Every year should bring new tales, and last year was no exception. For instance, we got a job to protect Lawrence, this four-bit semi-industrial town in the middle of nowhere. Some House jerk had a bee in his neurohelmet about one of those Star League parts depots being in or near the town. The town was expecting a raid.

I'm not saying the Black Cats are intolerably special, although maybe we are, but there just aren't many mercenary infantry units. The life expectancy is short. People hire you, then expect you to be dead when payday comes. Mostly, though, rich guys would rather hire a few nice-looking Mechs than a bunch of normal-size people. It makes them feel important. So we Black Cats mostly get jobs defending little cities. The nice thing is these are people whose governments won't protect them with so-called Real Troops, and they're happy to see us.

Any infantry unit that lasts more than a year has to find creative ways to operate, to keep from going buggy. So Boots, my boss Sergeant Elizabeth Hill, is always trying newer and odder ways to peel 'Mechs. Some folks say this means she is already buggy, but it's just a way of keeping us together. They don't call her ‘Boot Hill’ for nothing, you know. She's been boss for nearly two years, longer than most infantry units last.

One of the nice things about being an infantry unit—maybe the only nice thing—is that the tinker boys—the Mech drivers—don't take you seriously. So. if you're a good infantry unit, you prove them wrong in fun and interesting ways. They're sohumiliated. ‘Tis sport, indeed, to see the engineer hoisted on his own petard. And in Lawrence we made those 'Mechs look petarded.

The raid did, indeed, show up. And the locals went crazy. Almost from the second those DropShips had been launched, the word was around town: ‘Widows! The Black Widows!’

‘I’ll admit that made my stomach disappear for a few seconds, until Boots snapped me back to the real world, whichever one it was.

‘If those are the Black Widow Company, I'm Sinwan Kunta.’ she announced. We were going to send a few Cats over for a look-see, but our employers were not happy with our calm manner in the face of what they thought would be particularly slow, agonizing death and destruction of their world.

This is how Boots. Lou Lingg, my little self, and a few new guys and local cops ended up creeping through the woods on a nasty cold night, playing spies to look like we were earning our C-bills. A little acting is part of the job. Hell, a lot of acting, if you count looking nonchalant while running around the feet of sixty tons of tippy metal. Freezing our triggers off is part of the job, too, but not for no reason. I was just about to say so, when we reached the camp.

‘Ill met by moonlight, proud Titans,’ I said instead.

‘Wannabees,’ said Boots. ‘We just dragged through nature's own cryonics lab for a bunch of Widow Wannabees.’

She explained to the locals that this group of no-talents had apparently painted spiders on their 'Mechs, either to confuse people and strike fear in their hearts, or because they thought it would be really neat to be like the Widows.

The Widow Company would have wept, or more likely shot them all, had they seen those clowns. There was only one company and some infantry that looked like drek. I hate dealing with guys like that. No challenge, no glory. They set up on the edge of town (we had walked nine klicks out of the way, thanks to the local city boys' sense of direction), obviously expecting to march in while the populace turned tail and fled. I like surprise parties.

The next day, we reviewed probable routes they would take into the city, and set up to meet them. The infantry is at an advantage in a city, especially if we know our way around and the enemy don't. Small size works to a distinct advantage when you can squeeze into a spot and trap a big hulk.

The big galoots did not appear in town that entire day. Boots said it was possible they were waiting for dark, but it was more likely they had put themselves in such an obvious location because they were hoping the townspeople would simply evacuate. Of course, it was possible they were simply real stupid and didn't have a clue.

The next day, they finally got off their big cans, into their bigger cans, and headed into town. We met them at the edge of town, and took some potshots at them like any hometown militia in a sweat. Once we had their attention, Boots ordered a retreat and dispersed the squad into town.

Boots and I—well. Boots actually—had decided to lure some 'Mechs into this large industrial bakery. It was a maze of heavy machinery, vats, and conveyer belts, a good place to trap a 'Mech while it tried to crunch its way out. Let them eat cake, we said.

We had two fire teams in the bakery, when Boots gets this very friendly look on her face. ‘Bill.’ she says, ‘How would you like to be the hero this afternoon?’

Well, I'd been the hero for Boots before, and it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. But she's the top kick in this outfit, so there's no odds in arguing. She sees the look on my face and says, ‘Have I ever shown you less than a great time?’

I decided not to answer that, and found myself leading my fire team out the back door of the bakery. The 'Mechs had pushed past the bakery and were strolling into town. We worked our way from doorway to doorway until we were about 50 meters from two clumsy-looking buckets of bolts.

‘Hi, girls,’ I said, as we squeezed a few rockets at their tin behinds. We knew it wouldn't hurt them much. We just wanted their attention. We got it. They turned around, and in the words of the poet, all hell broke loose.

Mechs don't see infantrymen too well, thank god, but I would have given my kingdom, if I had one. for a horse. We were dodging and ducking and beating our feet back to the bakery. All I could think of was that Boots's surprise had better be good.

We hit the door about four kilometers slower than the speed of light, with these two 50-ton soup cans following just as fast as they could. As soon as we broke through, Boots waved us off to the right. The 'Mechs broke clean through the wall about two heartbeats after we got out of their way. I found some cover, then poked my head up.

The two 'Mechs were skating across the floor, trying to grab the walls with their cannons. They did some spins, a nice pirouette, crashed over and under a conveyor belt—one landing on top of the other—and slid on their bellies into a vat of lard. A geyser of lard poured over the 'Mechs.

Boots crawled up next to me.

‘Nice touch,’ I told her. ‘Can we leave now?’

‘Got a match, sailor?’ she said, as she lifted her flame thrower. The lard burned beautifully. It smelled like all the messhalls in the galaxy at one shot. ‘Now.’ she said. ‘I think we better leave.’

We took cover in another building just as the ammo in the 'Mechs cooked off. ‘O! for a muse of fire.’ I said as the Mechs crashed through the top of the building, ‘that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.’

‘Watch out. You might get what you're after,’ said Boots. ‘There has got to be a way, burning down the house.’

THINK LIKE A LIAO

-Susan Putney

Liao

Tikonov Commonality

Capellan Confederation

10 January 3026

The people of Liao ushered in the Year of the Tiger with a parade. Gleaming BattleMechs, prancing stallions of ancient Eridani blood, and bronze and crimson paper dragons as long as a city block marched past the winter palace. Crowds of citizens waved green banners bearing the Liao fist-and-sword emblem. The parade had started in midafternoon, and now the palace lights glowed in the twilight, but the banners still waved. No one wanted to slack off as long as the Chancellor was watching.