Here it came. Resident honor. The argument people gravitated toward when they have clearly made up their mind that chasing after Republic citizenship wasn’t for them. That so long as you contributed your best work to The Republic—through its work force, professional service, or art—you had just as much right to claim the honors of the Republic if not the benefits of being an actual citizen.

It was how the two of them had met, actually, over that argument. Raul had come in to the hospital to visit a friend in his reserves unit who had been hurt in a VTOL transport crash. A freak accident, really. Jessica had been the attending physician, a few years older than him but only a year out of her internship. She’d made a comment—he couldn’t remember it exactly anymore—something about the military providing her with more work even in peacetime. He had responded by telling her that Jonathan was simply trying to earn his citizenship. And it had begun. A nurse finally shooed them out of the patient’s room, and they continued the debate in the hall, and then over lunch in the hospital cafeteria.

They were still at it after three dates, when Raul conceded that ‘official’ citizenship was certainly not required to be a good citizen. He’d said it mainly to forge a truce, thinking that he might be falling hard for the good doctor. He’d even gone so far as to admit that most privileges of citizenship were beyond the enjoyment of most who earned them. Jessica had told him that, at last, he was showing a hint of wisdom beyond his years.

He had never let her live down that slightly pompous remark.

She was right, of course. Raul was never likely to own significant land grants, and the idea of a noble title was so far above his station as to make him laugh. He would never own his own BattleMech. But he could vote. It was a right he had earned with his college years in MRTC, two years in the Militia Reserves, and in two years with Customs. But he also understood Jessica’s position. After her drive to qualify for med school, her internship and residency, she had never had a chance to look at five years’ service for citizenship. In her mind, she had done enough for herself and more than many others.

His continued stand—that citizenship was always best earned by taking that one additional step beyond your own goals—never failed to annoy Jessica. But he just didn’t have the strength for it today.

Or so he thought.

“Will you at least consider the Bannson proposal?” she asked.

The buzz of an alarm in the outside hall interrupted his initial reply, jolting Raul with a quick burst of energy. As the distant wail of the spaceport’s seldom-needed siren joined in, a real adrenaline rush flooded him with warmth and jangling nerves. He leaned past Jessica and snagged his wireless comms from the top of his desk. With practiced efficiency he dialed the building’s switchboard with one hand while tucking the clip over his ear with the other.

He settled the microphone wire just next to the corner of his mouth, waiting for the circuit to connect. “Jess, I like what I do. It’s important.” He glanced through his door as a few other Customs officers scrambled by, heading for their own offices. “Bannson Universal wants a glorified rent-a-badge.”

If he wasn’t going to set the discussion aside, Jessica certainly wasn’t either. His fiancée shuffle-stepped to one side, getting out of Raul’s way should he need his desk-top system. “Maybe Bannson is looking at a bigger picture. They claimed to be impressed with your BattleMech training.”

“Every potential security position will claim that. How many of them will actually put that training to use? Yes, hello?” Raul held up a hand to Jessica as his call went through. Rather than fight his way through to Rossiter or the spaceport’s command center, Raul went for Customs’ switchboard operators. “Can you tell me what’s happening?” The technicians down there always knew the good info first.

He gave the on-call tech only ten seconds, and then disconnected with a sharp stab at his comm unit. He dialed another number. “This is CSO 5589.” He swallowed against the dry taste of adrenaline. “I need to register off-duty and out of contact.”

Jessica frowned a question at him, and Raul raised his hand to cover the mic. “Bannson isn’t the only one who needs a Mech Warrior right now,” he said, dark eyes wide with excitement. “The Steel Wolves have jumped in-system. They’ve deployed fighters, and are refusing all orders to stand down.

“We have twenty-two hours.”

Achernar Militia Command

Achernar

16 February 3133

Officially, the Achernar Militia’s command post butted up against the spaceport’s northeast border. In truth, Raul knew, that fenced-off portion of the garrison command was little more than a trio of old, rarely used landing pads. The militia manned it with a skeleton crew, usually reservists serving their two weeks out of a year, except for the days when a military DropShip was due. A small security team stood by, mostly to police that crew from taking too many unscheduled breaks. The base proper actually began twelve kilometers out with a large collection of bunker-style warehouses. From there, the militia’s Reserve Training Command spread out to the east, like a common meeting ground between the military base and River’s End. The standing barracks, maintenance bays, garages and administrative buildings belonging to the Republic Guard clustered in their own little protected world north of the RTC grounds.

The day before—the day of the alert—Raul had never known a longer drive than his trip back into River’s End for uniform and gear and then back out to the base. Jessica rode with him for the first leg, giving up on questions to which Raul had no answers and finally lapsing into a worried fret. She kissed him goodbye at his apartment, and then he had an hour of city traffic and highway klicks to imagine what the base would be like under a real military alert.

Except for a kind of frantic energy that crackled in the air like static electricity, Raul saw no difference. Routine had already taken over by the time of his arrival. A corporal signed him in and assigned Raul to shared quarters rather than the barracks, the perquisites of being a Mech Warrior, even as a reservist. He was handed official orders activating him to full duty and asked to sign his name to them, and then was put on a five-and-dimes rotation working as an aide-de-camp inside the command center itself. Five hours on duty, ten hours off, with his first five-on taking the midnight shift where there was nothing really to do but monitor preparations and discuss the inbound DropShips.

Raul’s second five-on made up for the uneventful night. Feeling a little lethargic after catching a fitful day-nap, he walked into the command center wholly unprepared for the raised voices of argument and the blizzard of papers that struck him in the face.

Hot coffee sloshed over the edge of Raul’s Styrofoam cup, scalding his hand. He quickly passed the beverage to his other hand, shaking his injured fingers dry and searching for his attacker. He recognized several of the voices, but knew which one in particular was behind the paper shotgun.

“You can cite Stumpy’s directives and Republic emergency authority all you want, Colonel. You can’t just take my ’Mech.”

Tassa Kay.

Tassa stood toe-to-toe with Colonel Blaire, white-hot fury burning on her face. She had pulled her dark red hair back into a loose ponytail, and wore only shorts, boots, and a ’Mech cooling vest which left very little of her curvaceous figure to the imagination. A necessity in the often-sweltering confines of a cockpit. The unofficial ‘uniform’ of a Mech Warrior wasn’t designed for modesty. The crystal charm Raul had seen on Tassa before still hung around her neck, but now nestled very snuggly down into the swell of her breasts.