“Lots of people are playing at this,” Grace said. “And when the Roughriders’ client lands, we’ll find out what kind of game he’s playing. Then we’ll do what we have to do to close it down and send him and the mercs packing. Until then, play it cool. Put a face on Alkalurops for the off-worlders. And you girls—there’s no reason why you can’t take a merc to the party if your guy is taking one of their gals.”

“That sounds pretty fine to me,” Mary Anne said.

“Hey, that’s not what I had in mind.”

“Well get used to it, Romie; it’s what I have in mind.”

“I think I’d better go talk to a few folks,” Glen said, getting up from the table.

“Did I do something wrong?” Grace asked.

“No. I’m kind of surprised it didn’t come out sooner. But now it’s out, and I think I’d better talk a few kids through it.”

“Enjoy your job,” Grace told him.

“Oh, don’t I just?” he said, sighing.

Grace stayed in her chair as others circulated by her. There were people to praise and fine points to help them work out. She spent some time with the Harper Street Irregulars, their name taken from a vid program the kids liked. They blushed and stammered when she told them they were doing well. “But be careful,” she said, which got her accused of being just like their moms. She was late leaving the Beef and Brewery that night.

Glen needed a ride home and she provided it. “They’re a good bunch,” he told her.

“Have they had much trouble staying nonviolent?”

“A bit. A young hothead here, a boyfriend there. Not all the girls are toying with the mercs. A few have lost their hearts, or at least think they have.”

“I’d hate to be young, fragile and in the middle of this.”

“There’s something else. This Hanson guy thinks he’s won. Some of us think we ought to show him things aren’t done yet—like just before his boss lands.” Glen talked a few minutes about a small operation that would leave no merc dead, but their boss clearly on notice that things weren’t finished. She liked it.

“Your mom must have told you the story from the old wars about the Maid in the Mist?” Grace said when he was done.

He chuckled. “My grandma swore her grandma was the original Maid. ’Course, my other grandma made the same claim. Even my five-year-old mind was a bit skeptical. Still, they were fine, tough gals—just the type to pull it off.”

“Think Mary Anne is up to being the next Maid in the Mist and sending Hanson a message?”

Glen laughed. “It would serve Romie right.”

Grace slept at Glen’s house, on the couch among toddler toys. It was a risk to him, but it beat her using a smart card that was probably flagged for any use. She got gas from Wilson’s tank and always carried enough in spare cans to get her back to Falkirk. Being a leader of an underground revolt was not on her short list of fun things to accomplish during her lifetime, but it seemed to be what she had to do this year.

A hungry baby woke her at five-thirty. Child and mother were back to sleep by six. Grace was on the road by six-fifteen.

Major Hanson frowned at the message. Alkalurops’ “Leader” would land in two days and “required” him to have all significant town mayors present, as well as himself. Grace O’Malley had earned specific mention.

“Mallary, get this list distributed. Two days isn’t a lot of time. Tell Grace O’Malley we’ll provide her a high-speed transport if she can’t make it otherwise.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Raise the alert status to Condition Three. There haven’t been any problems, but now is no time to have any.”

“I’ll get the word out immediately,” she said, then paused. “There’s a kind of celebration tonight, they call it Oktoberfest, and there’s going to be a big town party.”

“This isn’t October,” L. J. said.

“Yes, sir, I noticed that, but it has to do with the hops harvest up on the caprock. They come in in late summer, sir. At least that was what they told me.”

“‘They?’” L. J. said, raising both eyebrows.

“Okay, Heinrich told me. His beer hall’s brewed up triple stock, and if they don’t have a party full of drinkers tonight… well, he won’t be a happy little camper for us, Major.”

“And he’s made at least one merc a very happy camper, huh?”

“Personal business, sir. What I do on my own time is my business, right, sir? Colonel knows there’s little enough of it.”

“Maybe too much lately, since there’s been damn few bad problems,” L. J. snorted. “Okay, enjoy your party. Make sure your desk is as clean as it always is when you leave, and be back at it by 0800 tomorrow. How long is this party?”

“All weekend, sir.”

“Lord, we’ll get to know real quick what our new Leader thinks of this stuff,” he said, dismissing her. And if there is any God up there who gives a fig about mercs, let things keep going smoothly for another forty-eight hours.

MechWarrior Brevet Sergeant Steve Torman, newly promoted, led his patrol. Eight years of putting in hours on night courses and every spare minute of sim time he could beg had paid off. His LoaderMech MOD wouldn’t stand up to a Jupiter, but, by God, it could face down anything this stinking hot planet could field.

Not that the locals had put up any kind of a fight. Not when you led a patrol that included a Joust medium tank and three trucks from the Constabulary’s impound lot. They were armed and armored and commanded by newly made corporals who’d only dreamed of getting a command when they landed.

So why was the lieutenant so hot for patrolling? Maybe the last ’Mech repair shop owner did have an overstock of gyros he couldn’t account for and three units stripped down but not being worked on. So what? Besides, patrolling wasn’t bad with the local kids waving and dancing along beside his ’Mech. The world was fine.

“Ah, Sergeant,” the motorcycle on point said on-Net.

“Yes, Private.” Technically he was a recruit, but being one of the first to join, and bringing along his own transport, he was already being treated as part of the regiment.

“Sir, on hot summer afternoons like this, we cool down at the swimming hole. It’s up here about half a mile.”

“Sounds great by me,” Sergeant Godfrey said from his Joust tank. “I could use some cooling down right about now.”

Some might consider Sergeant Godfrey senior, his being the highest nonbrevet rank. Steve started to say they’d skip the swimming hole just to show who was in charge, but the rumble of “I could sure use a swim” and “Damn, it’s hot” on-Net made it clear he’d have a leadership challenge on his hands if he called for a pass. Why not let them have some time to cool down? He’d hit his last checkpoint on the nose. HQ wouldn’t mind if they were an hour late returning. They’d be on their own time, and other patrols had taken to eating supper at good—and free—restaurants on their way back in.

“Let’s go swimming, folks,” he ordered.

He was just coming around a tree-lined bend when he heard, “Oh crap, the girls got there first,” from his point cyclist.

Through the trees, Steve couldn’t see the water. What he could see was a rock and a beautiful blonde doing a perfect swan dive off it—wearing nothing but a smile.

“Is there a problem?” Steve said, loosening his harness.

“Sir, it’s our folks’ rule. Everybody skinny-dips—like, who owns a suit on this planet? So if the boys get there first, the gals leave it to them. Gals got there first today.”

Three girls, giggling and laughing, went off the rock feet-first, hand in hand. No question about the skinny-dipping part.

Steve popped the release on his cockpit. “Recruit, let me explain a thing to you. You’re a merc. The Colonel makes our rules. You cross one and you’ll be up on charges so fast your head’ll be left behind with your ass. But if the Colonel didn’t make it, we don’t pay it no heed. Right, Sergeant Godfrey?”