"Help, in this city?"

"Help is probably the wrong word. Any chance of hiring you to lend me some temporary assistance that will not in any way conflict with your current employment at this establishment?"

"I'm your man," Dillon said.

Rose leaned into the bar, and Dillon did the same. He palmed a fifty C-bill note, slid it toward the barman. "I need a contact with one of the stables. Someone who might be willing to take on a new pilot this late in the season. All I need is a name of someone I can make a pitch to."

Dillon stared at the note and glanced up and down the bar. Most of the patrons were enthralled by the final stages of the latest Blackstar-Tandrek battle. A jarring right-handed punch by the Blackstar Victorhad knocked the rival Orionoff its feet just as Dillon opened his mouth to speak.

"You've got a better chance of wedding Isis Marik than hiring on with a stable. There's less than a week left in the season. Next season's tryouts won't start for another few months. Why don't you wait till then?" One look into Rose's eyes and Dillon knew later was not acceptable. "Okay, if you need a name, I can give you one, but my normally sterling conscience forces me to warn you first."

Rose forced himself to be patient, but only with effort. He was convinced that Dillon wanted to help, but the young man just didn't understand how important this was to him. He decided to concentrate on breathing as Dillon searched for the right words. This was worse than combat.

"Brachall. As far as I know, that's his only name. He's kind of like a broker. Probably the only guy in Black Hills who can put you in touch with a stable, assuming you don't want an independent." Dillon's eyebrows went up in a silent question, but Rose didn't even acknowledge it. "Anyway, he hangs out at Seventh Heaven. Oh, you've been there?" Rose dropped his head and took a deep breath.

"I was there earlier this evening and was told nobody was around who could help me."

"Yeah, that makes sense. Those techs are a strange bunch, and if you'll pardon me for saying so, you don't exactly look the part."

"Okay, so I don't look like a tech. Shoot me."

"Easy. Easy. Tomorrow, or later today, depending on when you sleep, go to the main bar and ask for Brachall by name. He'll be there, but you've got to ask for him by name. That's the only way he does business." Dillon looked down at the C-bill. "That good enough?"

"Yeah, that's good enough. Thanks."

"Oh, by the way, if he asks who sent you, don't mention my name."

"Any reason?" Rose lifted his hand and left the C-bill on the bar. Dillon scooped up the note in a smooth, practiced motion.

"Yeah. I don't think I want to be any part of what you're about to get yourself into. Nothing personal, you understand?"

"Shot goes wide and it's a clean miss."

7

Solaris City , Solaris

3 August 3054

"Jeremiah Rose, to see Mister Warwick."

Rose turned toward the security camera mounted high on the gate. Though there was little light this late in the day, he had no doubt the camera's operator could see him in vivid detail.

He'd met with Brachall the night before, a meeting brief and to the point, exactly the way Rose liked it. The man had turned out to be an entirely unpleasant fellow who charged Rose an astronomical fee to put him in contact with the "only man on Solaris still looking for a 'Mech pilot." Like every weasel Rose had ever known, Brachall could sense when another man was desperate. After a quick exchange of funds, Brachall was on the phone to Desmond Warwick, owner of the aptly named Warwick Stables. Twenty-four hours later Rose was standing in the drive of Warwick's home—or mansion, as it turned out. The estate was huge, with extensive, beautifully manicured grounds to match the imposing three-story villa that dominated the landscape.

The side gate buzzed open and Rose went on foot up to the building. The walk took well over ten minutes, but he was not surprised that no one came to escort him to the house. He felt like a beggar approaching the king's table, which was doubtless how Warwick intended him to feel.

With only a single day to learn whatever he could about his prospective employer, there hadn't been enough time to do a thorough investigation. The little Rose had been able to learn was that Desmond Warwick, like many wealthy members of Solaris society, had arrived on the game world already possessed of a sizable fortune. Although originally from Quincy in the Federated Commonwealth, he quickly became known as a man without loyalties, except, perhaps, loyalty to money and power. He'd started his stable modestly, competing only in the secondary circuits until his group of warriors had proven themselves against a variety of opponents. It was only last year that he'd become a minor player in the Solaris City circuit, but to date his team had yet to score any victories against the major stables. Yet, from what Rose could discover, Warwick sounded like an able manager employing some good talent and, more important, he was the owner of 'Mechs. Rose ran the facts over in his mind one last time as he knocked on the gigantic door. Midway through the second knock the door pulled open.

"Yes?" Rose was greeted by a towering doorman. Well over two meters tall, the ancient man's gray hair flowed with abandon over his elegant uniform. It was one of the rare times in Rose's life when he was forced to look up, rather than down, into someone's face. He hated that. Another point for Warwick.

"Jeremiah Rose. I have an invitation for dinner with Mister Warwick." The giant stepped aside and motioned Rose inside. The foyer was like something out of a dream. A marble floor and staircase were framed by gilt-framed paintings over teakwood paneling. Arches to either side of the stairway led into other parts of the house, providing glimpses of even more opulence. Everywhere Rose looked, the house screamed elegance and money. Having been forced to walk up the drive, then dwarfed by the doorman and overawed by the entryway, many another individual would have been intimidated by Warwick long before the man ever stepped into the room. Rose, however, had a reaction exactly opposite. The ire that had begun to build during the walk surged within him by the time of the greeting at the door. Now that he was in the house, it turned into a fury. How dare this man, who did not even know Rose, try to intimidate him, try to make him feel insignificant? Rose refused to let it work on him.

Or perhaps it worked only too well. Down on his luck, dispossessed, and frustrated, Rose had had enough. He wanted, or needed, a 'Mech, but not bad enough to put up with a man so obviously self-important. He felt like a caged animal standing in the elegant foyer. Although it had been only moments since he'd entered, Rose felt as if he couldn't stand it another instant. He was just turning toward the door when he heard a sound at the top of the steps.

"Mister Rose, how good of you to join me for dinner." Rose turned to look up at his host, instantly seeing how right he'd been about the man's self-importance. A tiny, little man, Warwick was dressed in a formal silk suit. A garment undoubtedly tailored to his diminutive frame, the suit's gray silk caught, then reflected, the light of the room, making Warwick appear almost to shine. His close-cropped black hair was perfectly in place, and the too-perfect white teeth threatened to dazzle Rose in a too-sincere smile. Warwick stopped on the third step, which made him slightly taller than Rose.