The Outer Topic

Scene 39-1 Rings

The atmosphere is thick with smoke, and the heavy silence following Viktor's revelation about the women of Kirchbach.

Alina, keen to steer the conversation away from misery and onto a manageable topic, leans slightly toward Ishani, across the table.

— Ishani, forgive my curiosity but... Viktor told me that Indian women wear nose rings, like the maids who served us earlier. Is that true?

Ishani stops with the fork midway to her mouth and gives Alina an annoyed look, then she softens and smiles noticing Alina's discomfort.

— I don't know what tales Viktor told you. Be sensible, Alina. That sort of thing is quite beneath us. Sticking bits of metal through one's face is something the Periphery savages do, not civilized people. We've moved on rather a long time since then, thank you.

She waves with the fork dismissively

— I suppose Indians in Marik worlds are different, like in that Kalidasa planet he is always talking about. The purple pigeons are weird, face tattoos, can you imagine? I guess there are backward planets where things are... traditional. But no, nose rings aren't just an 'Indian thing' anymore.

Ishani gaves a slight shrug. — My ancestry is Indian, but we're hardly backward peasants like those quaint Marik Indians. I would dare say they still worship the old pagan idols.

Viktor smiles: —Ah, the old Indian caste pride… and contempt for the lower castes. I suppose you are from brahmin caste.

— Castes? Maybe in that benighted world you were stationed in, Commander. — Ishani turns up her nose with distaste, then looks back at Alina and smiles.

— Don't pay attention to his soldier tales, darling. We may all come from Terra, but look at Viktor, he is Russian but Capellan, Katya is also Russian, but Draconian, they are similar but also different.

—Oh I understand, that, there are also Lyran Russians… but is not a good example. They are all very much alike.

—I am not! — protests Katya.

—If the valenki fits…— grins Alina.

Viktor grins and lifts his glass in a toast, joined by Aleksey, and they motion at Katya, who also smiles back and joins.

—To all Russias and all Russians of the Sphere! за здоровье!

Ishani looks at them, annoyed that her statement has been disproven and after a moment of thought, speaks again.

—Look Alina. Whatever Viktor told you, yes, we all came from Terra and we Indians have something in common, but were a diverse people. Mazen is also Indian but doesn't wear a nose ring either. It's been centuries since the Exodus, people are different across states and planets.

Mazen, who had been half-listening, interrupts:

— Yeah, Ishani, you are right. See, same thing with other ethnic groups. You cross a border and they are like night and day. Take the Japanese, fer instance.— she slurs, swallows and continues — We have some of them in the Fed Suns...

Viktor cuts her acidly:

— You mean a few. Not "some". The descendants of the survivors of the great anti Asian pogroms of the First Succession War as reprisals for the Kentares Massacre.

Mazen slams her glass down on the table, spilling drink.

— That wuz then an' now is now! But as I was saying, they all are not the same. Our Japanese are the good ones! Work hard, pay taxshes! They are brave and loyal!

She leaned forward, fixing on Yoshiro across the table, who remained still, holding a piece of herring near his mouth.

— They have nothing to do with the murdering fanatical scum the Japanese Snakes are!

The table goes quiet. Even Katya looks with reproach at Mazen. Yoshiro slowly lowered the herring to his plate, his movement minimal, but the tension in his shoulders was immediate and rigid.

Viktor sets his beer jar down slowly as eyes turn to him. He doesn't raise his voice, but the sound is flat, firm, and absolute, his grey eyes staring unblinking.

— Enough, Lieutenant Mazen.

His gaze sweeps the entire table, stopping long enough on Yoshiro to acknowledge the insult, and long enough on Mazen to enforce the command.

— Like in the Foreign Legion of Terra, your comrades' nationality, ethnicity, or past affiliations don't matter here. You leave your politics and your history at the DropShip ramp.

In the Black Riders, we only recognize one color: the black of the armor of our 'Mechs!

He raises his glass. Everybody joins in silent toast. Viktor then says softly:

— Now, drink and eat and say no more.

Mazen mumbles an apology, but the damage is done. Yoshiro stabs again the herring with the fork with controlled fury. Alina, uneasy about the conflict she unwittingly provoked, looks around trying to find something to say to break the silence and then over her shoulder and then looks back to Viktor and asks with sudden inspiration.

— The armor, Kommandant. — Alina began, looking up at the Atlas skull trophy mounted on the wall. — That must be heavy. How did you even install that? Did you make a hole in the wall to get it through?

Scene 39-2 Armor

Viktor nods approvingly.—A smart girl. Most people wouldn't notice or care, but you ask good questions. Lesha, tell her. You are all bored with my lectures anyway.

All in chorus: — Yeeeeessssss!!!!

Viktor smiles. Aleksey snorts, waving a fork at the trophy.— It is not one piece, Alina. We took it apart in the courtyard. Half a dozen pieces. We brought it through the doors like a jigsaw puzzle and put it back together.

Alina arches a brow, confused. — But how could you lift it, even in pieces? 'Mech armor is thick and heavy. It must weigh tons. Many.

Aleksey takes a sip of aquavit, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.— Because 'Mech armor is not like a knight's armor. It is not solid thick plates of steel. It's layers, like an onion. What you see is just the outer metal shell. Without the padding underneath or the tungsten inner plates, it is heavy, yes, but two men can lift a faceplate. It is... deceptive.

Alina smiles, an amused flicker in her eyes.—I see. This is obvious to you all. You 'Mechwarriors are like all people when they talk about their job. You all want to tell me, the simple little girl, about your big machines. Go on, I listen. — She leans back, folding her arms across her chest.

Murmurs of approval and encouragement ripple round the table. Viktor jerks his head towards Schlosser.— Sebastian, your turn.

Schlosser straightens and tugs at his moustache, adopting a professorial stance.— Mädchen, a 'Mech armor is layers, like a sandwich. The outer layer is the crust of the bread: steel, thin and hard. The inner layer is the dough: ceramics or polymers. The inner armor, protecting the vital parts, is the meat slab: tungsten. Thick pieces, hard and dense.

— What is tungsten? — asks Alina, tilting her head. — Why not titanium? Isn't that better than steel?

Schlosser glances at Viktor, who sighs dramatically.—Seems like Herr Professor has to give another lecture. — Katya groans theatrically, earning a chuckle from the others.

— No Alina, is different metal. Titanium is light. That's good for aerospace fighters; the heavier the load, the more power needed to take off and fly. That's why fighters are light and 'Mechs are heavy, — Viktor explains patiently.

— Understood, but if titanium is light, why not use it in 'Mechs? 'Mechs are heavy, weight is bad there too, right? — Alina persists.

— Right. Titanium is good for 'Mech bones. Skeletons are made of aluminum and titanium to save weight. But is not good for the inner armor. For that you need density. Mass. So we have steel for the outer layer, because is cheap, and tungsten for the inner layer, because it's very hard and resists heat, — Schlosser clarifies.

Then Viktor intervenes:

— Tungsten is the military name, but is the element Wolfram in the periodic table. Look at the lamps. Noticed something different about them?

— Well now that you mention it, I wondered. They don't look like normal lights. They look like they are burning inside and give a warm light. The first time I saw them I thought they were gas lamps, but they are turned on and off with a switch. What do they have to do with armor? — Alina asks, genuinely curious.

Viktor leans forward, happy to reclaim the floor for a moment of historical trivia.

— Is same metal. They have tiny wire inside that gets white hot when electric current passes, like wires in a toaster, but because it's so heat resistant it can be glowing hot without melting for thousand hours. They were first electric lights invented thousand years ago. They are used in backwater planets like this that don't have access to microchips for diodes, your normal lamps.

— That's interesting! A mystery solved. And why is it used in armor?

Viktor takes the line, meeting Alina's eyes.— Because of what I said: is very hard, very dense. It stops bullets, and is hard to melt with lasers. — He then nods toward Visconti. — Fritz, your turn.

Visconti leans in eager, gesturing wildly with his hands.— You see Alina, 'Mech armor is like the children's game of rock, paper, scissors. Each layer protects against one thing and is vulnerable to another. There are three types of weapons: missiles, energy, and ballistics. And three layers of armor: the steel, the ceramics, and the tungsten.

Schlösser takes a thoughtful drag from his pipe and decides to explain the first weapon type himself.— Let us start with ballistics. Ballistics are bullets, like rifle but larger. That is Autocannon. They travel very fast and can only be stopped by something hard but not brittle, and thick. Think glass: is hard, you can't cut it with knife, but you can break it with thrown rock.

Viktor intervenes, lowering his voice:— Think of knight's armor. It was hard like glass, but firearm bullets broke it, because it was thin and brittle. So when steam ships appeared, ships became ironclad, later steel, and when the combustion engine appeared, we got the tank, with thick steel armor.

