This almost seems too easy, but sometimes life’s gifts are that way. You struggle along a rocky path, climbing mountain after mountain, and then suddenly the path opens up on a wide meadow and it’s easy going—until you reach the next mountain.

  "I need a place to stay for awhile. Just until I get my feet back under me."

  "We don’t hold with deserters ‘round here. ’Mech patrols shoot ‘em deader than a squashed roach." Con’s scowl deepens.

  Lucas raises an eyebrow, puts a hand on Con’s shoulder.

  "Go see if your ma needs help with supper."

  Con’s face grows more sullen. He hangs the pitchfork on the wall and heads out the barn door without saying a word. Lucas turns back to me.

  "Look, I got enough trouble with ’Mech patrols nosing around. If they find out I got a deserter hiding out..."

  "I watched a friend die, Mr. Lucas." How do you explain collapsing containment fields and ’Mech reactors self-destructing in a fiery inferno to a non-military man? "Her ’Mech burned itself up from the inside out with her trapped inside. Three of my lance went down with her."

  Amazing how empty words can be when there’s no feeling attached. I want to ache inside, to cry, but all I feel is nothingness, the cold void of space.

  Lucas puts a hand on my shoulder, gives me a gentle shake. "Sometimes life ain’t too kind. Your friend was doing what she had to do. We all do what we have to. It’s how we survive."

  Words. They fill the emptiness and then melt away as if they were never there. I shake my head, glance over at the pitchfork resting against the wall. "I should’ve died with them, but I’m still here. Why am I still here?"

  Before Lucas can answer I hear rumbling outside. A distant sound like shuffling thunder. A familiar sound.

  The sound of BattleMechs on the road.

  "I think we have company," I say.

  Lucas’s expression doesn’t change, but he steps forward and waves at me to follow.

  We move deeper into the shadows. There’s a storage locker at the back of the barn, with a heavy wooden door that swings open with a groan when Lucas tugs at the handle. He steps inside, switches on a light. "Plenty of fresh manure in the barn and a lot of hot air outside Should mess up a ’Mech’s monitors pretty good. Con wasn’t fooling—these new guys can be pretty nasty if they get a bee in their helmets."

  He smiles as if remembering I already know this.

  The barn may have brought back some nostalgic memories, but closed-in spaces bring back memories of war. Of death. Of pain. I take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Gather my energy like a coiled serpent ready to strike...

  ...and force my muscles to relax. I’ve already brought enough trouble to those I care about. I step inside. Look Lucas in the eye.

  "How do you clean memories from your mind, Mr. Lucas? How do you let go?" I lean up against the wall, wrap my arms around my waist. "I can’t get her picture out of my head. Every time I look at a ’Mech, I see her face, charred so badly I only know it’s her because of the medallion she wore around her neck. For good luck, she said. But where was luck when her system malfunctioned? When she was trapped inside that burning hulk of metal?"

  "If I had the answer to that question, son, I’d be doing more’n sitting here on this farm waiting for ’Mechs to tromp through my crops." Lucas starts to close the door, then stops. "I’ll leave it cracked for you, but the light’ll have to go."

  I nod as he switches off the light and eases the door shut.

  The room is pitch black until my eyes make the adjustment. Something rustles in the back. Habit forces my hand to the knife sheath, pulls the blade free before I make any conscious decision. A small slice of light sneaks through the cracked door and glows across my blade. I feel the edge, razor sharp and ready to kill. Listen for the rustle.

  But whoever—whatever—is in the back of this room is quiet now. Listening for me.

  Voices whisper in the corner of my mind. Living nightmares of the dead who can no longer speak. I press the knife against my palm to drive the voices away. Turn my thoughts to the barn and the last words I’d heard my father speak.

  "Killing ain’t the answer, boy. Never was. Never will be. You’re nothing but six legs and a strong back far as the military’s concerned—a mountain mule willing to give his soul for a pat on the nose. Our place is here, working with the land. All killing ever got anybody like us is dead."

  Sometime during the last few years my father’s words, words spoken so long ago the memory was just a dusting upon my mind, began to make sense.

