He checked his secondary screen to follow the progress of the battle above, but between the poor signal and the sprays of water above, he couldn’t make out anything. He flicked it off and waited for Smith’s commands to tell him what he needed to know about the fight.

“First wave, report. Looks like you lost one.”

“Yes, sir,” Brigham crackled back. “One ship hit and entirely lost. Others proceeding apace.”

“Second?”

“We’ve had a breakdown, one boat out and heading away. No hits from the hostiles.”

Smith didn’t bother asking about the third, which was still out of range.

“All right, fill the gaps. Keep the pressure on.”

“Yes, sir,” came the replies, and Jonah added his own assent as he slogged through the water. The pirates could have no idea what kind of pressure they were about to feel.

The surface of the water drew closer to his ’Mech’s head. He could see waves passing, though not yet breaking. Missiles and shells skipped overhead, some from in front of him, some from behind, echoing through the sea like a sounding dolphin. Jonah slowed his ’Mech further, making his machine squat as it practically walked on its knees. It wouldn’t do for his head to stick out too soon—it would just make an inviting target, and it would ruin the surprise.

Smith spoke again. “Wave one, prepare to launch; wave two, hold your fire. Launch on my mark… execute! Nail it down!”

Jonah thought he could hear the jump jets of the armored infantry firing, though that might have been his imagination or the blood in his ears. Either way, his time had come.

He came out of the water and stood outlined against the churning sea, the saltwater streaming off the carapace of the ’Mech.

Off to his right, he could see the power discharges of lasers and pulse cannon. In a moment the defenders would notice him—which was the plan. Moving into their gut, he’d draw and return fire, allowing the landing wave to get into position and, hopefully, maneuver around the sides of the pirates’ forces. He pushed forward hard and the ’Mech surged ahead.

A scout vehicle with a rear-mounted heavy machine gun burst through the vegetation ahead of the Atlas BattleMech. Jonah didn’t recognize its markings. The vehicle turned and its gunner opened fire, hosing down Jonah’s Atlas with fifty-caliber armor-piercing rounds. They had no effect on the ’Mech.

“No, you don’t,” Jonah said. He leaned on the throttle, kicking the speed of the Atlas up a step, closing on the scout vehicle. A quick push on the left pedal while easing on the right sent the ’Mech’s leg into a kick, pummeling the scout vehicle. It flipped over on its side, one wheel hanging at an angle that told Jonah the axle had broken. He then brought the ’Mech’s foot down heavily on the machine gun.

The wrecked vehicle, and its scattering troopers, weren’t worth any expense of ammunition. Jonah headed straight in from the beach, turning his Atlas toward the area marked on his heads-up display as the location of the pirates’ headquarters.

Someone in that area was broadcasting at high power over multiple frequencies. Jonah couldn’t make out what was being said—the broadcasters had good crypto, whoever they were—but he figured that taking out command and control would be a fine way to start the morning. He vectored in on the transmission site and pushed the Atlas into an earth-shaking run.

The beach continued to explode with fire from both directions, rocks and dirt pattered across his side, and his footing kept slipping as the impact of the artillery altered the landscape beneath him.

He felt calmer than he had all day.

Red Barn Cafeteria, Geneva

Terra, Prefecture X

22 October 3134

The greater Geneva metropolitan area contained twenty-four Red Barn restaurants, and each of those restaurants had a table six. It was in the middle of the restaurant’s floor, away from the windows and far from the restrooms. Table six, in each of these locations, would be the first choice of exactly no one.

Cullen Roi liked it that way. No matter which Red Barn outlet he chose for his meetings, he knew table six would be open. He also knew that, as long as he kept rotating between the two dozen locations, he would never be remembered. The staff at each restaurant seemed to turn over every six months or so, and no one ever treated Roi or his companions as regulars, since they went to each restaurant only once or twice a year.

The other customers were almost as transitory as the staff. Red Barn restaurants thrived in areas filled with cheap apartment buildings, pawnshops and all-night convenience stores. People in these neighborhoods generally didn’t get to know their neighbors, knowing that within a year, either one or the other of them was likely to have moved on. In the middle of this sea of shifting faces, Cullen felt at home.

Plus, truth be told, the food at the Red Barn really wasn’t that bad.

Today’s meeting was southeast of downtown, and Cullen had arrived early, munching on sausage rolls and sipping watery coffee while he waited for the others to arrive.

He was short and wiry, with intense brown eyes, and he wore his hair cut short after the fashion of the Mech Warrior he had once been. The leather jacket that he wore over his drab work clothes bore a dark spot where a Stone’s Revenants patch had once been.

He heard Hansel approach long before he saw him. By now he could recognize Hansel by the way he opened a door—forcefully, a whoosh of air followed by the crack of the door against the outside wall. Thudding footsteps, seemingly loud enough to drown out conversation, paced to Roi’s table.

“Captain,” Hansel said as he slid behind the table. It was an old habit from their days in the Revenants, and it died hard. Cullen just nodded. Hansel squirmed to fit into the too-small wooden chair, dwarfing the table that fit Cullen just fine.

They sat wordlessly, Hansel only speaking to order roasted chicken. Cullen continued to eat, watching Hansel’s eyes to see when Norah entered. Then it came—the flinch, the slight squint that flickered across Hansel’s brow whenever Norah came in.

She was seated to Cullen’s right before he heard anything. Her distaste for small talk extended even to greetings, so neither Cullen nor Hansel spoke. They waited for her vegetable stir-fry to arrive, which customarily signified the meeting’s commencement.

The plate arrived, the weary waitress strolled away, and Cullen began the meeting of the Kittery Renaissance.

“It will only be the three of us tonight,” he said, “but we’re going to need to bring in more people soon. The pace will be rapid, starting now.”

Hunger for something other than food showed in Norah’s face. “You have word?” she asked.

Something in her voice suggested that she might have been originally from Liao, but Cullen knew not to broach the subject of Norah’s past. She had made it quite clear that the subject was off limits, though her intense hatred for the Capellan Confederation and its rulers in House Liao—an intensity unmatched throughout the whole of Cullen’s organization—kept Cullen curious.

“Yes,” Cullen answered her. “My source tells me the elections will be held shortly.”

“Already?” Hansel asked.

“You’re sure the information is reliable?” Norah asked at the same time.

“Yes. My source saw copies of documents summoning the Paladins back to Terra for the meetings preliminary to the election.”

“‘Meetings preliminary to the election’?” Hansel echoed. “That doesn’t sound too definite.”

“It is,” Cullen said. “Remember, this is the government—it does not move quickly. This is the start of the process, and everything points to it ending before the year is done.”