“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 creamy 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.