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.