— And why is steel not used? Wait, you said on the outer layer, but is thin. You said armor was thick steel plates. This is confusing, — Alina says, scratching her head.

Viktor smiles indulgent— Because Alina, as Fritz said, is rock, paper, scissors. First tanks had thin armor, like a finger thick, enough to stop machine gun bullets and shell fragments. Then tanks were armed with cannons to shoot at each other and thicker armor to resist cannon shots, and the cannons got bigger and the armor thicker until steel became too heavy and became obsolete anyway.

— Obsolete? You mean, useless? Why? The laser was invented and melts armor, I guess, — Alina reasons aloud.

— Brilliant deduction, my smart student! Your mind is wasted being a ComStar clerk! — says Viktor beaming, the 'Mechwarriors making gestures of approval, pleased. Viktor continues, holding up a finger: — You got it correct, but it was not the laser that came first, but the missile. Or rather, the hollow or shaped charge.

— Hollow? No, don't explain, let me think. Missiles are explosives. You said you shot down the Atlas with missiles... why use them? You have lasers and guns. Do they do different things? — Alina contemplates.

— Yes, that is it. All pierce armor, but each in its own way. And explosives: missiles and cannon shells, are useful for destroying other things than armor, like buildings or… — Viktor hesitates, glancing around the room — ...killing soldiers, I must say.

— I know what war is about, thanks. I am not squeamish. Just tell me about how you destroy 'Mechs. How do you do it with a missile? — Alina challenges, her chin raised.

— You see, as I was saying, there is a limit on how big a gun and how heavy the armor can be in a tank. The practical limit was about seventy tons by the end of the Second Terran War, — Viktor explains, resting his elbows on the table. — Though with fusion reactors we have super heavy tanks up to a hundred tons, like the Atlas, but they are rare. So at the same time tanks were getting bigger, they found out that an explosive with a hollow in it, like a funnel, could shape and concentrate the force of the explosion. Hence the name: shaped charge. Think of a syringe. You push the piston and water comes out through the narrow end in a thin, forced stream.

Viktor mimes pressing a syringe.— Just like the syringe needle gets through the flesh, and the fluid pressed goes through the needle, the blast concentrated in a point the size of a coin acts like a blowtorch and goes through steel armor like butter. Lasers and particle cannons act very much the same. Steel is useless against that.

Viktor takes the piece of bread and points at the parts.— So they developed composite armor to protect against hollow charges, and then the same principle was adapted for lasers. First the outer hard layer makes the missile or shell explode before it gets deeper. Then behind the crust... that is the thick inner layer, the dough part of bread. It is not hard, it just dissipates explosions and beams and slows down projectiles, so the hit is not strong enough to get through the hard final part of tungsten. Tungsten is better than steel but still gets pierced or melted, and is too heavy and expensive to protect 'Mechs with thick plates alone. Do you understand?

— I think so. It's a lot to take in. — says Alina, sounding doubtful.

Viktor nods. — Yes, it's hard if you haven't read about war and weapons. I will explain it another way. Think of a BattleMech armor like an egg.

— An egg? — Alina repeats.

— Да. The shell is thin and hard but brittle. Like we said before, like a medieval knight's armor plate. Then imagine a boiled egg. The outer layer is twenty millimeters of hardened steel. That is the eggshell. It stops rifle bullets, fragments from artillery. It sets off missile warheads early so the explosion blooms on the surface rather than inside. Sebastian, continue.

Schlosser leans forward, his pipe now resting in his hand. His voice is calm, didactic, the tone of a man who has explained this to a hundred green recruits.— The real armor is what is inside. Under that steel shell, you have layers. Composite materials: polymers, rubber, ceramics, boron nitride to absorb neutrons.

Viktor interrupts, leaning back with a hint of a smirk:— In some cases even diamonds, like in your jewels.

— Diamonds? — Alina twists her large diamond ring, intrigued. — That makes sense, they are very hard.

— Hardest thing there is. Some armor types had embedded monofilament of diamonds, it was like a mesh to grind down projectiles, like sandpaper. But the technology was lost, and then they used natural diamonds. It's because of that they are so rare and valuable, they have all been consumed in war. — says Viktor.

Visconti looks startled at Alina's jewels. — I didn't know that!

Viktor slices the bread, revealing the soft white interior. Schlosser points to it with his pipe.

— The composite thick layer is like the bread or the egg white. It absorbs the shock. It dissipates the heat from lasers so they don't melt through. It slows down kinetic penetrators like a bullet hitting sand.

Viktor interrupts again, gesturing: — You have seen war holovids? The checkpoints at Samos? All those bags stacked together?

Alina nods slowly.

— They are sandbags. You fill a sack with sand or dirt, and it slows down and stops bullets or shrapnel. Similar thing.

Schlosser taps the table for emphasis.

— And deep inside? The yolk. That is where we put the tungsten-carbide plates. Dense, heavy, incredibly hard. They protect the vitals: the gyroscope, the ammo bins, the joints and the main myomer bundles.

— So... they are invulnerable? — Alina asks quietly.

Viktor cuts in, gesturing towards the Atlas skull mounted on the far wall: — You have the proof on the wall that not even an Atlas is invulnerable.

Everybody laughs. Alina palms her forehead.

— Nein, — Schlosser shakes his head firmly. — That's the catch. Shots do not bounce off. The armor absorbs the hit. It is ablative. That means it gets chewed up. A laser burns away the steel. A missile cracks the ceramic. A heavy cannon round will always pierce the tungsten plate if not slowed down before.

Schlosser gestures with his hands, mimicking a pounding motion on the table.— 'Mech combat is not "one shot, one kill" like tanks in the twentieth century. It is cumulative. It was like the naval battles of the holovids when sailing ships shot hundreds of cannonballs, making holes in the wooden hull. You pound the enemy, layer by layer, until one shot makes a hole on a hole. You create a breach, then you hit it again.

Viktor takes over, his voice regaining that iron command tone, but softer now, meeting Alina's gaze.

— And that is why 'Mechs are the kings of the battlefield, Alina. We 'Mechwarriors do not fear infantry. Before composite armor was invented, for a time a soldier with a shoulder-fired rocket launcher could destroy a tank, or shoot down an aircraft with a missile, like David killed Goliath with a sling. But now, infantry can't do anything against 'Mechs. I should know, I tried when I was a trooper. — he shakes his head. Then he lifts his chin and goes on, with bright eyes.

—But that was long ago and I am a 'Mechwarrior. In our Battlemechs we do not fear bullets, rockets, or stray artillery. We can ignore them. Even the lightest 'Mech can survive the first strike of a heavy weapon, with a little luck, because the armor absorbs it.

He offers her the soft center of the bread.— 'Mechs are walking tanks, they are big targets, but it doesn't matter, because it's not about who hits with the first shot, but who endures enough to fire the last and fatal shot. We 'Mechwarriors of course prefer to not get shot at all if possible. We hide behind hills and buildings. We cover with trees and smoke. But when needed, when we have to move in a large formation in a mass battle, we walk through the fire, like soldiers of Napoleon times marching shoulder to shoulder under the bullets and cannonballs, because it takes a long time to crack the egg. Unless... — he taps his cheekbone near his eye, — ...unless you get a lucky shot through the visor. Like an arrow through a knight's helm. Like I killed General Müller and shot down the Atlas. But mostly? A 'Mech combat is like a boxing match until one side has decided it has taken enough and quits. Knockouts are rare.

He smiles, tired but genuine.— Look at me. Again giving a lecture. I must have bored you all.

All in chorus: — Noooooooooooooooo!!!! — joined by Alina.

Viktor smiles pleased, then announces: — Hear! That's the maids coming! Food is finally arriving, at last!

Scene 38 The Women Cows of Kirchbach

Viktor continues to hold Alina's hand for a moment longer, his stare intense. He eventually releases her, taking a deep breath and letting out a sigh that is half-chuckle, half-exasperation.

—You do that, malyshka. You do that.

Alina's fingers still on the anklet for half a heartbeat. Then she lifts her glass, her smile small and knowing

Viktor picks up his glass of ale, the previous intensity giving way to restless energy. He looks away from Alina, across the table where Mazen is telling an anecdote she's the only one to find funny in a shrill voice.

—The things people say... the jokes they make. It bothers me when I think about it.

—What bothers you, Viktor? The Latin joke? —Alina asks quietly.

—Нет, not the Latin. That was simple vulgarity. What Mazen called Marie and Liesel. The cows.

Alina nods, remembering the term and Marie and Liesel's playful response. —Yes. But they took it well. They even did the 'Moooo' — she smiles.

Viktor shakes his head, — You are getting along well with the servants, I see. — he rubs his temple. —It is truer than they understand. That is what bothers me. Here, women are cows. Literally.

