“Sounds like a plan,” said Jim Wilson, owner of about half the irrigation circles around Falkirk. He closed up the newest AgroMech in town, its paint now marred from the additional armor welded to its front. As Wilson led the way to a pile of rocks a klick south, his son followed, piloting a similarly up-armored AgroMech that wasn’t all that much older than Pirate. The Wilsons’ rifle cabinet had been emptied to provide the barrels for the Gatling guns that both ’Mech MODs carried. A dozen tenant farmers with gopher guns and two rocket launchers trailed them.

Owen McCallester, who had never forgiven Grace for beating him out of the mayor’s job when his old man died, nodded to Dennis Brady, and the two troublemakers plodded a klick north with most of their own mine workers. Their ’Mechs’ engines struggled even as they waddled; both men had insisted Mick weld armor to the front and back of their century-old machines.

That left Grace with Dan’s AgroMech and its flamethrower, along with a score of town craftspeople and merchants, armed with whatever was handy. Most rifles had hardly been used except for plunking at rabbits and gophers during the annual sharpshooting competition at the Highland Games. The shooting was never much to brag about. The competition was always late in the day, after the racing and tossing the caber and way too much drinking. Grace didn’t consider mixing drinks and loaded guns all that safe, but the schedule was sacred, unchanged for hundreds of years.

Everyone was sober today, even Greg McDougall, who’d never met a glass he didn’t love more than his poor wife.

“Keep down!” Grace shouted. “They’re coming up the road. We’ll take them where it curves right into us.”

“And won’t that be a surprise for them,” Dan said, grinning through the faceplate of his bulky helmet. The others laughed. Grace closed Pirate’s cockpit and spun the ’Mech into position.

We’d better surprise ’em. Otherwise, we’re toast, she thought.

The concrete road supported Captain Loren J. Hanson’s Koshi comfortably. The advance had gone well this morning. He’d set an easy pace because after a week he didn’t want to break anything on the last day. Word from his XO—his executive officer and second in command—was that the JumpShip had loaded the loot from Allabad and was ready to jump to the secondary pickup point. The mission here was snatch, grab and raise scatter-hell. The Colonel had made it clear he didn’t think that should cost the Roughriders any major casualties. So far it hadn’t.

L. J.’s targeting-acquisition screen flashed, letting him know it had found what he’d expected. He tightened his harness straps as he checked his cooling lines. No problem. Keying his mike, he announced, “Looks like the locals have got themselves an ambush up ahead where the road runs close to the foothills.”

“Nice of them to come out to meet us.” Sergeant Jack Godfrey chortled. “Think they baked a cake?”

L. J. frowned. Sergeant Godfrey had a big mouth, but he did know how to put his Condor Multipurpose Tank’s pedal to the metal, and this was Hanson’s Roughriders.

Not L. J.’s Roughriders. Great-grandpa Hanson had commanded when the Roughriders made their name. L. J. was just a distant great-grandkid by a daughter who’d chosen medicine over ’Mechs. Grandma was still a fine doc when it came to patching up the occasional casualty, but L. J. had earned his commission with sweat and hard work. This was his first independent command. No doubt the Roughrider HQ staff was wondering what he’d bring back.

So far he’d captured just one BattleMech to go with ninety or so late-model IndustrialMechs. Even with the client claiming half, Maintenance should be able to turn out some decent ’Mech MODs. After the long peace, they would be welcome additions.

L. J. eyed his screen. Six IndustrialMechs were scattered on the ridge above the bend in the road, along with enough metal for three or four dozen hunting rifles. The locals would probably run after the first volley. With half his ammo expended, was it worth a fight this far from the pickup point?

“Topkick.”

“Sir,” Sergeant Major Vincent Tanuso responded immediately.

“On my order, take the hoverbike team and investigate the town. There’s nothing past it but mountains, so it’s as far as we go. If you spot any decent-looking ’Mechs, acquire them. If not, raise scatter-hell and fall back on me.”

“Yes, sir. Corporal Mavy, with me.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.”

“The rest of you: This may be a hastily improvised ambush, but the only decent ’Mechs in town could be up there. Let’s see if any are worth painting in Roughrider colors. Keep your eyes open and your fields of fire covered.”

“Yee-haw!” Godfrey whooped. “Let’s put the spurs to ’em.” His hovertank surged ahead.

“Take it down, Roughrider,” L. J. growled, and the hovertank on point slowed to keep pace with the measured tread of L. J.’s Koshi. “No need taking unnecessary heat into a ’Mech fight.” L. J. wanted to get as close as he could, to see if the IndustrialMechs were worth a fight before he got into one.

L. J. studied the ground ahead. The road was lined with ditches on both sides. They were dry now, but the green along the verge showed there had been water. The landscape was rolling, giving plenty of dead ground. The bushes were low, mixed with clumped grass. Few places to hide there. Ahead rose foothills covered in purple and green, cut here and there by tree-lined creeks or sharply banked gullies. That might limit a pursuit. Then again, maybe the terrain would help him cut off a prize. Rocks and boulders jutted up to protect shooters. So far this planet had produced only slug-throwers fit for killing small furry things. They hardly scratched a BattleMech’s paint.

Don’t get cocky, kid, L. J. reminded himself. A cakewalk was nice, but cakes could hold surprises. Approaching the curve, L. J. spotted three fairly new ’Mechs and ordered his topkick off. “Sergeant, just tap the town if there’s nothing worth taking. We may have some gear here for you.”

“Yes, sir,” came back fast.

That left L. J. with just his own Koshi, a Spider, and Godfrey’s Condor tank, with two scout rigs to fill the intervals between the three. Time to get this battle going.

“I make our opposition as six IndustrialMechs and a few dozen infantry. Godfrey, bear to the right and see what you can do to those two. Webrunner, you have the left pair. I’ll take the middle ones. Scouts, look for crunchies trying to cause trouble and stand by to take down any ’Mechs we disable. We’ve got them outnumbered two to six. Let’s do it by the numbers, Roughriders,” he ended.

“Roughriders!” came back in an enthusiastic shout. He pitied the poor dumb slobs up the hill, thinking that a ’Mech with a claw or drill gave them any chance against real BattleMechs piloted by MechWarriors.

“Advance on the enemy to the left, now,” L. J. ordered, and throttled up his BattleMech. Beside him his team spread out, the Spider’s long strides eating up the distance to the target. Beneath his Koshi’s feet, brush crumbled. Footpads sank a good ten centimeters into the hard dirt under the light BattleMech’s weight. It was good to be loose; L. J. echoed Godfrey’s yell.

“Damn,” Grace breathed softly. “So much for surprise,” she said into her mike. “Here they come.”

“How’d they spot us?” came over Falkirk’s public channel.

“You clomping around raising dust would warn a blind Brit.”

“I’m out of here.”

Grace had to stop that. “Start running and they’ll shoot you in the back. Stay down. Hold your fire,” she ordered. Then she realized she was issuing orders and tasted the surprise. Well, this is a battle. Somebody had to give orders. Real orders, not polite suggestions. She glanced around. Surprise of surprises, people were doing what she’d told them, huddling in place. Maybe these eejits could tell a good idea when they heard it.