  Doubt—in the system, in my superiors—crept through my being like an insidious disease, worming its way through my thoughts until every order was suspect, every action tinged with uncertainty. Yet I continued to follow orders until those same orders killed my comrades.

  My friends.

  The ground trembles—a vibration you can feel in your feet, but can’t see with your eyes. I know from the feel the contingent approaching is small. Probably a single ’Mech on security patrol. From Lucas’s reaction this isn’t an uncommon occurrence, just an unwelcome one, though why ’Mechs are patrolling this area is something I can’t quite figure.

  Unless they’re searching for deserters.

  My heart skips a beat. My breath quickens. A small part of my mind notices the fear, the anticipation before the feeling slips away. My body is ready to react, like a well-oiled machine, a machine I no longer want any part of.

  Another feeling slides through the crack that’s starting to open in my shell. Shame. I came home looking for answers, not to hide in the dark.

  I ease open the storage room door, look around before making my move. The barn appears empty. Hay muffles my footsteps as I steal across the open floor and take up position beside the huge doorway.

  From my post I can make out the approaching ’Mech—a scarred BH-K305 Battle Hawk. Sunlight slants across the yard, bounces off the metal body in a flash of blinding light. The machine stops, its huge legs casting shadows from the evening sun across the barn. Lucas stands calmly before the ’Mech, rifle resting in the crook of his arm.

  Adrenaline stings my gut and pulses through my veins. Have I judged Lucas right? Is the man who now owns my daddy’s house the man I think he is?

  A gray-haired woman—sturdy as the land she helps tend—steps out on the porch. I can feel anxiety radiating from her straight mouth. She clenches a towel in her hands, wrings the cloth like a chicken being killed for dinner. Lucas waves her away. After a brief pause, she stomps inside and slams the porch door behind her.

  I center myself, try to stem the flow of paranoia. My throat clogs as I watch the Battle Hawk shut down. The egress hatch opens and a chain link ladder clanks down the ’Mech’s side. A pilot—dressed in legless suit and boots—steps from the hatch, his sweat-plastered hair glistening wetly in the sun. The man looks as out of place on this quiet farm as his ’Mech. He pauses at the top of the ladder, glances around, reaches back inside before descending to the ground, right hand hidden from view.

  "Hello, Mr. Lucas. You planning on trouble?" The pilot wears a smile on his face, but his eyes are wary. He holds his right hand back by his side, gestures with his left at the rifle in Lucas’s hand.

  "Just scaring off critters," Lucas says. I start to relax. Things are going just fine...

  Con runs out of the house, his face filled with defiance. "There’s a deserter in the barn. He killed a cabby and threatened my pa."

  Lucas is startled. I can see the anger in his face from here. The confusion. I lean hard against the rough wood planks, feel a splinter slide deep in my palm.

  The pilot’s face isn’t friendly anymore. "That’s a serious accusation, son."

  "There’s no one in the barn but an old friend." Lucas lifts the rifle across his chest. He takes hold of Con’s arm and pulls him tight to his side. "He’s been helping us out, ain’t that right, boy?"

  The pilot stares into Con’s eyes, but the boy doesn’t answer. I can practically feel his hatred from here. His anger burns like mine used to burn and I know it’s only a matter of time. I tuck my blade up into my right sleeve, step out into the sunlight.

  "Heard a commotion..." I fake surprise at the sight of the ’Mech. "Whoa. That’s some machine."

  The pilot glances up, surprise and suspicion written on his face. His right hand swings free and his eyes narrow as he studies the cabby’s uniform. He glances at the barn. At Lucas. At Con. Back at me.

  And I know that he knows.

  "This your deserter?" the pilot asks Con. He brings up his right hand, points the weapon he’s been concealing in my direction.

  "That’s not necessary. Like I said, this here’s an old friend." Lucas’s big hand holds Con close. The pilot scans the yard and his eyes come back to me.

  "You got some identification to go with that uniform?"

  I nod. Reach in my pocket. Swallow and try to wet the dryness in my mouth. I am more than what the military made me, I remind myself. More than a killing machine.

  That’s why I came home. Not to kill, but to keep from killing. To find the truth behind my daddy’s words. To find out why the man behind the machine died.