— And all men are pigs — retorts Alina playful, then catches and stares, noticing the sadness in his voice. — This is not about tit jokes, it is?

Visconti, who has been half-listening, leans forward curious.

— Kommandant, you're going to have to explain that one. You don't say things if you don't mean it.

Everybody suddenly grows quiet and pays attention to Viktor. Even Katya.

Viktor leans back in his chair, his voice dropping to the tone he uses for briefings: precise, detached, listing the key points of the reports he memorized.

—This planet was terraformed, it has no hydrocarbons. I told you before, да? No plastics, no rubber. That means no condoms. There are no equatorial jungles to cultivate latex trees, so they grow Russian dandelion instead.

—A Russian flower? You mean there's a dandelion that gives rubber? — gasps Katya.

—Glad you pay attention instead of sleeping through my lectures — grins Viktor. Then resumes. — да Katya, our Soviet ancestors grew it up in the Great Patriotic War because they had no access to latex. But it's no use here. The soil is poor and the land is limited. They only get a quarter of a ton of rubber per hectare of flowers, so it all goes to hospitals. No condoms. There's not much of a chemical or pharmaceutical industry. Modern contraceptives? Imported, expensive. Most people can't afford. So the tradition here is simple, pragmatic, proven, women breastfeed for a year, maybe longer, to space pregnancies naturally.

He pauses, taking a slow sip of ale.

—When the child is weaned, many women continue milking for another year. They keep it in the fridge. The milk is collected daily by electric refrigerated trucks, flash-frozen, exported to other planets for medical use, specialties, rich citizens who want novelty.

Alina's hand goes instinctively to her chest, her eyes wide. —Scheiße. They... export it?

—да. At least five C-Bills per liter, that's one day milking. Better than working fields. That means they make as much as a laborer per month. Not as much as a miner, of course, but they just have to open their legs, pop a baby, connect the tits to the pumps. Easy.

Ishani, her expression troubled, asks: —But surely that's not... I mean, is there truly such demand?

Viktor looks inside as his glass, his voice low.

—It started during the First Succesion War as an emergency donation to aid babies from some planet that got nuked, so they would get milk not irradiated by fallout. Then they paid compensation. Like in the Lyran Commonwealth people sell blood. Then over time became export business.

Viktor looks at a far point, at the dying flames of the bonfire outside and fires off statistics like reciting ammo and supply loads for a day of operations.

—I saw the numbers. Rounding them to simple figures so you understand this. Kirchbach has ten million people, half women, remove the old and the children, so… about a hundred thousand women are nursing at any given time. So those women cows produce a hundred thousand of liters a day, that is a hundred tons per day, thirty thousand a year, about four Mule class Dropship loads.

—Viktor shrugs. —Is niche market, but profitable. Five per cent of the planet exports.

— Wunderbar! Herr Professor! You are also an economist! —Alina claps impressed.

Viktor waves. —I just read the report and some statistics. — then takes a sip of beer.

—Which brings me to why they look like they do. You all notice, да? The maids, the serving girls, even women in the market. Tall, healthy, full-figured.

Alina nods slowly. —I thought... I assumed it was just Germanic stock. Good genes.

Viktor lets out a short, bitter laugh. —Genes, yes. But also diet. This planet, Alina, the terraforming... it was not complete success. It takes time and only seven hundred years have passed. Soil is poor, thin. Mountains everywhere. The rest is desert. You can't grow much. That's why sugar and sweets are an imported luxury. No sugar cane, wrong climate. Beets take too much good soil, they need that for other crops. So what do we have?

He gestures broadly. —Grazing land. Plenty of it. Cows, sheep, goats. So people here, they eat meat, dairy, fish from the rivers, lots of potatoes, some grains. No refined sugar, no processed foods, no... how you say... junk food. Mazen was right.

— Whadda I say? Forgot already. — says Mazen slurring.

— Meat and dairy. Here, children suck breast milk as babies, then grow up on full-fat milk, meat, cheese. Girls hit puberty early, develop fully. That's why Marie and Liesel, Emi and Hana, they look like grown women, even if they are still minors. Good nutrition from birth. Wide hips, generous... development.

He waves his hand vaguely at his chest, then takes another drink.

— Not just bodies. Look at the faces. The men look straight out of Lyran recruiting posters. The women look like models. Every person has perfect white teeth. Zero cavities. Square jaws. Broad faces. Prominent cheekbones.

Alina processes this, her expression shifting from curiosity to something darker.

—So it's not just that you picked the pretty ones. It's that there are many pretty ones to pick from.

—да. You know Darwin, the monkey man? Survival of the strongest? Evolution. This is border world, Alina. We are close to Periphery. War comes here to visit often. Men get killed. Draconis Combine drafts more men, they die fighting Lyrans or settle in another planet, never come back. More men die or gone missing, more stress on mothers, means more women are born next generation, biology adjusts. More women means more competition for fewer men.

Visconti whistles low. —Sexual selection. The pretty ones have better chances.

—да. And the pretty ones have daughters, who are also pretty. Centuries of this. Combined with the diet... —Viktor spreads his hands. —You get what you see. Germanic Valkyries everywhere.

Schlosser, who has been silent, suddenly speaks, his voice grave. —And that makes them valuable prizes.

Viktor's expression hardens. —да. Slave raiders from Periphery. You weren't far off Alina when you started ranting about slaves, you mixed half truth with ComStar propaganda. There's a slave trade but not in the Combine.

Alina blushes and lowers her gaze: — I told you I am sorry.

Viktor pats her hand: — I forgive you, I should not have shouted at you.

Katya smirks: — Just married and you already had your first domestic dispute?

— Shut up Katya! — snaps Alina. Viktor chuckles, then gets somber again.

— As Sebastian figured. Slave raiders. I told you Alina that Capellans don't take slaves as Davion propaganda says. For use as manpower, as agricultural machinery it makes no sense. But in the Periphery fertile, beautiful women are prized. Not just for prostitution or for the harem of some bandit king. But because life in those worlds is harsh. Women don't want to live there. So the pirates take them, for themselves. For settlers. Because most pirates are men and want a family and children. And they take the trouble to kidnap them. Or buy them at markets. Kirchbach blonde beauties fetch high prices in the outer worlds.

—That's awful and sad. — muses Alina.

—Indeed it is. But women adapt, bear children. Their captors or buyers treat them well, no worse than most marriages, because they are prized. Sometimes captives are rescued. Sometimes they do not want to be rescued because they already have a life there. So rescue expeditions are targeted instead at the slave ships and the markets. Once they are sold, not even their families would want them back.

A silence ensues. Soloviev breaks it, stroking his beard— And I thought raiders were only after fusion reactors and water purifiers and that's why we were there.

—That's what most raids are all about and what garrisons are there for. But there are a lot of secondary targets in the raiders plunder list. They know about Kirchbach. Thinly populated, disperse. Garrison concentrated in the military targets. Small dropships, shuttles with a few dozen bandits and fast vehicles they land in rural areas, snatch women from fields, farms, small villages, load them in the ship. Stack in bunks in the hold, shackled, sedated in a coma, IV fluids, so they don't consume supplies and don't cause trouble during the weeks the jumpship travel lasts back to their lair.

Like an old Terra negro slave ship but cleaner and faster. Then they are dropped in a planet, awakened, fed, exercised, give them a few beatings until they stop crying and resign to their fate, prettied up and off to the slave auction.

—Do you have to tell the girl the dirty details? — grimaces Ishani. Alina covers her mouth eyes wide with shock.

—Sorry Alina, we all seen this through our sojourn into the Periphery and the darkness beyond. General Benzinger, the commander of the Seventeenth Rasalhague Regulars, our garrison neighbors, was crying tears of rage when we told me about this. Kuritans are emotional like that.

Yoshida, Aman and Katya exchange glances but say nothing. Viktor goes on:

— Is always the same thing, same old in every planet on the Periphery border, Lyran or Draconis, does not matter. Planets are big, military can't be everywhere, military targets vital for the war effort take priority. The general hopes us mercenaries with our heavy but slow mechs will protect the capital and the value targets so he can spread his regulars in light fast 'Mechs to deter and stop raiders.

— But isn't that a job for the infantry? — questions Yoshiro. — I mean, the slavers are just men with small arms, even the Civilian Guidance corps could deal with them.

— Right. But neither the military not the police can be everywhere. Even here in Kirchbach where everybody is clustered around the spaceport and the mines the countryside is big. You don't go after the pirates, you figure out where their shuttle landed and try to intercept them before they lift off, 'Mechs are faster than vehicles across all terrain and can take short cuts to catch the slavers trucks.

