“Right behind you,” the armor man said, bailing out of his tank, stripping off his shirt, and loosening his boots.

“Recruits, you’re on guard duty until some of us cool down and take your station. Understand?” Steve said, dismounting.

“Yes, sir,” came with a hint of “Why’d I have to open my big mouth?” but the recruits stood by with their weapons.

The patrol’s mercs made quick time through the bushes to the swimming hole and just as quickly were naked. Steve counted two dozen—plenty to go around. He hadn’t seen an ugly girl on this planet; those in the water were drop-dead gorgeous.

None compared to the one who did another swan dive off the rock ledge. Steve was first in the water, splashing and running for where he expected her to surface. She came up, wiping water and maybe surprise from her eyes, then brushed back her hair.

Steve stood only knee deep, letting her have a good look at all he had to offer. “I am Steve Torman, and you are my date for tonight,” he said, grinning.

She smiled at him, took a few strokes to get closer, then stood up, coming out of the water up to her thighs and offering him a view more spectacular than his wildest dreams.

“I am the Maid in the Mist, and you are my prisoner,” she said, smiling back.

It took him a moment to disconnect the smile from the words. “Huh,” he got out before the soft snick of rifle safeties clicking off drew his eyes to the bank. Seven recruits stood with weapons aimed at their maybe-not-comrades in the water.

“You heard my sister. You are prisoners of the Maid in the Mist. Get your arms up. What you do with whatever else is up is your business, but I’d be letting it down real fast.”

Steve glanced around for Sergeant Godfrey. “Oh, shit,” the man whispered. “L. J.’s gonna have my head and my ass.”

Steve raised his hands as a whole lot of him deflated.

L. J. came in that morning to a clear desk, a clear board and nothing but routine matters to cover. Not a bad way to start the last day before the client or Leader or whatever he wanted to call himself showed up. Mallary came to his door as he was settling into his chair. She had two mugs of coffee, a service not usually offered by a captain in the mercs. Then again, she looked as though she could use the coffee. “Good beer?”

“Heinrich said it was the best—no hangover unless you really swam in the stuff.”

“And you did the backstroke?”

“I did some swimming,” she admitted as her clipboard beeped. L. J.’s board did the same thing. They glanced at their com units, and said “Oh, shit” in unison.

L. J. mashed down his com link’sREPLY button. “Why wasn’t this reported sooner?” he demanded.

He found himself eye-to-eye with the duty recruit at the Little London Com Center. She gulped and hit her ownPANIC button—the real one that passed the message straight through to the lieutenant commanding the occupation platoon.

“Sir, they did not report in before quitting time. We had the watch set to keep an eye out for them, but patrols have been stopping for dinner at some of the high-end joints that offer them free meals. I don’t know if you are aware, but this weekend is a long one in celebration of the hops harvest, sir.”

“I know. Get to the stuff that matters.”

“Well, the sergeant of the guard was a brevet, and after a local recruit explained Oktoberfest is ‘party time’ spelled long, the sergeant kind of relaxed how much he was looking for them.”

“And didn’t inform you.”

“No, sir.”

“Even when you made your night rounds.”

“I was kind of delayed in my night rounds, sir. The Queen of the Hops kind of wanted me as her date, sir.”

L. J. rolled his eyes. Mallary frowned. Did they have a King of the Hops? Was Heinrich…?

“Get a patrol out to find that bunch. When you find them, take their boots and let them walk back to post. Then we’ll talk punishment. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mallary, did Heinrich distract you from your duty?”

“I don’t know, sir. Maybe so, sir. But I think we have worse problems than that, sir.”

“Worse!” L. J. said as his board lit up, flashing red.

“Somebody sugared the fuel tanks at three—make that four posts, sir. I’m alerting all occupation platoons to check their fuel condition before firing up any vehicles. Sir, that may slow down Little London’s search for their wayward platoon.”

“Better to drain the gas tanks than to carbon the engines.”

L. J. paced to the window. Outside, everything was normal. So this is how it happens. Lull us, seduce us, then hit us when we’re fat, dumb, drunk and have our pants down. Damn!

If I had bodies. If I had hurt men, they know I’d hammer them. But this. Nothing! Damn! Damn! Damn!

10

Allabad, Alkalurops

Prefecture IX, The Republic of the Sphere

9 August 3134; local summer

Grace O’Malley was well back in the herd that met the new Leader at the spaceport. She’d wanted to be in the front line but had run head-on into a consensus that she be in the reserves—what they’d throw at the Leader and his mercs if things went bad.

Besides, the ones who sugared the gas and pulled off not one but two Maid in the Mist routines figured they’d earned their front seats. Actually, one Maid used a swimming pool outside Lothran, so it wasn’t quite a Mist. Still, forty mercs missed roll call on the second day of Oktoberfest. In the past two days, the mercs had been too busy searching every rock, log and toad to party with their affectionate local friends.

Grace surveyed the mayors at this landing and noticed that most hadn’t been here last time. Some were older, grayer heads, but many were younger and less averse to risk. The politicians were gone. Those who stood here knew their lives were on the line. Glen had picked Grace up that morning and sent her back to change out of her clingy red dress. “Something frumpy,” he ordered. She wore a green affair with no waist, but doubted it would keep her alive if the new Leader wanted her dead.

The Roughrider Command Staff was there, with an honor guard. Grace hadn’t known Alkalurops had a flag. The mercs stood well off to the right, out of the line of fire in case someone wanted to mow down the mayors. Unlike the mayors, they did not talk among themselves, but stood stiffly at what Grace had come to recognize as “parade rest.” Knowing she shouldn’t, Grace ambled over to where Hanson stood, face-forward and alone in front of his troops. It was wicked to talk to a man under those circumstances, but Ma always said Grace had no sense of grace in social situations.

“You enjoying our fine planet?” she asked.

“It stinks,” Hanson said through unmoving teeth. “I understand we may get tornadoes soon. Maybe even a hurricane.”

“Hurricanes are usually later in the year,” Grace said. “You ought to study our planet more.”

“I’m taking a quick course in its military history,” the Major said. “Have you heard anything about made in the mist, or maybe the Maid in the Mist?”

“I thought you had intelligence specialists to find out things like that,” Grace said.

“Intelligence tells me they’ve heard that phrase several times, but I can’t seem to find it in the planet’s history records on the Net.”

So someone had thought ahead and taken that section down. “Maybe you should talk to our elderly, who remember the old songs or stories that never made it into the big Net.”

“Or I might find something in backups if it was only recently taken down.” He faced forward, but his eyes followed her.

“Might,” Grace said as the sonic boom of the approaching DropShip shook the building. “I’d better get back to my place.”