  And maybe to bring him back to life.

  But sometimes things don’t always go the way we plan.

  I pull out the cabby’s ID and walk over to the ’Mech pilot.

  "He’s got a knife!" Con ducks out from beneath Lucas’s arm and charges me from the side.

  The pilot spins, weapon flashing in his hand. Lucas raises his rifle as the pilot fires a shot that creases my leg. The leg stings with pain, but I block it so swiftly it might not have happened. I dodge behind the laundry, feel the years of training, the years of battle struggle to take over. Death is what identifies me. Killing’s all I know. All I have known since I was little more than Con’s age.

  "No!" Con’s voice slices through the air just as the rifle cracks. The boy crumples to the ground, Lucas reaching for him like a drowning man grabs for rope.

  I dive into a forward roll, come up beside the pilot. He stares at the boy on the ground, at Lucas kneeling by Con’s side. Red coats my vision, painting pictures of MechWarriors falling, burning...

  The instant kill zone between the fourth and fifth intercostal spaces is where I’ve been trained to strike, but that would be too merciful. I shove my knife deep into the man’s gut.

  "You didn’t have to hurt them," I hiss as warm blood spills out over my hand, a dark flow that matches the darkness inside me.

  His eyes turn to mine, his glare filled with disdain, and he spits in my face.

  I shove the knife deeper, give it a twist, watch the light fade from his eyes before pulling my knife free.

  "Lucas?" The woman’s panic-tinged voice shrills across the yard as the porch door slams. I whip around, ready once again to defend myself. It takes a moment for reality to sink in. For the battle haze to clear from my mind.

  Lucas sits crumpled on the ground beside Con. His eyes are red, tears streak his cheeks.

  "I was trying to distract him," Lucas whispers. "But Con got in the way."

  Red seeps from Con’s side. I kneel down, pull aside his shirt. Glance at the wound.

  "It’s a clean shot," I tell Lucas. "Through and through. He’ll be okay as long as you get him to a doctor."

  Con’s mother shoves me aside and pulls her son to her breast. I give the woman room. Breathe deep the dust-laden air.

  MechWarrior blood sticks the cabby’s shirt to my ribs. I clean my blade on the shirttails—the blade I should have used to end my own life rather than bring the shame of a deserter upon the House of Kurita—and slip it back into its sheath.

  "You’re nothing but a yellow-bellied coward," Con says. He pushes his mother away, but his gaze—filled with hatred and pain—stays fixed on me.

  Lucas stands. Grabs my arm.

  "You can’t stay now." His voice is raspy, his eyes filled with an apology I know he’ll never make.

  "I know." I try to keep the desperation from my face, but I know he’s seen it. "It’s just that..."

  "Coming home’s not always the answer," Lucas says.

  Con’s face grows hard as a ’Mech’s armor. He struggles to his feet, leans briefly on his mother, then straightens. "He’s a damn deserter. He don’t have no home."

  The bitter statement slices at my heart in a way I’d thought I’d never feel again. I draw a deep breath, let the feeling run through me. Someday the boy will understand.

  I look deep in Con’s eyes, at the determination, the desire.

  Then again, maybe he won’t.

  I pause a moment to let the pain in my knee subside. The wound will take a long time to heal, I know that from experience. My soul will take longer, but the shell’s been broken now. I glance back into the barn, let my gaze linger on the loft, draw the sweet hay scent deep into my lungs, feel the pain stab my heart once more.

  And turn to leave.

  "I’ll hunt you down, you know." Con’s voice is flat and low, the way it was when he first confronted me. Lethal—like a poisonous snake. "When I get my ’Mech..."

  "Con!" Lucas’s hand is raised as if to strike his son. He lowers it slowly. Lines drawn heavy by life’s hand deepen on his face, revealing the battle within.

  A battle my own father lost.

  ’Mech against ’Mech. Machine against human. Father against son.

  There’s a chance my soul will heal.

  But another soul will slowly leach away, minute by inexorable minute, until boy becomes man.

  And man becomes machine.

  COMMERCE IS ALL

  by Steven Mohan, Jr.

