“The selfsame gentleman we have in mind,” Ben said.

“I will be there by the time you are,” Abe promised. “I can’t think of a better man I’d love to help cheat himself,” he said, sounding very much like a man who had been offered a spare berth on the Olympic Haggling Squad.

Galaport, Galatea

Prefecture VIII, The Republic of the Sphere

29 May 3134; local summer

The yard of Ally’s Goods stretched over an entire block—a big one. A towering hangar with several bays ended with a glass-enclosed showroom displaying two nearly new BattleMechs. In the lot around it stood several used models showing wear and tear, or even major battle damage. A dinged ’Mech with a newly painted arm was pretty clear evidence that one had recently been ripped off. Several IndustrialMech MODs were also on display.

Sven took them to a human-sized side door. “Got some folks interested in your yard out back,” he told a mechanic working in a ’Mech’s cockpit.

“You know where everything’s at,” the mechanic shouted, waving them through. “You put most of it there.”

“Out back” stretched wrecks as far as the eye could see.

“I’ve heard there’s a nearly complete Mackie somewhere back there,” Danny said. “You ever seen it, Sven?”

“Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t—but it’s not that antique we’re after. Let’s see how good you ’Mech sissies are at walking.”

“Ah, such disrespect from the likes of grease monkeys,” Danny responded.

“No ’Mech, no MechWarrior,” Sven said, and took off at a pace Grace would not have expected from an old man. They walked down dirt paths with ’Mechs hulking over them on either side, some looking ready to walk out, others barely able to stand up. Many were already being parted out; right arms for assorted ’Mechs were piled next to a larger stack of left arms.

“I found what I want,” Danny announced.

“And what might that be?” Victoria asked.

“Here’s an Atlas with a kilt.”

“A kilt?” The normally perfectly controlled woman almost missed her step. Grace turned to find Danny eyeing what looked like a complete, if greatly scarred, Atlas BattleMech. Towering over them, it offered shade against the sun, but Danny stood well back to get a good look at his heart’s desire.

Grace studied the monster. “I don’t see a skirt on that thing,” she said, making sure to put a smile on her face.

“It’s there, sorrowfully just painted on,” the ex-Highlander said. Now Grace spotted a faded tartan among the rust marks and slashes from a line of slugs across the midriff.

“Now, I ask you, how could such a good ’Mech, with an obviously bloodthirsty pilot at its helm, ever end up in a place like this, I ask you,” Danny said, shaking his head.

Victoria sighed. “The pilot, no doubt, had tastes and misjudgments similar to our friend’s here, and paid the price for them. Mark the lesson, Sean: Intellect is nothing without discipline and control.”

“And life is not worth the living if you let Biddy keep you on a leash, boy.”

“Ms. Birdwell does know her battles and tactics, sir,” Sean said, the first time Grace had heard anyone “sir” Danny O’Bannon. He ignored the honor and continued to gaze at the Atlas as the others followed Sven.

“What are we looking for?” Ben asked the mechanic.

“The lady here can’t afford to buy the BattleMechs she needs, but she’s got ’Mechs of her own. Well, what we’re looking for are the tools to make the ’Mechs she’s got into the BattleMechs she needs. Tools, me boy, tools will do it.”

When they found a rusting collection of junk against the back fence, Sven grinned. “Now, there, young woman, are the tools that will turn your worker machines into BattleMechs.”

To Grace it looked like a pile of junk metal that ought to be recycled. “I don’t see anything,” she said diplomatically.

“See that rolling sheet over there?” Sven pointed. Grace saw a large metal box. Beside it were two sets of rollers, one upside down in the dirt. “I bet you thought when your friend Mick welded a double thickness of StrongArm plate to your pet ’Mech that he’d doubled your protection?”

“He said he did,” Grace said.

“Sorry to argue with a man who knows his motors,” Sven said, “but one plus one does not equal two in the armor business. Two centimeters of plate laid on top of two centimeters of plate is not as strong as four. You need four, or even six centimeters all the way around to distribute the hit, to give you the strength. That pile of junk over there lets me make a solid six-centimeter plate with all the composite layers in the right place. We need that,” he said, turning to walk up the back fence. “We’ll also need that shaper to form the plate to your frame,” he said, pointing at another contraption.

“How many autocannons you got on your planet?” Sven asked.

“I don’t know of any,” Grace admitted.

“I’m gonna need that and that to forge barrels and machine action,” Sven said, pointing, a grin coming over his face like a kid let loose in a toy store. “We’ll need to soup up the engines. Mick good at that?” Grace nodded. “I’ll need that carbon extrusion plant over there,” he pointed. “Adding all that weight to your IndiMechs means we’ll be needing to reinforce the frames.”

“Is there anything here for making rockets?” Grace asked.

Sven laughed. “You did homemade ones, right? They go corkscrewing off in all directions?” Grace nodded. “An autoclave is what you want. There’s a beat-up one down the other end. You said you used a Gatling gun. Six barrels. How’d you hold ’em together?” Grace described steel bands to hold the barrels to a central core and carbon blocks to hold the barrels in place.

“Did it stay sighted in?”

“No. I had to fire a few slow rounds each time to work the gun into the target,” Grace admitted.

“And I bet the raider just stood there while you did that,” Sven said. He wasn’t smiling now. Grace shook her head.

“That drill press,” he said, pointing to a machine on its side, “will need work but it’ll drill out face and butt plates that’ll keep Gatling guns sighted in from now till doomsday.”

Grace studied the man in front of her, walking through what seemed to her was junk and tossing off opportunities like sparks came off a mining drill. She’d come to Galatea thinking she needed MechWarriors. Thank God she’d found a warrior who knew how much she needed a mechanical genius.

“Thought I’d find you here,” someone said, accompanied by a soft hum. Grace turned to see a huge belly with a man attached driving up in a small electric cart. Abe Goldman was right beside him, a large strongbox clutched in his lap. Mr. Belly must be Ally, the owner of the Not So Good stuff she wanted to buy.

“Hi, Abe,” Grace shouted, then put on her best mayoral face and said, “And you must be the famous Mr. Portencallens.”

“Ally,” Belly said, extending a hand and a smile that had enough oil in to match half of Alkalurops’ annual production. “I understand you’re in the market for some ’Mechs. Why’d you let this old bum”—he waved at Sven—“bring you out here. The good stuff’s in front or in my new showroom. Why swelter out here when we can go inside, stay cool, and buy the latest model?”

“I don’t think I brought quite that much cash,” Grace said with as much sorrow as she could dredge up for the occasion.

“We do have some fine used ’Mechs. Repair work guaranteed for eighteen thousand kilometers or their first major fight, whichever comes first.” Ally’s smile got even broader.

Grace wondered how the guarantee defined “major” and decided she really didn’t need to know. She also noted the way Ally had deftly offered her the more expensive side of his business without denigrating the junk pile here. Tough bargaining ahead.