But 'Mechs are tied to protecting the key targets for the war effort, not peasant girls. So the bandits will keep snatching everybody they can.

That's why the High Command has assigned us here as a reinforcement for the garrison. General Benzinger lads are motivated, they were rebuilt from a heavy regiment that was wiped out at Tamar eight years ago. But now is a light unit composed of young 'Mechwarriors and a cadre of old surviving veterans, good for scouting and raiding, and intercepting other raiders but they can't hold ground. So that's why we are cantoned in the castle. As insurance if a heavy raid comes, or an invasion.

The table falls silent. Even Katya has woken up, listening with unusual sobriety.

Alina's voice is small. —So slavery is real. That's horrible.

—It gets worse. —Viktor's jaw tightens. —The women who don't get taken by raiders? The ones who stay? There are no jobs here, Alina. Kirchbach is poor. Soil is bad, industry is limited. Mines are not for women. That's why these girls, Liesel and Marie, are so eager to work here as servants. Most young women, if they don't get a husband, or even if they marry, have few choices. They sell breast milk for extra income. Or leave.

—Leave to where? —Ishani asks, though her tone suggests she already knows.

— Mostly to Alshain brothels. Some to Xinyang ukiyos, the pleasure districts,as blondes are exotic there. They go to work as prostitutes because there is nothing here for them. Better money than milking cows or milking themselves. Some send money back to families. Some never come back.

Viktor stares down at his glass, his voice dropping.

—That is why I didn't find funny the cow joke. Because I know what is the other option for these girls. As you know I was married to a Canopus whore and she was proud of it. Uncomfortable truth is that most women are in it because they want lots of easy money. But… girls from worlds like this, they don't do it because they are starving and they have no choice, they go into the trade simply because prostitution is a better life. Easy work, safer from war or being taken and enslaved, and pays much more. Then some of them come back and settle, or go to some other planet. That's the way the planet gets rid of its surplus of single beautiful women and the population doesn't grow despite no anticonceptives and fucking like bunnies. That and that one in every five children will not live until age five… in a good year.

He looks up, his gaze sweeping the table.

—So yes, I pick pretty girls. Because I am sick of seeing ugly faces of soldiers in ugly uniforms and hear obscenities and shouted orders all day long and I like watching pretty girls in pretty dresses and hear their sweet voices. They are eye candy yes, look but don't touch.

Mazen twists the side of her mouth in a contemptuous grimace muttering

—Yeah sure, you are not fooling anyone.

— Mazen! — hisses Aman.

— You are going to kick her too? — grins Katya.

Viktor raises his voice.

— So there are plenty of pretty girls who need work. Their families trust them to me.

Alina reaches over and touches Viktor's arm. —You protect them. And I thought you had a harem…

—You watch too many Terran historical holovids. I try. Is not enough, but is what I can do.

—Trying's free, Commader. Results cost extra.— says Mazen flat.

Viktor looks sternly at Mazen, then at Alina, and for a moment the hardness cracks, then he addresses the table.

—That is why I demand respect for them. They are not toys, not entertainment. They are wreckage too, in their own way. Wreckage of a planet that cannot feed its people anything but meat and dairy, and cannot give its daughters any future but being milk cows or whores.

He raises his glass, his voice rough. —So when you see these girls running around with those cow rings in their noses and those whore bracelets in their ankles remember they are just young girls doing silly things young girls do at their age.

Mazen scoffs —Oh please, they know Latin and Greek, you are blind!

Then, as if reading something no one else can see, she suddenly rocks her chair back on two legs, just as Aman shifts in his seat. The chair teeters. Katya's hand shoots out to steady it from behind. Mazen cackles at Aman. —Hah! I saw it coming. ¡Vete a la concha de tu madre!

Viktor, Aleksey understand the Capellan March Spanish obscenity and tense, the others look uncertain as Aman glowers at Mazen, seeming about to pounce across the table.

Scene 37 Alina's Awakening

The laughter dies down after Atanas's confused question about Latin lessons. Alina, still blushing from her misunderstanding, clears her throat and changes the subject.

—I noticed earlier... when the maids were running back to the kitchen... why were they staring at their legs like that? —Alina asks Viktor quietly.

Viktor grins. —Ah, you notice that, да? My MechWarriors, they have gone native. They are sated with breasts and want legs. Every tavern wench here has big bust, is normal, they are enticing... but gets old. But legs... legs are taboo here.

—Ich verstehe nicht.

Viktor gestures around the room. —This planet, Alina, has no hydrocarbons, no plastics, no synthetic materials. I told you, remember the parade and the noise the boots made. Hobnailed boots instead of rubber soles. And women... they have no undergarments like on other worlds.

— Ahh, that's why these girls, Marie and Liese were fascinated with my lycra stockings. — interrupts Alina.

— Say Auf wiedersehen to them. These girls will resell them. That's fetish lingerie here and sells at a premium. I told you, no synthetic textiles. No bathing suits, no nylon stockings, no rubber waistbands, no panties, just a linen chemise, silk if you are rich.

— I know that too well. ComStar issue undies are ugly, so I bought local silk chemises, though at first I felt like a grandma with them. However I admit they are practical.

— I don't bore you with 'Mech maintenance, so don't tell me about female underwear.— Viktor raises a hand defensively. Alina giggles. Viktor continues:

— So they show cleavage freely, yes it's enticing, but not shocking here. It's a more relaxed atmosphere. Sex is not taboo, even if this is a Catholic society. But skirts must be long, because underneath...

He shrugs, letting the implication hang.

—So showing leg is like... showing everything else on different planet. Very suggestive. And the anklets, they are like advertisement.

Alina looks down at her shortened skirt, then back at the returning maids with their push up bodices and long skirts. —This is so different from the Commonwealth. Under Katrina Steiner, everything changed, necklines went up, skirts got longer. Very proper.

Viktor snorts. — Katrina is such a killjoy. A miserable lonely widow that needs to get laid. Can you imagine? Dressing in a black dress uniform with no epaulettes, braid, medals, sash or even rank insignia! She looks like a scarecrow. That's bad for morale. Napoleon knew that men die for a silk ribbon. Before her, under Alessandro, was more... relaxed. Like Visconti said when he described the pirate queen attire before.— He takes a sip of ale, before making a ironic flourish with the hand.

— And that, my dear Alina is why in Lyra pornography is blooming, and the brothels at Dustball and Kooken's Pleasure Pit and the Canopus Pleasure Circus are all full with customers. You can't restrain human nature.

—Here it seems backwards, —Alina says, still processing. —The bodices show so much... cleavage. On Donegal, that would be scandalous. But the real scandal here is showing ankles?

—Exactly. Form follows function, да? No synthetic fabrics, no modern materials, so fashion goes back to old ways. Like Eighteenth century Terra, when noble ladies showed breasts freely but never raised skirts. Because what is under skirts...

He gestures to her anklets. —So those little bands, on your legs where everyone can see? Is like wearing... how you say... very tiny bikini on other worlds. Or bare midriff. Very provocative signal.

Alina's eyes widen. —You mean... prostitutes wear these?

—да. Expensive ones. High-class courtesans in Samos, the capital. The anklets, they are... how you say... professional symbol.

Alina stares at the gleaming bands around her ankles. She looks around the table again at the male 'Mechwarriors who return appreciative glances.

—So they all think... —she begins, then stops, color rising in her cheeks.

—They heard a ComStar nun was coming and instead saw a very expensive lady of the evening, да. Provocative make up, big breasts, tiny waist, wide hips... and showing ankles! You thought the maids dressed you as a bride but you are dressed as the most beautiful alluring whore they ever see.

Alina is quiet for a long moment. Then she straightens in her chair.

—You say that as if it were a bad thing, —she says quietly.

Viktor's eyebrows rise. —Alina?

She turns to face him, her fingers playing with one of the anklets. —Let them think what they want. I know you like me like this, and... it pleases me to please you.

Viktor stares at her.

—You are not embarrassed?

—Should I be? —Alina asks. —These little bands... they have power, don't they? They make people look, make them wonder, make them desire.

She lifts her foot slightly, letting the anklet catch the light. Viktor's breath catches.

​—Besides, —she adds with a smile, —if they think I'm that kind of woman, they'll expect me to act the part. And perhaps... perhaps I don't mind disappointing them.

Viktor reaches over and touches her hand. —You continue to surprise me, Alina.

Scene 36 -Latin Lovers

The chant dies when Greta and Theresia, having removed the empty platters of zakuski, come back with more entrées, Greek salads and steaming soup. Despite the formal Kurita dress white with orange trim tunics of the 'MechWarriors, and the Steiner blue coat of Viktor, a boisterous and irreverent revelry filled the room, punctuated by loud laughter and the clinking of glasses.