  Canopian Pleasure Circus Bacchanal

  In orbit about Trondheimal, Illyrian

  Palatinate

  January 5 3033

  Captain Douglas Berg stepped into the Hook-Up, the first outer-ring bar on the Canopian Pleasure Circus Bacchanal, and felt his jaw tighten.

  The bar’s cheap sound system transformed the pounding music into one long screech punctuated by a back beat so deep that Berg felt its throb in his teeth. The bar was dimly lit except for occasional flashes of blue-white light that left him blinking away bright afterimages. The air was filled with a foul, blue haze and the mingled smells of tobacco and marijuana.

  Sweat and desire.

  He’d been on less chaotic battlefields.

  How’d he let Sully talk him into this?

  Thank God the Hook-Up was located in the outer ring where the DropShip’s spin was maximum. After seeing how weird this place was, he had no desire to visit one of the zero-gee places.

  He turned to go and felt a strong hand clamp down on his arm. "Not trying to get away, are you?"

  Berg turned to see his good friend Lieutenant Jason Sullivan staring at him, a broad grin stretched across his ugly face.

  "Who me?" Berg asked innocently.

  "C’mon," said Sully in a slurred voice that told Berg the infantry officer was already well into his cups, "Might as well ‘ave a good time." He sobered for a moment. "If Little Bob has his way it’ll be your last."

  H. R. "Little Bob" McIntyre was the ruthless dictator of the Circinus Federation, a gang of thieves, cutthroats, and rapists dressed up to look like a real government. The latest intel indicated that the Circinians were mobilizing troops and assembling DropShips. All signs pointed to a Federation invasion of the tiny Illyrian Palatinate.

  And if that happened, Berg, Sully, and the rest of the mercenaries in Thor’s Army would be in the middle of the fighting.

  But that didn’t mean that everyone in the Periphery had to know about it.

  "This is not the place," Berg hissed.

  "You think they don’ know?" said Sully, pointing at the crowd with his glass. "The whole sector knows."

  "All right, stop it," said Berg sharply, grabbing the other man by the tunic.

  "Why do ya’ think the circus is in town," asked Sully fiercely, "if not to collect our last few coins before the invasion comes?"

  Berg slowly let go of his friend. He didn’t have an answer for that. It was rare for the Canopian pleasure ships to range through the Periphery as far coreward of the Magistracy as the Palatinate and here was the Bacchanal hanging in orbit about Trondheimal.

  Sully grabbed him around the back of the neck and pulled Berg’s face close to his. "So ‘ave a good time, Dougie." Then he let go of his friend and stumbled off into the semi-darkness.

  Berg glanced around the room and sighed. Little chance of that. He waved for a drink without bothering to tell the ‘tender what he wanted and a glass of something appeared before him. He took a sip. Bad vodka. Good enough.

  There was plenty of skin on display here at the Hook-Up, a good time for the asking. Long, platinum hair. Or white-blonde. Or red. Blue eyes, violet eyes, emerald eyes. Heavy breasts barely bound by shimmering silver tops that accented rather than covered.

  It was crass. It was obvious.

  It was boring.

  Berg had promised Sully he would come to the bar and he’d come. He downed his vodka in one quick toss, turned to go.

  And saw her.

  She was nothing like the other women in the bar. She wore a dress the color of midnight that somehow managed to be sexy and classy at the same time. It hugged the curves of her slim body, which were nice without being overdone. Her skin was the color of rich mocha and set off nicely by gray-green eyes.

  Berg tried to swallow and found he couldn’t.

  She reached the bar and summoned the ‘tender with a look. He set a drink in front of her that Berg bet wasn’t bad vodka.

  He stepped forward and slapped a C-bill down on the bar. "For the lady."

  She frowned. "That’s really not necessary," she said coolly.

  The ‘tender sat down a second drink to match the first.

  "But it would be my great pleasure," Berg said. "Perhaps there’s someplace we could go. And, uh, talk," he said quickly.

  Her gaze flickered to the MechWarrior insignia on his collar and then back to his face. "I don’t think you and I have anything to talk about."

  Berg blinked. He had to be the only man who could strike out in a pleasure circus. "Well, please take the drink anyway," he said slowly. "I insist."