The Eridani Light Horse the next day were no more willing, though they were a bit cheaper. After hearing their moans about cost for two days running, Niki took them to the Ronin. Grace found out where the tall man with the long sword at the port belonged. The Ronin were operating on a tight budget, no frills at all. They even seemed to be rationing their words. Still, teaching a collection of part-time soldiers was beneath them. And their prices were not that much less than the rest.

Niki drove them back into Galaport. “You folks look like you could use a drink. Let me take you to a place I like.”

“Aren’t there any mercs that don’t cost you the whole planet?” Grace asked no one in particular as Niki settled them into a corner of Just a Wee One. A girl in shorts and not much of a top, who didn’t look much older than Niki, showed up immediately.

“What’re you drinking?”

“Whiskey for me, Kelly,” Niki said.

“Grape juice for her, Kelly,” Grace said. “A dark ale for me if you have it on tap.”

“My grandma—” Niki started.

“Isn’t here,” Grace finished.

“Nice try, twerp.” The barmaid grinned at Niki, took a beer order from Jobe, a tea from Chato, and left.

Across the room, Grace spotted Danny O’Bannon about the same time he spotted her, and raised a mug in salute. Ben was across the booth from him, head resting against its stone back, eyes closed. Grace opened her mouth to shout something, but Chato rested a hand on her elbow.

“Do not disturb one whose spirit wanders,” he whispered.

Grace closed her mouth and watched. The albino did not move the entire time she waited for her order. As the drinks arrived, the Scotsman silently worked his way out of his booth and ambled over to kneel beside Grace. “Not much company when he gets that way, but usually a lot of fun comes of it. I’m not a man to mind a bit of enforced solitude, but not if I can avoid it. How’s your search coming for a bunch of schoolteachers?”

“Not well at all, at all,” she said, finding her own brogue deepening around the man. “As you say, no real soldier wants to be nursemaid to a bunch of fumbling amateurs. Two, three hundred years ago, our great-granddams could fight their own battles. Is it that we’re made of weaker stuff, or has the battlefield gotten to be a rougher place?”

“Much rougher place. I’ve heard retired sergeants mumbling tales of doing things in battle that would get your hind end waxed but good if you tried them with the weapons and kit even a second-rate batch of mercs take to war. It’s just no place for the temp employee. You use many temps in your mines?”

“No, though I hear the corporation mines do. Doesn’t help their safety record none,” Jobe said.

“There you got it.”

“Doesn’t the fact we’re standing between our homes and those killing bastards count for anything? We’re fighting for friends, parents, husbands, wives…?” Grace let the long list run down.

Now Ben was out of his booth and walking their way. “No one interested in taking your contract?” Ben said.

“No one,” Grace answered.

“You want to fight for your hearths and homes,” he said, as if still half in a dream. “Not mercs fulfilling a contract, but patriots standing between war’s fire and their homes, land, loved ones. That is not something we have seen a lot of lately.”

“Might count for somethin’,” Danny said.

“It should,” Grace said.

The ex–Nova Cat blinked and slowly glanced around the room as if seeing it for the first time in a long time. “It is not as if we would be passing up a grand contract, now, is it, laddie?”

“I joined the Highland Regiment ’cause they were lads who enjoyed a battle or two and a good scrap in between. But no part o’ me is enjoying this police work we’ve been surviving on of late.”

Ben nodded, looked around, spotted a long table and waved the group over to it. “Even you, short stuff,” he said to Niki. They settled down at the table, looked at one another, found nothing to say and just sat, occasionally sipping their drinks.

Jobe shuffled his chair after a long five minutes. “What’s supposed to be happening?”

Ben turned from staring at the door, put a finger to his lips, and said nothing.

Ten minutes later, by the clock above the bar, and the door opened. A tall woman wearing a tartan skirt, carrying herself ramrod straight, came in with a shorter, sandy-haired lad in plaid britches.

“Oh no, not Biddy and the boy wonder.” Danny sighed and took a long pull on his drink.

“What are you drinking?” Ben called to them.

“It seems to be about lunchtime,” the woman answered. “I thought I’d have a bite to eat. Sean, being of an age, was hungry, too. I didn’t expect to see you up this early, Ben. Daniel, I didn’t think anything could get you out of bed before three.”

“Maybe you’d like to have me in your own?” Danny shot back.

“You would need a hospital bed first, you drunken Lowlander,” the woman shot back, but she and the boy came to the table and sat beside Ben. “Who are your friends?”

“Their planet, Alkalurops, got tapped in a little smash-and-grab affair. They had some luck defending themselves and came looking for a mercenary unit that might contract for a detachment to teach their militia how to put up a better fight next time.”

The woman snorted. “Nobody is that hard up. Any takers?”

“None,” Grace said, tired of having people tell her she was dreaming to think a militia could stand a chance.

“Good luck to you and yours,” the woman said, and waved to the barmaid. “Kelly, the usual for me and him.”

The young man at her side leaned forward to make eye contact with Grace. “Y-You’ve set a h-h-hard task for yourself. I-I studied for five years b-b-before I could even s-start practicing in a BattleMech.”

“I was driving a MiningMech before I was Niki’s age,” Grace said. “I’ve kept Pirate upright when half a hill was sliding out from underneath me.”

“But what do you know of preparing a battlefield?” the woman shot back.

“We dug pits, fighting holes and sapper traps, and covered over a draw to capture a hovertank intact,” Chato said.

Ben cracked a tiny smile. “Captured a hovertank. Is it working? Have you hooked a plow to it and put it to work?”

“Yes and no,” Grace snapped. “One of Chato’s boys got it working. He was studying the sensor suite when last we saw him. Might have copies of it by now.”

“So the farmers can learn,” the woman said, raising an arched eyebrow to Ben. He nodded.

“Someone say something about a tank?” Coming through the door was a small man in patched gray uniform pants and shirt, polished black boots and a hat. “Kelly, you got a brew and some more of that stew Victoria is so daintily eating?”

“On its way,” Kelly said from behind the bar.

“What’s this I hear of tanks?” the man repeated, taking a seat beside Danny. Before Grace could open her mouth, Ben quickly filled him in on Alkalurops in MechWarrior fashion.

The newcomer snorted. “One captured tank does not an army make.”

“We know that,” Grace said. “The raiders didn’t get all our ’Mechs. We can strengthen armor. We were working on rockets and Gatling guns.” That got raised eyebrows from the others, but the short man in gray shook his head.

MechWarriors, MechWarriors, MechWarriors—that’s all you hear. But let those big walkers try to tramp across the battlefield without tanks and infantry to cover their flanks, or take down a temporarily disabled ’Mech or tank and you fancy-steppers will be in a world of hurt. Give me some solid treads on the ground and I’ll show you a thing or two.”

“We have hovertrucks and all-terrain tread layers,” Grace said. “We have 4x4s that can take some armor and guns. We have the start of an army. What we need is someone to show us what to do with it. How to use it. Won’t anyone give us a fighting chance?” she ended, looking around the table.