Now his head turned, and his eyes locked on hers. “Grace, I want my people back.”

Grace knew she should ignore the demand. She didn’t actually “know” about anything outside Falkirk. Still, Hanson couldn’t be ignored. Grace leaned close to the Major’s ear. “Your martial law says, ‘Do not kill mercs.’ You have not harmed my people. We have not harmed your people, and we will not harm them if the choice is left to us.”

Grace turned and started walking back to her place. Glen stepped out of line as she went by. “What was that all about?”

“He doesn’t want his people harmed.”

“Of course we won’t hurt his people. We’re not crazy!”

“He doesn’t know that!” Talk ended as the DropShip settled into its cradle and the terminal shivered. Grace hurried to her place among minor mayors doing their best to look harmless.

The sounds of a cooling lander were followed by loud noises, crashing sounds, shouts and curses. The mayors’ quiet gave way to low chatter as they guessed about each loud noise. The occasion had all the suspense of Christmas with none of the joy. Still, talk relieved the tension. Grace glanced at the mercs; there were whispers among them.

Twenty black gun trucks roared out of Concourse A, withSPECIAL POLICE and a stylized vulture painted in red on them. Or maybe it was an eagle. The 4x4s circled the mayors and mercs, machine guns leveled, then came to a ragged halt. Four or five machine-pistol-armed men in black dismounted and leaned against the jeeps, leering at the mayors.

The unmistakable clomp, clomp of heavy BattleMechs shook the terminal. More gun trucks drove down the walkway of Concourse A. BattleMechs stomped beside them on the heavy-equipment road. As the trucks gunned in, one BattleMech stopped, took two steps and climbed onto the floor of the terminal. The ceiling was just high enough for the BattleMech as it began a slow, menacing tread toward the mayors.

“That’s a seventy-five-ton Ryoken II!” a merc gasped.

“At ease in ranks,” the Major whispered through drawn lips.

A few mayors took a step back. Beside them, others gently pulled them back into ranks. “Nobody runs,” came from somewhere.

“We’re all in this together,” another whispered.

Grace gritted her teeth and examined the ’Mech closely. The cockpit was surrounded by missile launchers. Four autocannons all seemed aimed at her. The fists on the thing could smash her flat. Something behind the hands looked like meat cleavers. Mouth dry, Grace focused on keeping her feet in neutral. I will not run. Everyone else can. I cannot.

No one ran.

“Isn’t that the Legate’s Ryoken?” someone whispered.

“His wasn’t painted red and black.”

“Yeah, but that dent in the left cooler. Remember two years back when that trainee, what’s-his-name, backed a truck into it?”

“Shut up,” came back from Glen. Not as elegant as Hanson’s “At ease,” but effective at getting the civilians quiet. But if this was the Legate’s ’Mech, how had it gotten off-planet? Was that why Santorini showed up when Grace had chased that poor steward? If she’d looked in the right place, would she have found a Ryoken? More evidence that Santorini had the blood of Alkalurops’ two murdered planetary leaders on his hands.

Behind the Ryoken came a Jupiter and a Legionnaire in black and red. The terminal shook with each step they took. One mayor whispered, “This building wasn’t made for those things. If they aren’t careful, they’ll bring the place down.” But the ’Mechs spread out, distributed their weight, and the terminal shivered less. Other black-and-red BattleMechs and ’Mech MODs came down the heavy-equipment road but stayed on it, heading outside.

The Ryoken turned to face the mayors. It tried three times, like a new driver trying to parallel park a rig. There were snickers among the small-town mayors who spotted the problem.

Then the room grew silent. Even the gun truck drivers quit revving their engines.

The silence was broken only when the Ryoken’s cockpit opened to show Alfred Santorini in a jet-black uniform with silver piping. There was another long pause as he glowered down at them and they looked up at him. Grace froze her face in the blankest expression she’d worn since birth.

“People of Alkalurops,” Santorini began. “You turned down my reasonable proposal to keep you safe from marauders and raiders. Now I’ve shown you how easy it is to pick off a planet like yours in these harsh times. Do not expect me to repeat my offer. I do not come to help you. This time I come as your conqueror.” That brought a ragged cheer from the gun trucks.

Santorini leaned forward. “Here are my terms. Martial law will continue. Failure to comply with any and all of my legal regulations will result in summary execution.” There was the slightest movement among the mercs. Their posted martial law covered some minor stuff. Would the rules of war allow them to shoot people for such infractions?

“Second, to support the security I now bring you, all sales will immediately include a thirty percent tax.”

“What?” “That’s outrageous!” “That’ll mess up the economy,” was whispered among the mayors.

“In order to provide an immediate source of operating funds for my administration, I am levying a twenty percent tax on all lands and buildings based upon their latest sales value. Such taxes will be paid within the week.”

Grace started figuring what twenty percent of her mom’s house and the mines would be—and if she had that much cash. Falkirk could go to a barter system to avoid money changing hands. Preoccupied as she was, she didn’t miss the looks that passed around the gun truck drivers. So they were Santorini’s tax collectors. None looked smart enough to count to ten.

“Some of you may be wondering if I have the will to hold on to what I have taken.”

The autocannons on the Ryoken came to life.

In a blink, twelve mayors went down in a spray of lead that splattered blood, flesh and bone over the thirty meters behind where they’d stood. Grace touched a sting on her cheek, and her hand came away bloody. The woman next to Grace had a splinter of bone sticking out of her arm.

“Rest assured, good people, I will hold what I have taken. I have no patience for opposition. Do it my way, and we’ll all survive these hard times. Annoy me, and you and your families will die. There are those on my staff who will make you welcome death—a long-delayed death.”

Beside Grace, a young man stood as if in a trance. A shiver went through him. He uttered a low moan and took a step forward. Grace brought her heel down on his stationary foot, and he stumbled. People in front realized what was happening and fumbled for him. The man silently fought them for a moment, then dissolved into a hopeless rage of tears.

“Is that you, Grace O’Malley?” Santorini said, adjusting his seat and aiming the Ryoken’s cannons at her.

“Yes,” she said, then added, “sir.”

“No more chasing after windmills, is it?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Grace said, backing down only so far. “Your way looks like a better idea just now.”

“And for the foreseeable future, I assure you,” Santorini said. He turned his head to the mercs but kept his guns aimed at Grace. “Hanson, you have done well. I consider Allabad and the major cities pacified. My special police will take over your quarters here. Redeploy your units.”

“Yes, sir,” the merc commander said.

“Now I think we understand one another. Obey me and you will live. Disobey me and you will die slowly. You may go now.”

Grace turned her back, not sure if at any moment the Ryoken would splatter her across the terminal concrete. She walked for the exit, setting a pace neither suicide slow nor obviously hasty. Others followed her. Only after they were outside and the door closed did any mayor break ranks. Some ran. Others fell to their knees and vomited. More sat as their shaking legs could support them no more.