfect for a long-range scout or a distant raid. What can I do for you? As you can probably surmise, I have a busy day ahead of me. And you need to get back to a small town up north, don’t you? By the way, if you check Section Two of the new laws, being under arms is a capital crime if you aren’t working for me.”
Grace spread her hands, giving him a good view of a healthy, athletic body in a red dress that clung nicely. “I think it’s pretty obvious I’m not armed. Or do you want to search me?”