Grace kept Pirate upright, but one leg was grinding as he moved. She edged around the outcropping, keeping it between her and the taller ’Mech. It was the other one she wanted dead.

As she peeked around the rock, she found the short ’Mech right where it had been. It wasn’t moving in for the kill! It stood tall, scanning the hills behind Grace. She worked the pedals, trying to turn Pirate, but the gyros screamed and nothing happened. She wanted that ’Mech. She jiggled the joystick until her sights were dead on it, then waited for it to come.

“Captain, you see them?”

“Roger, Webrunner, I see them,” L. J. said.

Twelve ’Mechs were moving over the crest of the ridge ahead of them. The distance was too far for him to make out their types and equipment, but if they’d been modified like the ones he’d been fighting, they might be able to take him and Webrunner in their damaged state. Well, his damaged state. He looked at his ammo levels—not much left.

Pickup would be at the mouth of this valley. He had to expect that some fight might be left in the locals. For a moment longer, he considered continuing his pursuit of that troublesome MiningMech, but he had no way of knowing just how badly he’d damaged him. It was time to cut his losses.

“Task Team, fall back to the U in the road. Topkick, can you do anything with the mess Godfrey made of his tank?”

“No, sir. It’s wedged in there real fine.”

“Render it unusable,” L. J. ordered, keeping his voice even, disappointment out, exhaustion not present. A commander leads, Uncle said. And a real leader never lets anyone know things are going bad. Because when things are really bad, that’s when your men and women need leadership the most.

L. J. would show the Roughriders he knew how to lead.

Near Falkirk, Alkalurops

Prefecture IX, The Republic of the Sphere

3 April 3134; local spring

Grace lay beside Pirate’s battered hull. The clear sky above her had never seemed such a pure blue. A flowering sprig of Scotch broom smelled heavenly, almost overpowering the stink of burned carbon armor and the residue of exploded rockets.

She was alive! She hadn’t been splattered all over the hill by rockets or lasers. She’d escaped and would live to see tomorrow. It was a heady feeling, especially if she didn’t think too much about how she didn’t deserve it. Luck. All luck.

She looked up to see Mick’s flatbed truck bouncing from rock to rock, its engine struggling as he approached her. Mick backed up to Pirate, got out to take a good look, then gave a low whistle. “Well, that extra armor kept you alive.”

“Just barely. He’s all knocked around inside.”

“Shock. Yeah,” the short, wiry mechanic said. “We build MiningMechs to take the normal wear you jockeys put on them, not the crap a rocket does. Help me with the crane so we can lay your Pirate out. I want a look at that tank your Navajo friends caught.”

Once they had Pirate loaded, gravity and the ’Mech’s weight urged the truck to go wild, pick up momentum, and leave them all dead at the foot of the hill. Fortunately, Mick was a maestro on the brake and gears.

Chato’s weathered and lined face had a big grin on it as they drove up to the hovertank. A dozen other Navajos, dressed like him in plaid shirts and work jeans, gathered around the tank, which they had managed to right.

“Looks to be in pretty good shape,” Mick said as he and Grace joined Chato.

“They tried to burn it,” Chato said, pointing, palm open, at a still-smoldering area of the canyon floor. “This contraption was upside down, and they couldn’t get their charges to stay put. They tossed grenades into the underside. That’s a mess.”

A younger version of Chato, raven hair held back in four rather than the older man’s two braids, popped his head out of the tank. “Uncle Chato, you have to look at this. They have sensors in here I never even dreamed of.”

“And if Joseph hasn’t dreamed of them, I didn’t think a human could make them,” the Navajo said.

Mick shook his head. “It’s the engine I’ll be wanting to tear apart. Never could understand electric stuff.”

Grace and Chato squatted around the hatch as Joseph settled back into the belly of the monster. Gadgets were wrapped around the seat, leaving just enough room for one person to sit. “Will you look at this, Uncle,” the young man chattered happily. “Their infrared scope. It’s measured in kilometers, not meters. Coyote, grant me one wish: Let whatever sensor feeds that thing be working. I have to see it work.”

“So they knew we were waiting for them,” Grace said bitterly. “Knew just when to attack us.”

“So it seems,” Chato said. “We’ll need to study this war pony a lot more.”

“Lot of stuff to study,” Mick said from where he’d pried open the engine compartment.

“I’d like to see how things are in Falkirk,” Grace said.

Hours later she wondered why she’d hurried back. Her return became a town meeting right there on Main Avenue, but one she couldn’t call to order. She learned that there were no deaths among the fighters in Falkirk, thanks to old Auntie Maydell. The old lady seemed to have single-handedly, well, single-sharp-tonguedly, talked a soldier into leaving the town alone.

But there were plenty of close calls to talk about—calls that got closer the more times they were discussed. As much as Grace hated the idea, she knew she’d better call a town meeting right away, while memories of the day’s terror was still gut-puking fresh, and before the truth vanished beneath thick layers of varnish.

The meeting went long. Everybody wanted to talk, and Grace had to let them. The rules for town meetings had never included a way to shush anyone, but the yammering served to show the divide in town. There were those—few of whom had been on the hill with Grace—who figured the militia should have put up a better fight. A lot more were all for running for the hills in the event of another raid. That number now included about half the militia.

Grace took note of the quiet ones. Not surprisingly, Chato held his tongue, as did Jobe Kang. Jobe had led the dozen worker ’Mechs from the Donga River Valley. Their arrival from the west appeared to be what had turned the raiders around. The Navajo with his long braids sat next to the bald African miner. They took in the goings-on but, like Grace, said nothing.

Jim Wilson sat in silence next to his son. The boy started to stand up a few times to demand the floor, but the elder farmer kept a restraining hand on his son’s leg.

Hong Ho, owner of the town’s sole hardware outlet, kept his eyes closed in meditation, which told Grace nothing about what he was thinking. Robert Laird, the town’s grain operator and greengrocer, sat beside his Buddhist friend, keeping just as quiet, even if he did tend to fidget in his seat.

Grace mulled over the day as she let others’ words wash over her, holding on to few of them. Still, some broke into her thoughts. “Damn, I don’t want to do that again.” “We should have been able to do better.” And “What was it about those BattleMechs?”

“Where was the Legate’s BattleMech?” came often, but no one knew the answer to that.

When Grace began to feel her patience growing thin, she rose and shouted into the racket of a five-sided argument. “I don’t know about anyone else’s bladder, but mine says it’s time for a break.”

There was a stampede for the facilities. Despite her claimed need, Grace stayed in her place. As Wilson, Ho, Laird, Chato, and Jobe gathered around her table, Mick joined them.

“You got that tank into your shop?” Grace asked.

“Yep. Chato’s boy has juice flowing to its innards.”