Except for that, nothing much had changed since Grace’s parents had brought her here some twenty years back so Pop could get his first MiningMech—the first MiningMech in the Gleann Mor Valley. And Pop had pointed out buildings that had been pointed out to him by his own grandpa. Grace spotted the old market, its low walls stretching for several blocks north of the central plaza this side of the Alhambra River. There was the clock tower of the Guild Hall, though the hall had grown several new wings. This was what Grace loved about life on Alkalurops: It had been, was, and would be the same.

Except now raiders dropped in. They were a new experience—one she did not want to repeat.

Grace called the hostel she stayed at whenever business brought her to Allabad. She reserved a room for herself and one for Jobe and Chato to share. Then she called Angus Throckmorton, a family connection at the Miners’ Guild who went back to her grandpa’s time. She wondered if he’d remember her, but his voice was warm when he took her call. He was actually eager to meet her and her friends. “You know the inn I took your father to the last time he was here? Could you meet me there in half an hour?” Grace promised she would and he rang off.

“Where are we meeting him?” Chato asked.

“The Red Erin Inn,” she said. “I’ve been there before.”

“Sure you can find it again?” Jobe asked.

“It would be a shame if we got lost,” Chato deadpanned.

“I remember the place,” Grace shot back, then spotted the looks the two men were exchanging and realized they’d been teasing her. She settled back into the passenger seat. “We have half an hour before he can see us. We may as well take the scenic route.”

After a couple of wrong turns, the three arrived at the inn to find that Angus was there before them. Grace had hardly given his name to the tall, ponytailed barkeep before he led her across a wood-beamed great room to a dark corner where Angus waited. A big friendly bear of a man now gone to gray, he made to rise, but she quickly introduced Jobe and Chato, then settled beside him and gave him a hug.

“Lass, you’re looking more beautiful every day.”

She tried to return the compliment, but Angus had aged noticeably in the five years since she’d seen him. Up close she realized his plaid coat hung on him. His knuckles were red and swollen, his eyes sunken into dark bags. “Y-you’re—” she stammered, then caught herself. “How bad was it here?”

“A good dark one for the lady, here,” Angus called to the barkeep. Grace was happy to let Angus order for her—he knew the local brews. Jobe ordered a lighter ale, while Chato asked for coffee.

Only after the barkeep retreated did Grace repeat her question. “It’s been bad?”

“Strange it’s been, lass. Very strange.”

“The raiders hit Falkirk,” Grace told him. “Didn’t take much. The militia got knocked around some.”

“You lose anyone close to you?” Angus asked.

“A few wounded. None too bad to brag. How was it here?”

“Strange and then some,” he said, then fell silent again as their drinks came. Grace wondered if she’d have to start the conversation all over again, but Angus went on as she took her first pull on her pint. A good brew.

“The raiders came in claiming to be a regular commercial DropShip. My friends at the port tell me that ships to Alkalurops never keep to a schedule. Anyway, they set down around midnight a week ago. They tore through the place, but not so fast that the alarm wasn’t raised.”

“Where was the Legate? And the Governor?” Jobe put in.

“You tell me and we’ll both be knowing it,” Angus said, shaking his head and taking another long pull on his drink. “I’ve heard that the raiders blew them away without so much as a by-your-leave. There’s also a story that the two rushed out to the port in a car and got stomped flat. I also heard from the lass who’s the Legate’s housekeeper. She found him in bed, throat slit. I can tell you which one I’m believing—the maid, it is.”

“The raiders got to him before the alarm?” Grace said, then shook her head. “That’s not possible.”

“The poor man’s throat was slit before the raiders’ ship ever touched down, I’m thinking,” Angus said, looking around as if someone with a knife might be looking to slit his throat, too.

“What happened to the Central Constabulary?” Grace asked.

“They got smashed by the raiders as if they weren’t even there. Not much of a fight at all, at all.”

“We saw the North Cons on our way here. Not much left.”

“That would be no surprise.”

“So the raiders went through here pretty thoroughly,” Chato said. “Strange, not much sign of looting.”

“’Cause there was none of that, or very little.” Angus shook his head. “The raiders emptied the Legate’s quarters of his Ryoken II and any spare gear that was handy. They hit the ’Mech dealerships and hijacked the new equipment and such that was nearly new. Gun dealers, too. They set up a base camp at the port and warned us not to come near it. Then those raiding parties took off like the thieves they were. We’d see ’Mechs stomping back under guard of a few gun bikes and stuff.

“Some of the men hereabouts tried a night raid, turnabout being only fair. It didn’t work.” That required another pull on the pint. “Ugly thing. Lad just wounded a mite said the raiders were on them before they were halfway to the port. Damn machines landed on them, scared them witless, and shot them up as they ran. ’Mechs that fly. My grandda told me what it was like during the old wars, but he didn’t say anything about flying ’Mechs.”

“We faced a pair of those. If Jobe here hadn’t shown up, they might have jumped all over me,” Grace said, trying to make sense of what she was hearing and what she’d seen. “So they left things pretty much as they are.”

“Except for burning down Government House, you could say we got off lightly, now, couldn’t you?” Angus said to his beer as if trying to persuade himself. “Yes, I guess we did.”

“But what were the raiders trying to do?” Chato said, swirling his coffee slowly in its mug.

“Banshee take me if I can guess that,” Angus exploded. “It’s not knowing what’s going on across The Republic that can drive a man to walk out thirsty on a hot dry day.”

“Your Mick did a pretty good job of turning some of your MiningMechs into more heavily armored ’Mechs,” Jobe pointed out to Grace.

“Right, so maybe someone else is turning worker ’Mechs into fighting ’Mechs?” Grace said, then took a long pull on her beer.

“Things have been peaceful for a long time. Not a lot of BattleMechs around,” Chato said, as if he’d mined the sentences one word at a time.

“And if you wanted to grow an army in a hurry and cheap…” Grace let the words hang there.

“Steal ’Mechs from an out-of-the-way planet,” Jobe said.

“But don’t do too much damage. Let folks get back on their feet quickly, maybe even order new ’Mechs,” Angus added, emptying his beer. “I need another drink on that thought. Liam, me boy, where are you hiding, and me with a throat all dusty.”

The barkeep, no more a boy than Grace was a lass, hustled over. “You drinking your dinner again, Angus, or do you want something to put in that thin gut of yours?”

“Refills for all, and now that you remind me, some of that delicious lamb stew for us that you sometimes have hereabouts.”

“Only every night,” the barkeep muttered as he turned away.

“So you don’t think this raid was a onetime thing?” Grace said, getting them back to the thoughts pounding in her brain.

“Even if this hard bunch doesn’t come back, with us deaf and dumb as a post, other hard men will be looking around for things to grab,” Angus said. “And even if we don’t get back on our feet, if the whole Sphere goes to hell, what are leavings now will be a prince’s ransom next year. The year after that, they may be stealing food out of our mouths. Ah, the bad old days are nothing to remember, lass. Not a life to live again, not at all, at all.”