As the pretty young maids serve the soup, appreciative eyes gaze at them. It's not only the men, as Katya and Mazen comment lustily in English, with the maids oblivious to their comments. —Which one you want? The one in green or the one in red?— asks Katya. — I take the red, I like blondes, just like you — purrs Mazen, brushing Katya's disheveled hair away from her face. — I get the cow then.—Katya deadpans, making a mock face of disgust. —Don't lie. You like them big. You have been staring at Alina's breasts all night.— whispers Mazen, loud enough to be heard, baring her teeth, gleaming white against her brown skin and pulling at Katya's hair in playful cruelty and mock jealousy. — Ow! Stop it! — Stop watching! — Mazen yanks her hair again.

The rest of the 'MechWarriors pointedly ignore them, while Alina, embarrassed, puts her palms to her ears. The girls, not understanding English, nevertheless notice the gazes and tone from the duo and grow uneasy. Viktor narrows his eyes but says nothing.

As the first round of dishes settles, Ishani's gaze falls on the cutlery beside her plate. —Good heavens,—she murmurs, then louder, to Viktor,—why are there no knives in the service? Is this some Draconis custom I'm unaware of?

Alina smiles and asks:— I wonder about that, too. Have you pawned half the silver cutlery?

Viktor chuckles. —Close, but not a Draconis custom. Some might call it Asian tradition, actually. The food's all pre-cut, easy to manage, you could even use chopsticks if you wanted.

Alina scoffs lightly. —Chopsticks? Here in Kirchbach? I've seen people eat in the market and restaurants, Viktor. Sticks are for fancy eating, not everyday meals. Most use cutlery. And Kirchbach is hardly Asian.

Viktor concedes with a shrug. — You're right Alina. No, it's actually Russian tradition in my house. No knives at the table, to prevent... misunderstandings. Especially after a few drinks.

—Ah, one of your jokes then, about drunken Russians stabbing each other over dinner,— Alina says, a dry amusement in her tone.

Aleksey, who had been quietly enjoying his soup, chimes in with a perfectly straight face. —It's not a joke, Alina. A statistical fact, actually. You're far more likely to be killed at the hands of a family member than a stranger. And most fatal stabbings, particularly among men, happen at family fights over Christmas dinner and other festive occasions. We Russians are just wiser, that's all.

A few grunts of agreement rippled from the table.

Viktor's gaze drifts, then sharpens as he suddenly recalls something. He looks at Mazen, whose fingers are idly, almost unconsciously, toying with the hilt of the throwing knife beside her table, and calls her out."Mazen". She doesn't listen, focused on her soup.

—Lieutenant Mazen — Viktor says louder, cutting through the renewed buzz of conversation. — The knife. Turn it over.

The table grows silent at the command. Mazen looks up then down at her knife and sneers. —Don't trust me, Commander?

— No — Viktor replies, his patience wearing thin. — The Commander has bailed you out twice, Lieutenant, for stabbing someone in brawls. And you were so drunk those times, stabs only caused defensive hand wounds before you were disarmed. It's only a matter of time before you kill someone.— He stands up and extends his arm, palm up — Give knife now, пожалуйста.

Mazen snorts and in a fit of anger flings the knife in a high arc across the table, hitting one of the crystal pendants of the chandelier. Everybody ducks by instinct. Viktor catches the knife mid-air, without flinching. Viktor says nothing and sits down, placing the knife calmly at his side. Mazen drinks down her soup, and conversation resumes.

Alina stares at Viktor, blinking, impressed.— Good catch! Quick reflexes!

— I am drunk and slow, I cut myself, I wanted to catch it by the handle. Сука! — replies Viktor dismissively, cursing Mazen, clutching the napkin to stem the blood flow from a small cut in the palm.

Meanwhile, Marie and Liesel appear in white skirts and bodices embroidered with colorful floral motives, start serving more zakuski. As they move through the tables, some of the 'MechWarriors express their appreciation. Liesel carries herself with poise while Marie smiles shyly, not understanding the words.

— They are tasty! — exclaims Atanas. — Ouch! Why you kick me now, Aman! — Aman kicks like a mule, true — mocks Katya, glad to not be on the receiving end for once. — I must be drunk, I am seeing two of pretty faces and two pairs of nice racks again — leers Arthur — You are drunk but you are not seeing double. — grins Yoshiro, slapping him on the back. — Pretty flowers you have here, Viktor.— says Sebastian — Sebastian! They could be your granddaughters! — Ishani elbows him in reproach. He replies testily — I am not that old! And they are grown up with those curves.

— You pick the pretty ones from the village maids on purpose, Vitya? — says Aleksey, impassively, but his eyes track the maids.

— I wonder about that too, Viktor. — Alina casts him a suspicious look.

— Of course I do.— admits Viktor nonchalantly. — But there are plenty of pretty ones. I hired the ones that would work for a disreputable mercenary. у нас есть то, что есть.

—Pretty girls, certainly, not like Alina, but undeniably pleasant to look at — says Visconti. He locks gazes with Liesel who blushes and smiles as she hands him another dish, her titanium nose ring glinting under the chandelier's bright lights. Viktor narrows his eyes but Visconti is oblivious.

Alina tries to change the subject: — They are again dressed in white, is it a dress code?

— Very observant, Alina, — Viktor smiles with approval. — You notice things. Yes, sort of. No maid outfits, maybe I should. Part-timers wear white, others red, green kimonos. Easy to know who's who till I learn names. I keep colors. I like it, they like it. Enough of drab uniforms, coarse soldiers, нет, no more. I want pretty girls in color dress. And you, Alina, prettiest of all, even in white — says Viktor, fondling her cheek. She leans into his touch, smiling, pleased.

Liesel and Marie finish serving and giggling lift their skirts and run back down the hallway to the kitchen for another course, baring their legs and revealing their titanium anklets, one each, minus those they lent Alina. Yoshiro and Arthur lean back in their chairs to watch their legs as they leave.

Everybody turns to the platters, grabbing the zakuski and eating voraciously with their, including Viktor himself, to the dismay of Ishani, Visconti, and Alina. — Look at them, eating like a pack of hungry wolves — says Ishani with disdain. — Not wolves, orcs! — replies Alina with glee. Viktor, busy holding his ale in one hand and a roasted chicken leg in the other, says something unintelligible with his mouth full.

Alina shakes her head and takes a sip of wine, looking at the already empty platters she gives up and waits for the next serving. Liesel and Marie are soon back at the double, carrying more platters of food. Their cheeks are flushed and their exposed cleavage heaves suggestively with their ragged breathing. Most of the company is too busy eating to do more than cast glances, but Katya and Mazen, however, are notably more outstopoken.

—Well, well, girls, look at those chests — Mazen licks her lips, eyeing Marie. — They are cows — deadpans Katya, with mixed envy and lust. — Must be all that beef and butter and milk you're eating on this planet, eh? — taunts Mazen. Liesel stiffens, understanding the tone if not the words. Marie blushes under their gaze. — They are cows, look like ones with those nose rings — repeats Katya.

Alina, noticing the girls' discomfort, intervenes in German:—Sexy Kühe, obwohl

Liesel and Marie smile and then playfully make the cow sound in unison — Moooooo! — joined by Alina. Everybody is stunned, then laughter erupts.

After the laughs subside Katya quips:— I would love to milk them.

Viktor, his patience clearly wearing thin, shoots Katya and Mazen a warning glance. — Stop drooling over the maids. They're young.— he warns sternly. Gasps of disbelief.

Alina, startled, drops her fork and, caught between curiosity and discomfort, leans towards Viktor, in a low voice.—Young? Emi and Hana too? Really?

Alina, still in shocked disbelief, presses: — But... they are tall and are so… healthy and full figured. They look older, don't they? Is it really just the diet here?

Viktor sighs. — Yes, Alina. They have curves and breasts because... yes, it must be all the beef and milk they eat on this planet… or the horse meat. The terraformed soil is poor and scarce in this mountainous region, but there's plenty of grazing pastures and cattle on the plains.

Everybody listens to him intently, trying to reconcile the dissonance between the girls' development and their real age. He tries to dismiss it, to keep the focus on the food. — And anyway, they might look like grown women but they are young. You kindergarten raiders ! — he casts a dirty look around and lingers on Katya and Mazen.

But Mazen doesn't let it go.— Hardly innocent, Commander. With those bodies. I'm sure they know Latin. I've seen a couple of them making out in the hallway, actually.

Katya, equally drunk, guffaws.— Yeah, I'm sure they'd like to join our club!

Viktor's face hardens.— That's just a phase —he says in denial. Then snaps — Leave the girls alone.

The other male 'MechWarriors, though appreciative of Marie and Liesel's looks, sober up, chastened by the commander's tone. Katya and Mazen look defiantly at Viktor.

