Dark Age - Patriot's Stand Part 8

The attackers came in one rush. Beside Grace, Jobe took a swipe at the closest with his belt, connecting enough to make the guy curse, then slammed him with a leather-clad fist on the return, but danced back to the wall to avoid a swinging chain.

Grace stepped into one oncoming thug and got his attention with her comb. He came up short in a hurry, falling back into the arms of a guy making ready to swing a nail-studded club. The two went down in a ball, but Grace was too busy deflecting a knife blade with her comb to take any advantage.

When she backpedaled to the wall, three guys were down in front of Chato. That heavy pack was doing a job. But now there wereten attackers in front of them. "Do it right this time, you guys, so I won't need to get no more," someone ordered.

The knife guy came at Grace, slow, crouching low. The club guy was using his weapon more to poke at Jobe. The one Grace had almost given a new belly b.u.t.ton was back, only now he held a trash can lid ahead of him.

Six went for Chato.

He knocked two down, but the third, a big guy, got a hand on the pack and started a tug-of-war.

Distracted, the Navajo missed the guy who hit him low, knocking him down. In a flash, two thugs were kicking him.

"Help Chato!" Grace shouted, taking a swipe at the arm of the guy with the trash can lid. He yelped and got in the way of the club guy, but the knife got a good slice of Grace's right arm.

She switched the comb to her left hand-not as good but not bleeding-and realized there were even more attackers. Two of them held Jobe's arms while two more slugged him. Four were kicking Chato, while a fifth raised the pack high and made ready to slam it down on the Navajo's head.

The guy with the knife had a wicked twist to his lips where other people had smiles. "You and me, girlie, are going to have fun," he said, stepping in with two more right behind him.

Out of the night came a cry. "Spirits of Wind and Fire to me!"

"For Scotland and St. Andrew!" mingled with it.

Suddenly there was only the knife guy in front of Grace. "Huh," he said, turning around to check on the gang that was no longer there. Grace lunged, putting six inches of steel spike into his gut. She twisted it as he screamed, then pulled back as he dropped his knife to clutch at himself.

She turned to aid Jobe, but he was slamming together the two guys who had failed to notice that things had changed and were still holding tight to his arms. Their heads. .h.i.t with the sound of ripe melons smashing, and Jobe turned with Grace to help Chato.

The Navajo was still down, but there were four others on the ground with him, one with a chest caved in by the pack. The big fellow holding the pack was doubled over, the fist of a white-haired man deep in his gut. The attacker went down as the pale man chopped expertly at his neck.

A man in a skirt was helping Chato up. No, that was a kilt, complete with sporran. What had they fallen into?

"Thank you, whoever you are," Grace said, offering her hand, then pulling it back when she realized it was covered with her own blood. "Sorry about that," she said.

"Only sorry we were not here soon enough to save you such bloodletting," the man said, hustling them around a corner and out of sight of the carnage. A bright liquor store sign cut the darkness, showing Grace the man's white eyebrows, white hair and pink eyes-an albino. "I am Benjork Lone Cat, and this is my a.s.sociate, Danny O'Bannon, at your service."

"Aye, you kin say that again." The kilted man laughed around a brogue that would be thick even on Alkalurops.

"I don't know what would have happened if you had been a few seconds later in arriving," Jobe said, shouldering his pack.

"We would hae missed out on some good fun," Danny said.

"We had better look at your arm, ma'am," Benjork said.

"Grace. Grace O'Malley," Grace said as she offered her bleeding arm. The man produced a first-aid kit from a pouch in the back of his belt, cleaned her wound, and applied a bandage.

"Thank you very much, Mr. . . ." Grace struggled with his name.

"Most everyone not crazy calls him Ben," Danny provided.

"Crazy?" Jobe said.

"I was born a Nova Cat," the albino said, as if that explained everything.

"That's not as bad as the new ones prancing about, Spirit Cats, but he's still a bit daft, if you know my meaning," Danny said, also as if that explained everything.

