“That about covers it, sir.”

“Captain, see that this is read to all personnel at morning formation. Inform the officers that if I have to flog a trooper, his officer will be strung up right beside him, taking lash for lash, fifty in all, and wishing I would hang him, too.” L. J. slowly took in his staff. These were tough orders, but their situation would allow nothing less. No one questioned him.

“That will be done, Major,” Eddie said.

“Very good.” L. J. glanced around the room, now vacant except for his XO, ops, adjutant and Topkick. “We have problems. I want ideas—ideas far beyond any book written.”

“I don’t think the regiment has ever been a tyrant’s enforcer,” Arthur St. George said.

“XO, we are not a tyrant’s enforcer,” L. J. shot back. “His damned Special Police are doing the enforcing just fine for him. We are stuck out here, keeping the locals from doing what any enraged citizenry would do—throw the bums out. It is not the same thing, and I don’t want our troops to even think it is the same thing. We can’t let our troops see their hands covered with the same sewage Santorini’s swimming in. If they do, we lose all discipline. And without that, ladies and gentlemen, we’re no better than civilians.”

The staff looked at one another for a long minute, absorbed all he’d said, examined what he saw for the battalion and their own careers. None much appreciated the view.

Topkick responded first. “Usual answer for problems like these, sir, is to keep the troops busy. Make sure they’re too bushed to get in trouble.”

“Most of them are working twelve-hour watches already,” Eddie put in. “After we terminated the locals, just guarding the compounds is taking most of our troops’ time.”

“Keep them away from the locals,” Art said as if reading a textbook’s checklist. He shook his head. “Hardly need to do that. Since the Oktoberfest, the locals are damn standoffish, right, Mallary?” The ops officer scowled but nodded her agreement.

“Not a lot of patrolling going on,” L. J. said, leafing through his ’puter reports. “What are the locals up to?”

“Don’t know, sir,” Mallary answered. “I don’t know what anyone is up to. The Net’s only playing old vids, no local news. I can’t ask our client to report who his bully boys are thumping. The battalion is deaf, dumb and blind, sir.”

“A great way to get massacred,” Art said before L. J. could.

L. J. glanced at a map of his command, scattered over twelve towns. Once that wide deployment had given him control over the ground he walked, and recruiting fields with which to grow his battalion. Now security was eating his lunch, leaving him few troops for patrols outside his own perimeter fence.

“Mallary, if you were to concentrate the battalion down from the scatter-hell we’re in right now, what would you abandon? Where would you center our force?”

She tapped her hand computer, and a map filled the table. “The new mining claims centered on New York and New Pittsburgh are not under our client’s control. I would ignore them as sources of trouble.”

“So would I,” L. J. said.

“That leaves this area,” she said, indicating a large expanse centered on Dublin Town. “Allabad is south of us, but there’s not a lot south of it. Too hot I hear.”

“This whole planet is too hot,” Eddie moaned.

“Little London, Lothran and Banya are south of us. But I suspect you knew that when you picked your new headquarters,” she said with a pleased smile at spotting what her boss was up to.

“Due north is the Gleann Mor Valley—lovely, I’m told, this time of year with Scotch broom, thistle, and heather in bloom. Explain why a lot of ’Mechs have taken to walking its hills.”

That surprised the other staff but not L. J. “When did they start their perambulating about in the open?”

“Two days ago. Our awe-inspiring client confiscated all that expensive housing that morning. Gray ’Mechs started drilling in full view that afternoon.”

“Think our fearless Leader got the intended message?”

“If he did, it didn’t keep him next day from confiscating what was valuable in the other four towns his toads took over. Nobody’ll accuse him of being the compassionate, caring type,” Mallary said.

“Not me, anyway. What kind of ’Mech force is up north?”

“I counted thirty-nine gray ’Mech MODs, several dozen gray gun trucks led by a hovertank, sir, and lots of infantry. And there’s a surprise, sir—a dozen or more battle suits.”

“Surprises, surprises,” L. J. said. “Firepower?”

“Only a guess, sir. Our satellite’s not the best. At full power, it’s doing well to make out the battle suits. What they’re carrying is anybody’s guess.”

“Can’t be too bad,” Art said. “The only BattleMech this planet had a year ago was the Legate’s ’Mech, and our Leader is running around in that for kicks.”

“Captain, how do you get minerals out of rock?”

Art stiffened. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, there are a hell of a lot of miners out there who do. And there are a hell of a lot of people on this planet getting madder by the minute at the man we are contracted to fight for. Don’t you think you ought to know a bit more about what they can throw at you before you’re fighting them?”

L. J. knew you didn’t reprimand an officer in public. He knew it, but damn it felt good to let someone feel the temper he spent his days keeping on tight rein.

“Miners use explosives,” Mallary said in her best schoolteacher voice. “Their ’Mechs carry superhard-ened drills and rock cutters. Hand to hand, an unmodified MiningMech can be a hazard to any BattleMech we have. If they’re modified to project the explosives miners have in inventory, we could be facing a major force.”

“You got that right in one,” L. J. said.

His ’puter chimed “Incoming call,” but the screen stayed blank. “I’d like to get together with you, talk about old times,” a woman’s voice said. He recognized it as Grace’s. “The hills we climbed, the fun we had jumping around,” she finished.

L. J. frowned. “Or staying one jump ahead of each other.”

“Your memories are different from mine. If you can make it, meet me on Main Street, Dublin Town. Say, in an hour.”

“You in a hurry?” L. J. wondered if a trap was already set.

“Time flies when you don’t know what’s coming next.”

“What comes next could be a bullet in my back if I walk down Main Street just now.” Mallary nodded at that.

“I didn’t know mercs were so interested in dying in bed.”

That was not encouraging. But L. J. had almost asked Grace for a meeting when they’d met at the port. They did need to talk. “I’ll see you,” L. J. said, cut the connection, and nodded at the Sergeant Major. “Draw a jeep. You’re driving.”

“Weapons load?” Topkick asked.

“Sidearms.” Most thought them short-ranged, but L. J. had seen the Sergeant Major drill a man-sized target at very long range.

“Be careful, sir,” Mallary said as L. J. went out the door. Coming from her, it sounded sincere.

Main Street in Dublin Town wound along MacGilli-on’s Brook, which in summer was a muddy trickle. L. J. had Topkick drop him off at the courthouse at the foot of the street. “Sir, that road winds a bit. I won’t have a line of sight on you for half of it,” the Sergeant Major said as he braked to a halt.

“We all take our risks,” L. J. said, dismounting the jeep, checking his 9-millimeter sidearm, and settling it loose in the holster.

The walk up Main Street was long. The buildings were adobe, washed in pastels that took some getting used to but matched the flowers growing in boxes under every window. A low bluff to the west offered protection against the prevailing winds. The people he saw smiled and waved at each other and became cold as three-day dead when they saw him. A young man and an old lady looked ready to give him a piece of their minds, but others with them talked them away. He was five long blocks from the courthouse when he spotted a certain redhead seated on a stone bench beside the brook. She was feeding a goose and its goslings. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.