Alina tries to defuse the tension and wonders out loud:

—Why they would know Latin?— she says, frowning.Viktor pretends not to hear, waving a hand for her to shut up. Then Alina's face illuminates with understanding

— Ach! Ich verstehe. They learn Latin at school because the Draconis laws are in Latin, the Dictum Honorium!— she exclaims, pleased with herself.

Everybody goes silent, staring at her in disbelief, forks and glasses stopped mid air, mouths chewing stopped. — What? Why do you look at me?— she looks confused.

Then Katya sniggers, then chuckles, then breaks into hysterical laughter, joined first by Mazen and then everybody. Only Atanas and Alina look around, befuddled.

Alina then quietly says,— This is not about Latin law, is it? Atanas shrugs as if saying "I don't get it either". Then Alina shakes Viktor by the shoulder, as he is doubled over the table, his face buried in his arm, thumping the table with the other fist in laughter.

— Come on, Viktor, don't be mean. What's so funny? Are you laughing at me?

Viktor straightens grinning and caresses Alina's hair tenderly.— Absolutely not, sweetheart. It's just the way you said it that's so funny. And we are drunk and everything is funny.

Schlosser reassures her, paternal.—Don't worry, mädchen. Forget about it.

Ishani, wiping her tears, still breathless says: —Yes. It's not really funny. It's nothing, really.

Alina presses on, plaintive. — Come on. I know I made a faux pas. Weird Drac customs and all that. Tell me the joke.

Viktor shakes his head, a toothy grin from ear to ear. — If you insist… it's not about legal Latin. Mazen was implying my maids indulge in acts described with Latin words… indecent ones, you know about a certain Greek poetess and women?

Alina suddenly understands and blushes, her pale skin matching the rouge of her makeup. — Ohhhh, I understand now! — palming her forehead — I told you I don't know Latin.

Everybody stifles laughs under Viktor's stern stare. He grabs his ale and chuckles again. — You were really raised in a monastery?

Alina crosses her arms, sulking. Then the rough voice of Atanas rings from the other end of the table:

Scene 35 - Wine, Wit, Women and Worlds

As the MechWarriors drink their glasses after the toast and conversation starts again, just then, Theresia, auburn hair in a braid crown, green skirt, appears with a graceful sway. She bends low to the table to pick up Alina's rose bouquet on the half-melted ice of the champagne bucket, revealing a generous view of her cleavage above the tightly laced bodice. She smiles at Alina and says:

—I will take care of them, Alina. They will still be fresh tomorrow, —before picking up the bucket with the other hand and turning and leaving with swaying hips. The talk around the table dies down. All the men, and Mazen, ogle the girl.

Arthur, mutters under his breath, his Scottish burr marked: —Och, now that's a sight for tired eyes.

Atanas quips: —Nice rack! Worth going to prison again for!

Visconti stares appreciatively on the way in and out. Yoshiro licks his lips while Sebastian tugs his moustache. Only Aleksey remains impassive, face carved in granite, while Viktor grimaces at the comments.

Katya comments dismissively and with a sour look: —It's just those corsets they wear. My boobs would also look big, tight-laced like that.

—Sure, honey, but not as big as Alina's melons, —Mazen elbows Katya and both break into a drunken giggle. Alina doesn't flush but rolls her eyes. Viktor pats her hand and says loud and clear: —Melons are my favorite fruits.

Mazen and Katya jeer and whistle while everybody chuckles. Alina blushes slightly, smiling pleased, and covers her cleavage modestly with the napkin.

Visconti, to the right of Alina, looks purposefully over his shoulder with his accustomed aristocratic air and observes as now Greta appears, pushing with effort the heavily laden drinks cart.

—Ah, the wine cart. An unusual sight, Kommandant. —Usually we have to bring our own. —He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his gaze.

Ishani, affecting the same upper-class sophistication, adds with a knowing smirk: —Indeed. One must wonder what special occasion has loosened the Kommandant's legendary purse strings for the cellar. —Her eyes, sharp and assessing, flick from Viktor to Alina. —Unless, of course, Herr Starkov truly has a soft spot for our new... guest.

Viktor merely offers a wry smile, accustomed to their barbs. —Soft spot? Da, maybe. Or just... need for company not so wild, like wolves.—he parries, turning his attention to Alina. — Wine you like, Alina? We got Greek ones, from coast vineyards. Me? No clue. I just like sweet wines. With everything.

Ishani scoffs playfully. —Naturally. No taste whatsoever. —She waves a hand towards the cart as Greta now stands at attention, hands clasped, waiting for orders to pull out the desired bottles.

Ishani continues in her elegant Star League court English, not the Irish or Scottish accent of the other Lyrans: —Fortunately, Kommandant, we are here to assist with proper pairings. It's not difficult, Viktor: dry reds with the roast, a fruity white with the fish.

Visconti leans in with a theatrical flourish of his napkin, his Irish English dotted with Italian for dramatic effect.

—Leave it to me, Ishani, miei amici, —he sighs, eyes twinkling at the groaning cart of bottles, —courtesy of Viktor's uncharacteristically lavish command to raid the cellar. Grazie mille for this bounty, Kommandant, but Dio mio, we must guide your... rustico palate.

Everybody pays attention to Visconti, amusement mixed with reverence for his aristocratic background, as he gestures and Greta hands him the bottles. He cradles them in his hands, showing them around like a sommelier.

—For the lamb, try this dry and robust Xinomavro red—also goes well with the meats and cheeses. The cod? Ecco the fruity Moschofilero white, so it doesn't hide the fish's delicate taste.

—что? —exclaims Aleksey. —It tastes like garlic!

Visconti pointedly ignores him and motions Greta to hand him another bottle.

—And for you, Viktor, povero cosacco, with your sweet tooth— he grabs a bottle by the neck and brusquely shakes it, —try this syrup, I mean, muscat. Slosh it on whatever; you'll not tell the angels from the devils anyway— he gestures contemptuously to the laughter of everybody, pushing the bottle into Viktor's lap. Viktor smiles, taking the bottle and the jab in stride. —да, да, неважно.

Ishani arches a brow, her smirk sharpening. —Ever the poet, Visconti. But let's be honest: the Kommandant isn't here for the wine tasting... but the oysters.

Alina blinks, as she scans the table with wide-eyed innocence. —Oysters? What? I do not see any seafood on the menu.

The table erupts in roaring laughter, Viktor's deep chuckle rumbling loudest as he raises his glass in mock salute, while Visconti slaps his knee. Ishani, wiping a tear from her eye, leans in with a wicked grin:

—Oh, Fräulein, you're getting plenty of sausage tonight.

Alina's eyes widen in dawning comprehension, her blush blooming crimson as she ducks her head, a shy giggle escaping despite herself. Greta, the teenage maid, doubles over the cart in helpless hysterics, her shoulders shaking so hard a bottle wobbles precariously and falls, and is caught in the air by Viktor stretching with feline reflexes, drawing even louder guffaws from the officers as Viktor winks at his bride, utterly unrepentant.

As the laughter dies, Viktor composes himself. —Or if Fräulein prefers, —Viktor offers Alina, gesturing to a few dark bottles on the cart, —there's Irish red ale as well. I will have that.

—And of course, —he picks up a squat, clear bottle, —there is always vodka!

Alina looks at him, and wonders out loud: —Vodka? But aren't liquors for pre-drinks, or after-dinner?

Viktor chuckles. —Lyran way, ha? No,for Russians, vodka is for toasts, all through meal. Cleans tongue, helps belly... and keeps head straight, not too drunk. Good for talk.

He winks. Alina smiles, lowering her gaze. Chuckles around the table. Katya quips in a low voice:

—да, you two have a lot of talking to do.

Arthur says: —Aids digestion? I will have whisky, then!

Viktor then gestures broadly at the cart. —These wines and liquors are from the Combine—are some of the few things they actually export. And they import appliances. Like the Lyran battery hairdryer they used on your hair, Alina.

—Ja, I was surprised at seeing that.

—Actually, we brought those, and a lot of appliances from the Commonwealth. Mazhar gave us the idea, —Schlosser says, punctilious.

—What? The Periphery savage?

They all laugh loud. Alina, embarrassed, apologizes: —Sorry, I know he's your friend, but he looks scary.

—Come on, he's a fine lad, —says Viktor. —да. He spends all his pay buying appliances and other electronics to send them back to his home world in the Periphery. So he gave me the idea: instead of extra ammunition, we loaded every nook and cranny in our DropShips with appliances, electronic entertainment and toys, all in demand in the Combine.

—I still wonder about the dozen android sex dolls from Dustball... —says Aleksey deadpan.

Roar of laughter. Alina, shocked, turns to Viktor mutely demanding an explanation.