Grace concluded further explanations would add nothing.

"Where are you headed?" Danny asked "We took rooms at the Hilltop Refuge," Grace told them.

Danny snorted. "You have rooms at the Hilltop Recycler, you just got beat up two ways to Thursday, and you're going back there? That's good. That's very good. I don't know what you're lugging in that sack, man, but you can as well just start dropping little bits of it along the street here. You'll have about as much left tomorrow as you will if you go back there."

"What?" Grace said. "The truck driver who brought us back from the Roughrider post today suggested the Hillman's Last Stand. Should we have gone there?"

"They are run by the same gang," the albino said quietly. "With the HPG down, I imagine it is much harder for off-worlders to find out about conditions where they are going. Danny, cut them some slack."

"If I do, someone else will cut them their throats."

"So we should find other lodgings for tonight," Jobe said.

"If you want to be alive tomorrow," Danny answered.

"What would you suggest?" Grace asked.

"A less boisterous part of town," Ben said, "that benefits from offering the likes of Danny and me lodging in return for our walking their streets at night." He pointed in the opposite direction. Grace found her bandage a good fit, and the three found the advice equally good, so they let the albino lead the way.

"The gangs have about learned to stay off our turf. A pity-we hae to go elsewhere for sport or this nut will take off on one of his dream things," Danny said, ambling with them.

"Dream things?" Chato said.

"You mentioned you were at the Roughriders' camp. Were you looking for a job with them?" Ben said, changing the topic.

Grace thought a moment, then told their rescuers, "I'm a miner from Alkalurops. At the s.p.a.ceport they mistook us for recruits and drove us out to their camp. We corrected that error, and a major showed us around. I want mercs to train our militia. He wanted a standard defense contract. We parted company."

"Your error would be self-evident if you thought it through," Ben said. "You mine every day. You learn to trust your machine, your instincts, your coworkers. You know what you can depend on when matters take an unexpected turn. In battle you can depend on two things: that matters will always take unexpected turns and that you can depend only on the man or woman next to you who has been there, training day and night, for as long as you care to remember. A militia's a waste of air."

"That's what the Major said," Grace snapped. "But it's our home we're fighting for. Not cash, not plunder. Those are our neighbors and our livelihood. We will fight for them."

"Your eyes say youhave fought, and recently. Was it with militia? Did it go well?" Ben asked.

"No," Grace said. "We didn't know how to fight. You can't expect us to know everything the first day on the job."

"And how many lived to see a second day on that job?"

Grace could feel her face getting as red as her hair. She struggled with anger, both at Ben for being so hardheaded when his point was made, and at herself and her people for being caught so unprepared.

"No one expected the HPG to go down," she said, then turned to Danny and changed the subject herself. "You were formerly a Highlander?" She left the real question hanging.

"Aye, as you can see. No one expected the HPG to go down. A lot o' us mercenaries were on the beach."

"But now they're hiring anyone who walks off a DropShip. What unit hired you and him?" she said, nodding at Ben.

"She got us there, Ben, me good man. No one wants to see the front or back of the two of us. You have any problem employees in your mining business?"

Grace nodded. "A few."

"Well, you're looking at two great mercs that no one wants to rehire. Isn't she, Ben?"

"The Roughriders give you a cost proposal?" Ben asked.

Grace produced it, and they paused under a working light while he examined it. "On the high side, but for a fully supported independent command maybe not too high in today's busy market."

"Can you suggest anyone not busy?" Grace asked.

"Roughriders are plenty busy," Danny said. "Remember that gig they got on Nusakan, the one with the gag rule that required them to take their armored DropShip out of storage?"

"I remember it," Ben said.

"Nusakan was the planet that guy was from, what's-his-name, that was offering to defend us," Jobe said.

"Alfred Santorini," Grace provided.

"And those raiders sure had a DropShip," Jobe said.

