L. J. frowned. “What happened down south?”

“You don’t know?”

“Would you please tell me.” L. J. knew that the woman might soon be certified as his enemy. She had to know, too.

“Won’t do us any good if you only get his side of the story.” She quickly told him what the farmer and his boys had done. “Pretty much rendered them down to liquid fertilizer fit for, say, ten acres. Some started a bit on the fat side,” she finished.

“Thank you,” L. J. said. So it had started. “Specialist, escort this young woman from the post. She entered under a flag of truce. She leaves under regimental protection, understood?”

“Sir. This way, ma’am.”

“Eddie!” L. J. shouted.

“The move was started before the blackout. I’ve got the detachments coming up on backup shortwave radio. What are your orders, sir?”

Eddie Thomas had a tendency to coast on his family name. Then there were days like today when you realized being a merc was in the blood. “Have all forces commence immediate road movement. Use extreme caution. All units fall back on Dublin Town. Avoid city centers. Cross country if necessary.”

“I’ll get that out immediately, sir.”

“We have one chance,” L. J. said as Eddie double-timed off.

“What’s that, sir?” Mallary asked.

“The local opposition didn’t know what those damn farmers were going to do any more than we did.”

“I’m not sure the farmers knew what they were doing before they did it,” the Chief said. “Taking an autoscythe to unarmored people,” he finished with a slight shiver.

L. J.’s ’puter beeped and flashed red. He held it up. “I was under the impression the Net was down.”

“It is down when I want it down. There’s no reason for me to provide it to my enemies. When I want it up, it will be up.” Santorini’s voice came back at him, cold and dry and maybe a bit brittle and scared. “Are you aware, Major, of the disorder?”

“No, sir,” L. J. said, unwilling to admit he’d been talking with what now had to be considered the enemy.

“A dozen farmers attacked a Special Police patrol today. Unprovoked. Totally uncalled-for. They lured them into the farm country with a cry for help, then attacked them from hiding. They are now fleeing north, toward those troublemakers at Falkirk. I want them stopped. I want the lot of them hanging from the nearest pole, along with anyone who helps them.” Santorini was shouting now. L. J. held his ’puter at arm’s length. Everyone around him heard the orders.

“Sir,” L. J. said softly, holding the ’puter closer only when the man fell silent, “I am not in a position to immediately comply with your orders.”

L. J. got the ’puter back at arm’s length just as Santorini shouted, “And why not?!”

“Based on the worsening conditions, I began a concentration of my battalion so I would be in a position to immediately respond if you were to issue future orders. At the moment my platoons are scattered and in transit.”

“You are again telling me you will not follow my orders!”

“I am informing you that I cannot at this time launch the operation you request. The situation is in flux at the moment, and the opposition’s action is temporally inside our decision cycle, sir,” L. J. said, recording his reply for the competency hearing he was sure to face.

“Then I will do it with my own Special Police. If it is not beyond your competency, Major, please inform me when your command is once again able to function in accordance with the contractual commitments signed by your regimental commander.”

L. J.’s ’puter clicked off, and his access to the Net vanished with his client’s call.

Art whistled. “Better get my dress uniform pressed.”

“Better get your head on straight or you won’t be alive to wear it,” L. J. snapped. “All of you. Forget peacetime drill, forget the candy-assed garrison shit. This is no sim. The worst that can happen to you is not an umpire bawling you out. Now you can end up very dead. Understood? Now it’s real!”

Art and Mallary looked on the pale side. So did a lot of the troops standing close at hand. The Sergeant Major and the Chief exchanged a look, let tight hints of smiles cross their lips, then turned to him, came to attention with a soft snap, and saluted. “Yes, sir,” they said.

There are moments that a commander will treasure forever.

Assuming they live the week out.

“Sergeant Major, Chief, see that the word gets to the troops here in camp. Mallary, get that word out to the troops in transit. This is no longer a Sunday picnic.”

“Sir,” and those with orders were gone. L. J. looked at Art. “So, XO, how fast can we concentrate the battalion and move it to the mouth of the Gleann Mor Valley?”

Art pulled a map from a case he wore at his side. “Always knew there was a reason why I kept paper maps around.” He unfolded the right map and they stooped in the sun to study it.

Betsy Ross dusted the books in Alfred Santorini’s library, which also served as his office. The books were old-fashioned, bound in leather. She had never seen him actually open one. She’d heard that the books had belonged to the Legate. The man probably hadn’t been killed for his library, but lately people had died for less.

Bad times. So Betsy wore makeup that splotched her skin, thick black-rimmed glasses, and a frumpy gray dress with no waistline. Today the loose clothes that hid her figure from leering eyes also covered a comprehensive electronic suite.

She dusted as Santorini screamed at the poor Major. Loren Hanson had drawn a hell of a mission. Reports placed him as smart and a comer. He might survive Santorini. Slamming his hand down on the com link, Santorini stormed out of the room, leaving his work-station on. He’d done that before but never after turning off the entire network. Suddenly, Betsy had access to everything Santorini had, no competition to share it with.

Betsy continued dusting as she slipped her right hand inside her dress and began keying her ’puter to action. A quick glance showed that Santorini’s computer presented the same screen to the world even as Betsy’s computer hijacked its processing. Betsy’s ugly glasses now showed her both books to dust, and file after file of coded and encrypted data. Quickly her spy system ducked inside files, hunting for keywords. Any that matched her interest were dumped to the storage that hung between her shoulder blades.

As she dusted, she viewed the files that produced strong hits. Some files by their very nature told her a lot. She wasn’t surprised to find two sets of books, one for Lenzo Computing and one that seemed to match more with what she knew was going on. She was surprised to find a third set and a fourth. That was something Ben and Grace might want to see.

She was examining the fourth set when Santorini stomped back in, one of his more nasty minions following. “None of them—not one of those farmers gets out alive.”

“They’re heading for that damn valley,” Field Marshal Pillow said, his short frame resplendent in a silver-encrusted uniform.

“Get them before they get there.”

“Might have some trouble with the locals along the way. They might not want to tell me what they know.”

“Hang ’em. Hang ’em upside down with their—” What followed was a plan for mutilating the dead—no, the dying—that exceeded anything Betsy had ever heard of, and she considered herself very well read in her specialty. She dusted and dug out more files. That fourth spreadsheet had to have some documentation around it. Just having a “What if I don’t have to pay my mercenaries?” spreadsheet did not constitute a conspiracy to violate a contract. But how could Santorini avoid paying his bills? What would he do with the mercs he wasn’t paying? Somewhere there had to be a letter, an e-note.

She’d dusted all there was to dust—or at least all she’d risk dusting with Santorini around. She gritted her teeth and slid the ladder out. Climbing it would let her dust the high shelves. It would also show her legs—something cosmetics and frumpy dresses couldn’t hide. Still searching Santorini’s files, she climbed, dusted, rolled herself along, dusted, searched files, tried to ignore the horrors spoken below her, dusted, searched.