—Oh, that... we made a killing on that, —says Viktor unfazed. —Though Yoshiro wanted to keep one. —Another round of drunken laughter and taunts as the stoic Yoshiro opens his mouth wide in surprise and shakes his head in denial. Viktor continues with a merry smile: —We made a nice profit in the black market, but we had to pay a bribe to the Earl Lowell—that's a Graf, the ruler of Kirchbach—to get away with it past customs.

—Clever. You truly are not just a soldier but also a businessman, an entrepreneur, as you said. I thought at most you mercenaries sold your booty, like criminals sell stolen merchandise, —remarks Alina, impressed.

—Oh, we can do that too. I sold stolen goods once, —grins Viktor. Alina opens her mouth at his cheek, then closes it and shakes her head.

—Indeed, —Ishani chimes in, pointing out and taking a bottle of whiskey Greta hands her from the cart. —But we are mere amateurs compared with the forgers and con artists Lyran traders are. Did you know, Alina, that most of the 'Donegal Irish Whisky' found in the Commonwealth, including your homeworld, is actually Kuritan whisky, rebranded? Much cheaper, fewer taxes, better profit margin for our Lyran distributors. Likewise, our wines. Grapes are manually harvested, very labor-intensive. So Kurita wines often have a much better quality-price ratio than those from other planets.

Atanas grunts from across the table: —Best Irish whisky, though, comes from Bismarck in the Free Worlds League. They moved an entire traditional distillery from Terra itself.

Alina's surprise is evident. —Irish whisky? And Irish beer? I would have expected more... Rasalhague offerings, or perhaps sake. Why not sake?

Viktor grimaces, shrugging his shoulders: —Sake? That's a Japanese thing. And honestly, it's awful.

Schlosser jokes: —Tastes like jet fuel, doesn't it, Kommandant?

Yoshiro sighs, exasperated: —That joke was already old when at the High Council of the Star League council Leonard Kurita threw a bottle at First Lord Cameron. And I don't even like sake!

—And as for Irish drinks, —Viktor continues, addressing Alina, —it's because like Russians, there are Irish everywhere in the Combine. You can find an Irish pub on nearly every Draconis planet. Point of fact, there's a rather famous one on New Samos.

Alina shakes her head, a soft smile on her lips. —I didn't know that.

Katya, already several drinks in and slurring, leans forward with a grin:

—Of course you didn't. You don't go out much, do you? Like a nun! I'm starting to believe you really were born in a monastery, just like you said before! —she says loudly.

Viktor casts a quizzical, almost sharp look to Alina. —Now that you mention it, why did you say that?

—Oh, sorry, it was just a joke. I will tell you later, —waves Alina, embarrassed.

—It better be a good one, —retorts Viktor, then he cheers up, gazing towards the door down the hallway. —Here comes the food!

The company as a chorus starts chanting: "Food! Food! Unga! Unga!!" thumping fists on the table and stomping feet. Alina looks out, dismayed, and then exclaims, barely audible over the roar:

Scene 34 - Of Mercenaries, Pirates and Other Gentlemen of Fortune

Local time 23:09:43

As laughter ceases, Visconti continues his tale, with aristocratic detachment.

—Anyway, without entering into details, our private conversations were pleasant enough,— he continues, his Irish accent lending warmth to the words. — It was the business negotiations that were tricky. She trusted me as a Lyran ambassador, or so she thought I was. But she said I was a 'sweet, innocent Steiner boy' and that I was being played by... — His voice drops to a mocking growl, — that bastard Starkov and his band of 'murderous mercenaries,' — she said."

A ripple of laughter runs through the assembled mercenaries, followed by a murmur of voices agreeing, "not that she was wrong." Alina folds her arms, trying to hold her laughter.

Visconti leans back in his creaking chair. — It was only after our new comrades, the pirates who had joined us, came as witnesses to vouch for our peaceful intentions that she consented to repair our ship.

Alina's head snaps up, her pale eyes widening with shock.

—Wait a moment, — she says, her voice rising, —you recruited pirates!?

Viktor straightens in his chair and replies in a business-like tone:

—Half a dozen 'MechWarriors, actually. With their 'Mechs. They are paying off their ransom through five-year contracts.

Alina looks at him, her outrage building. —How can you work with pirates? Killers! Rapists! What kind of criminal are you?

Viktor's face is nonchalant, almost bored. —Why do you always have to think the worst of me?

A stunned silence falls over the table as Viktor and Alina lock eyes. It is Katya who breaks the silence. —Think the worst, and you will be right, sister! — egging Alina on.

—Stop it! — Aman's voice is surprisingly loud. —Why do you always have to attack Sidi Viktor?

—You're such a bootlicker,— Katya retorts, leaning forward. —While you're at it, why don't you suck his...

Before Aman can react, Mazen's hand swings out and delivers a hard slap to Katya's face. Katya brings a hand to her cheek, her face lowering in shame as an awkward silence settles over the group.

Viktor, entirely unfazed, raises his glass. —I hope the dinner arrives soon. Again, Alina, why do you always assume the worst about me?

Alina lowers her gaze, visibly embarrassed. — I know, I should not judge. I understand now that being a mercenary is a dangerous job, and you have to make moral compromises, like those in the lecture you just gave us.— She raises her head again, looking Viktor defiantly in the eyes. — But recruiting pirates? How can you work with such scum and look yourself in the mirror?

— Because I don't. I despise mirrors, — Viktor says with a shrug. — That aside, you are mistaken.

— How so? —Alina asks.

Viktor waves a dismissive hand, settling back into his professorial mode as he prepares for another lecture.

— Ah, Alina. Not all pirates are ravening monsters like the sensationalist stories would have you believe. Most are honest privateers acting under letters of marque. Pirates, only with paperwork.

Of those that are true pirates, not under a flag of a state, many turn to piracy out of necessity, for plunder, yes, but the smart ones avoid needless murder or rape. They take captives for ransom and treat them well, because they don't want to burn their ships, literally speaking. Many were mercenaries like us, that were in debt, or breached a contract, and fled to the Periphery.

But they all hope to return. They want to come back to the Inner Sphere to enjoy their booty someday. Like privateers, they often just steal from Steiner and sell to Kurita, or sell their stolen merchandise to smugglers and corrupt planetary governors, or to those planets that are in desperate need of the goods the pirates can sell them and merchants don't.

Viktor's gaze sweeps across the table. — Also, pirates are a plague that is difficult to eradicate. Sometimes the lesser evil, or the only thing a state can do, is grant a pardon so some pirates stop their depredations and come back into civil society, paying a tax, and their booty is reinvested into the economy.

Alina nods, a look of new understanding on her face. — So, they respect some sort of code?

— Precisely. Like any sensible criminal, they prefer profit over mindless mayhem. They respect the laws of war, our 'MechWarrior codes. They ransom captured Inner Sphere 'MechWarriors, and they expect the same if they're caught. It's better than Dispossession for everyone involved. So, in this case, there's indeed honor among thieves.

Viktor gestures toward his men. — We, being deep in the Periphery and short on replacements, took on half a dozen of their 'MechWarriors, 'Mechs included. In exchange, they paid a hefty ransom to us and signed a five-year contract. Not the recruits I wished but neither were those present here, — he says with a grin, earning a round of protests and booing.

У нас есть то, что есть, — he says in Russian, a patient look on his face.

He takes a pause before continuing, now shifting his explanation to a different subject. — There's also an important distinction. You have space pirates, who are most common. They travel in Dropships, sometimes with fighter cover, and raid container clusters at orbital assembly points: snatching the valuable ones into their holds before the guard cutters or aerospace fighters can react. Others don spacesuits, armed with swords and needle guns, the only weapons that work in a vacuum and can be safely used inside a ship,and board cargo DropShips or even civilian liners, robbing passengers and taking hostages for ransom.

— Apart from those implicated in the boarding actions, it's relatively bloodless. They try to not murder any civilians, because the summary punishment if caught is usually to throw them out of the airlock for a stroll without a space suit.— he ends with a grin.

A few nervous chuckles are heard as Viktor sips his beer. Aleksey again lets out his dark low laugh, finding it very amusing. Alina opens her eyes wide. Viktor resumes his explanation:

—Then you have bandits, hence the name of Bandit Kingdoms. These are the ones who lead 'pirate raids' on planetary surfaces. Those are the true monsters, like the Serkan Bolat we killed, or sadistic brutes like Redjack Ryan. They often raid cities, because that's where the targets and riches are, and because that way they can use the civilian population as human shields. The planetary garrison can't use artillery or air strikes against them. Most raids for pinpoint value targets like water purification or supplies are carried out by BattleMechs of course, but when they can take a settlement their infantry engages in murder, rape, pillage, and taking slaves, like the pirates or horse raiders of ancient Terra. Our new recruits? They are simply thieves, not killers. We navigate murky waters, Alina. And sometimes, good commanders make difficult choices.

