Not for the first time, Kevlavic wished that his Marauderhad proper ‘Mech hands as he slowly raised the machine's left forearm to where the heavy, twin-barreled vambrace was less than a meter from the boy's side. Then he snapped on the external speakers. His voice, thunder-loud through the amplifiers, made the sniper cringe. "In the name of the Governor-General of Verthandi and of the military forces of the Draconis Combine, you’re under arrest! Climb on!"

The rebel understood. He scrambled across the rubble of the steeple and grabbed the handholds welded to the Mech's metal forearm. Even an enemy sworn to die rather than surrender would think twice when faced with execution by a 70-ton Marauder.Moving slowly and with precision, Kevlavic swung his captive up out of the steeple's ruin and over the street. Crouched there in alleyways, ruined buildings, and anywhere else they could find the illusion of cover, people were staring up at the monster machine silhouetted against the burning town. Kevlavic smiled. Good,he thought. To be effective, terror demanded an audience.

Slowly, deliberately, Kevlavic's Marauderkicked the broken church into rubble, then swept laser fire across people fleeing its collapse. The captive clinging to the Marauder'sarm screamed again, pleading with Kevlavic to stop. The church crumbled with a final roar and a billowing cloud of dust

Kevlavic flicked the massive forearm once, twice. The captive shrieked and clung to the handholds, his legs kicking over empty air. Kevlavic brought the ‘Mech's right arm across. The PPC muzzle, still hot from his shot at the farm store, trailed smoke as he moved it. The captive shrieked again as hot metal brushed him, then wailed as he kicked and thrashed down the eight-meter drop to the pavement

The sniper was still screaming, writhing against the partial immobility of a broken back, as the Marauder'shuge foot slowly descended on him.

2

As many times as he'd been over it, Grayson could not see what more could be done. Devic Erudin's offer was the only one the Gray Death Legion had received during their whole six months on Galatea. Unless he could get work for his unit, he'd be forced to disband so that his men could find other work among the larger, better-equipped mercenary units. Galatea was a hiring center for mercenaries from across the Lyran Commonwealth and beyond. Merc units or their representatives gathered here to look for work, and Galatea was where governments sent their representatives to seek out and sign up mercenary fighters.

The problem was that mercenary units were so common and most could muster full, twelve- ‘Mech companies or even entire regiments. The Gray Death Legion numbered a mere five ‘Mechs upon arriving on Galatea. Only two of these, Lori Kalmar's Locustand Grayson's own Shadow Hawk,were piloted by combat veterans. As the weeks passed, five more ‘MechWarriors had signed on, and two of them brought ‘Mechs of their own, raising the Legion's strength to seven. The unit had been able to hire Techs and support troops, too, then put in the time to drill these troops and to acquire salvage parts to repair and re-equip the ‘Mechs.

Renfred Tor, Captain of the jump freighter Invidious,had met and recruited a pair of AeroSpace pilots to fly close tactical fighter support for the unit in space or during ground combat. Meanwhile, Sergeant Ramage was transforming the ground troops into a unit well-trained in anti- ‘Mech and ‘Mech-support infantry tactics. Now, the unit numbered just 186 men and women, including all the crewmembers of the aging Invidious,the Techs, astechs, and ground infantry they'd brought from Trellwan, and the handful of experienced men they'd been able to recruit here on Galatea.

Grayson knew that it would all be for nothing if he could not find a patron, and quickly. Precious few employers were looking to sign up a unit of less than two full lances, especially a newly organized one with only a single campaign under its belt. After six weeks, Grayson had spent most of the money that the grateful government of Trellwan had awarded him for freeing them from the tyranny of House Kurita's Duke Hassid Ricol. After paying the Galatean port fees and buying salvaged parts for the ‘Mechs, fuel, food, weapons, and ammunition—not to mention bribes for port officials, which was the only way to get through the bureaucratic red tape—Grayson barely had enough left to pay the troops. In fact, just two weeks before, he had stopped paying the unit in C-bills and had begun to issue them promissory notes instead. No merchant in Galaport would accept a unit's own notes as payment for anything, and very soon, neither would the Legion.

Grayson had first met Erudin in one of the Galaport strip's innumerable bars. The place was named "Marauder Bill's", though some earlier patron had shot out the "B" in the neon sign, leaving only "Marauder ill's". Renfred Tor had made the first contact with the man and then later brought Grayson along to meet him.

Marauder Bill's—or ills—was typical of a hundred similar establishments within a kilometer of the Galaport gate. Outside, it was all grime-coated, sun-baked, age-peeling whitewash, the cracked facade shimmering in Galatea's desert heat. Within, it was dark and marginally cooler, with the sounds of raucous laughter and conversation punctuated by the clatter of glassware and an occasional drunken fistfight. Erudin had been sitting way in the back, well away from the pools of stagelight in which naked dancers writhed and away from the crowd of heavily armed mercs maneuvering for spaces at the bar and central tables.

Nothing about the man suggested that he might be a warrior. He was a full head shorter than Grayson Carlyle's rangy height, his pale eyes magnified grotesquely by thick-lensed eyeglasses. Those glasses identified him as native of a planet lacking the technology for corneal implants or myopicorrective surgery. Lostechwas the word that had been coined for such a place, a world that had begun the long fall from civilization to savagery during centuries of unremitting warfare. The word now applied only to those worlds that had lost the most. After all, the whole Inner Sphere of known Space had suffered a similar decline in technology and the destruction of scientific knowledge.

What sort of commission might await Grayson and his mercenary band on a Lostech world?

He kept that thought to himself as he accepted Erudin's hand. "You must be Grayson Carlyle," the man said conversationally enough as he stood up. Though his appearance was bookish, the small man's handclasp was strong, and there was a look of quiet determination about him. "Your pilot here has told me a very great deal about you."

"Well, he's told me nothing about you, Mr. Erudin, so you have me at a disadvantage."

"CitizenErudin, if you please, Captain," Tor said. "He's the leader of a dandy little revolution a few tens of lights from here."

Grayson had cocked an eyebrow at that. "A few tens of light years" suggested the region along the Lyran Commonwealth's border with the Draconis Combine. Such border areas between the various great Houses were always tense enough to keep mercenary units, arms merchants, and whole fleets and armies busy, with planets trading hands along the frontier with monotonous regularity.

"Not the leader, no," Erudin said, seating himself. "I amthe representative for Verthandi’s Revolutionary Council, however. We are fighting against House Kurita, and we need help... need it badly."

"I should damn well think so," Grayson had remarked. Just then, they were interrupted by a young lady dressed in more fake jewelry and feathers than clothing, who offered to take their order. Tor had ordered something called lugen coladas for everyone, but Grayson broke in to say he wanted only a glass of ice water, then turned to study Tor's contact as he picked up his tale.