Ben whirled on him. "I am a mercenary. I have my honor. You give me a contract to defend your planet, I will defend it with my life. You contract for me to attack your enemy, I will pursue that contract to forty percent casualties. I am a fighting man. I am not a thief. None of us are."

Grace put out an arm to Jobe, pushing him gently away from the albino, who now showed red in the poor lighting. "I don't think we need to pursue this further, Jobe."

"Yes, definitely. No offense intended," said the big man.

"But you're always saying, Ben, that the times are a-changing," Danny said, elbowing his buddy.

"Honor never changes," Ben spat back.

"Is this the place?" Chato said, pointing with his open hand to a sign proclaimingAUNTIE VIRGINIA '

S PLACE,ROOMS CHEAP , though most of the neon letters were long dead.

"Tell Auntie we sent you," Danny said. "If I were you, I'd wait until there was plenty of daylight to go back to the Refuge for me kits."

"We will," Grace said. "Good night, and thanks again."

Auntie had a large room to rent to the three of them, and breakfast was included in the rate. The next morning over cereal and juice, Grace talked to Auntie's granddaughter, Niki. She had just gotten her driver's license, might be able to get the car for the day, and claimed to know where all the merc camps were.

"They get drunk or otherwise delayed, and miss the last ride back. It's either pay some townie or wait for an MP to collect them, and I'm a lot cheaper than a month's pay and restriction. I've been doing this for the last two years."

"I thought you just got your license," Jobe said.

"And?" the teenager said, batting long lashes.

"The mercs don't give you any problems?" Grace asked. Around here, subjects seemed to need regular changing.Worse than a squalling baby, she thought.

"My brother used to practice hand-to-hand on me before he went to the Twenty-first Centauri. No drunk merc's gonna give me any trouble."

"We need to pick up our gear at the Hilltop," Grace said.

"I'll go with you. I know the clerks; they live around here." That told Grace she'd slept in the right part of town.

At the Hilltop, Niki took Grace by the elbow and headed straight for the desk with Jobe and Chato right behind. "Timmy, I'll be collecting this lady's kit. Hers and the two guys with her."

"Whaddaya mean?" a freckled-faced kid Niki's age answered.

"They're staying with Auntie now. Give me their duffels."

"They paid for two nights."

"We're not asking for our money back," Jobe said. "We're asking for our kits."

Niki got right in Timmy's face. "You heard the man. Now give."

Sullenly, the kid produced the two duffels. They returned to the old four-door Niki was driving.

Chato frowned. "They'd already emptied our rooms."

"Probably rerented 'em when you didn't get back from supper," Niki said. "Happens a lot, I'm told."

"And the police?" Chato asked.

"If somebody decides to join one of the more fly-by-night merc outfits on a sudden whim, who's to keep track? As Ben likes to say, 'The times, they are a-changing." '

"Speaking of change," Grace said, "we need to stop at the port to check on some cargo. Could you drive by there on the way out?"

"No problemo-I know the way like the back of Ma's hand," Niki said as she pulled into traffic. But the stop at the port turned into a major problemo. Grace presented her ID and Wilson's smart card and asked to have the proceeds of the cargo's sale added to it.

"No can do, lady. The cargo ain't sold yet because I don't have a Certificate of Ownership."

Grace gave the man her best mine owner frown and repeated, "Certificate of Ownership."

"Listen, lady, I don't make up the rules, and I didn't crash the HPG. With it down, I can't call hither and yon to verify who owns what. Somebody smarter than me came up with this Certificate of Ownership.

You got one-no problems. You don't got one-I've got to wait until one comes back on some DropShip. Didn't n.o.body tell you?"

"No," Grace muttered and asked to see a sample certificate. The date on the form was only nine months old. Maybe the requirement had reached Alkalurops, maybe it hadn't. Anyway, no one had told Wilson, and his cargo didn't come with a certificate attached for Grace.

"So you won't sell the cargo without a certificate."

"Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. But the market's soft as a baby's heinie, and nothing's moving today."

"So how long until I can get some stones credited to me?"