Alina, looking thoughtful, speaks again. —But they're still thieves!

Viktor shrugs. —And we're killers for hire. The line between pirate and mercenary isn't as clear as you think. Out here in the Periphery, with no replacement 'MechWarriors for three hundred light-years, you take what you can get. These men had skills we needed, and they wanted a way back to legitimacy.

Alina's shoulders relax. Her voice is calmer and more placated. —I understand now. Again, forgive me for being too harsh. As a Lyran, I am accustomed to order and discipline, things in black and white, and this world of yours is shades of gray.

—No offense taken, darling —Viktor says smilling and patting her hand. —I am glad I hired these scoundrels. They already proved useful in persuading Morgan Fletcher to allow the use of the shipyard for repairs. Now we are the proud owners of a JumpShip piloted by a computer ghost from Amaris' time"

Alina's eyes widen. —You own it now? I thought you only had half.

—We bought the other half from the Combine. Now it's ours.

—But a JumpShip is insanely expensive. Multi-millions! — she waves her hands — I get that you could afford the repairs. But how could you buy it from the Combine?

Katya says surprised: —Multi millions? Do we have that kind of money? Doesn't feel like it!

—Marco Manzio figured it out, —Viktor says, a hint of pride in his voice. —By borrowing. We took out a loan and then leased the ship to a trading company. An automated JumpShip without a crew cuts costs and makes Periphery trading profitable. They pay us, we pay the bank, and in the event we need the ship for a trip, we can ask for it back and then return it. We are not going to use it much, but it's insurance to have your own transport in case of an emergency. Also, it gives us more leverage to negotiate contracts.

Alina's expression softens with admiration. — I am impressed. Not only a soldier, scholar, and philosopher, but also a businessman. Truly a man of the Renaissance, as you said when we met!

Viktor waves a hand dismissively, feigning modesty. —I just know a bit of everything.

A wicked grin spreads across his face as he stands and addresses the company.

—And that, my friends, is how a bunch of 'lowly mercs' earned the gratitude of the Coordinator himself. Sometimes legends are real. Sometimes you find real treasures... — He looks Alina in the eyes. A blush spreads across her cheeks as she lowers her gaze, smiling.

Katya's voice cuts through the moment. —And when do we get a raise?

—And our new dress uniforms? — Mazen asks.

—And my new 'Mech? — Aman begs.

—And my promotion? —Visconti says.

—And my vacation? — Aleksey complains.

—And my own staff car? — Ishani demands.

—And my new leg? — Schlosser pleads.

—And my finger surgery? — Yoshiro adds.

—And when comes the food? I am hungry! — Atanas calls out.

—This bottle's empty! More whisky! — Arthur exclaims.

Viktor raises his glass. —Patience, my braves, one thing at a time.

Katya winks mischievously at Alina. —Can I wish for a cute ComStar adept for dessert?

A roaring laughter fills the room. Alina covers her face with her hands, a shy giggle escaping, while Mazen playfully pulls Katya's hair.

Viktor rises from the table, a baton in one hand, his glass in the other. —To the Ghost Shark: may all our hunts be so profitable!

Scene 33: The Pirate Queen of Star's End

Local Time: 23:03:28

Viktor leans back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

—Wait, there's more. So we took a little detour on the way back to Draconis space, and stopped at Star's End to have the ship refurbished by the Belt's pirates. They have a working JumpShip shipyard. And they take orders from anybody. They make as much money from that as from piracy. Nice people. Very cordial. Must have been glad we had diminished competition.

Aleksey chuckles, shaking his head.

—That, and they were scared out of their wits that we'd come after them next.

Viktor grins slyly, gesturing with his beer glass.

—Perhaps. It took some… delicate diplomacy. Their leader, Morgan Fletcher, hates men in general and Spheroids in particular.

Alina tilts her head with curiosity.

—Ah, a lesbian?

—I thought so at first and considered sending Katya as a tasty offering to please her.

Laughter erupts around the table, glasses clinking as people lean forward.

—But Mazen said Katya's ass belongs to her, and she's not sharing!

The laughter grows louder, several mercenaries slapping the table. Alina covers her face, giggling.

—Then I considered that the best person for the job was Ishani…

Ishani straightens in her chair, looking smugly pleased.

—Because I'm an officer, well-bred, and have excellent negotiation skills, of course.

Viktor's expression turns deadpan.

—Not really. Because you are expendable, and we wouldn't miss you.

The room explodes in roaring laughter, several people doubling over and slapping the table. Ishani crosses her arms and glares at Viktor while Alina covers her mouth, trying to stifle her own laughter.

Viktor continues once the noise subsides.

—And Ishani didn't volunteer as ambassador, so I thought it better. The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. So I guessed that pirate queen either was into depravity of the wielding-a-whip kind, or was resentful from bad experiences. Or both. But all women dream of a Blue Prince. So I decided to make one out of our handsome Fritz here.

More laughter fills the room as Visconti gestures proudly, striking a mock-noble pose.

—Armed with a letter of recommendation from my friend Kristofur Veselov, the former secret agent turned pirate, remember? He was glad to do me the favor. And an impressive fake credentials letter we drew up—we sent Visconti as "Plenipotentiary Ambassador, His Lordship Graf Frederick von Visconti-Steiner, nephew of Frederick Steiner" in a Lyran blue dress uniform and all my ribbons and medals pinned on it for a more impressive show, both from Steiner and from Marik service—don't think the pirate queen would know the difference. And a bouquet of flowers, of course.

Alina raises an eyebrow skeptically.

—What, you brought the dress uniform and your medals on the voyage?

Katya's voice drips with sarcasm.

—Viktor is so vain he wears all that junk pinned on his cooling vest. Bought them at the military surplus store, for sure.

Alina looks at Viktor with mock disbelief.

—You wear your medals in combat? Spurs and white gloves at the controls, too?

—No, gloves would be too warm in a 'Mech. In shorts and cooling vest, we all look the same. In case my 'Mech is shot down and I have the misfortune of being taken prisoner, by looking at my medals my captors will realize I am someone of consequence and treat me well and keep me alive for ransom. Insurance.

Katya shakes her head with theatrical disgust.

—Don't believe him. He is so vain he wears that ribbon with the MacKenzie medal to bed. How uncomfortable for the girl!

Viktor turns to her with pleading innocence.

—Katya, please don't be so indiscreet. I didn't tell anyone about our affair.

The room erupts in roaring laughter and foot stomping. Katya, for once, remains speechless, her mouth agape. Alina laughs at her discomfort while Mazen ribs her playfully. Arthur calls out over the noise, "For once the joke's on you, clown!"

Viktor waits for the laughter to subside before continuing.

—As I was saying, for good measure I sent the band to play fanfares and drums for solemn pomp and circumstance when Visconti came to the pirate's palace. We weren't expecting to see him come back alive…

Loud laughter fills the room again. Yoshiro slaps Visconti on the back while the young count looks mortified. Ishani doubles over, wiping tears of laughter now that the joke is on somebody else. Alina shakes with laughter too, consoling Visconti by patting his hand.

Viktor continues after the laughter subsides.

—But Fritz, our blue blood friend, managed to charm her, as I hoped. I believe she even offered him a permanent position as Lyran ambassador and her "personal aide." We got treated like royalty during our stay there. I am curious, Fritz, what negotiation technique did you use to achieve such favorable terms?

Visconti composes himself, returning to his elegant bearing.

—A noble does not talk about private affairs with a lady, even if she's a pirate queen.

More laughter and ribbing follow, accompanied by knowing winks around the table.

Alina leans forward with genuine curiosity.

—I am curious, what was she like?

—Barbaric, impressive, as you would expect. She was dark-haired and dark-skinned, like Ishani but not as pretty and older. Dressed in furs, silks, and gold chains, in the winter fashion at Tharkad during Archon Alessandro's reign. But she also wore Lyran uniform riding trousers and boots and always carried a whip. Her fingernails covered in small diamonds, lots of jewel rings. She had a throne covered in tiger fur and kept a chained leopard. And she held her other chained pets—the human ones—in cages. It was like those fetish porn DeSade Holo Videos from Kooken, Viktor, you know? Those with the Star League old fort in the opening credits.

Viktor assumes an expression of exaggerated innocence.

—Since I am in the presence of Alina, I will pretend I don't have the least idea of what you are talking about.

Scene 32: Amelia, the Soul of the Ghost Shark Local time: 22:59:13

As everybody hungrily grabs at the appetizers, Alina speaks:—Your lecture was very interesting, but you didn't finish the story — Alina says, her eyes bright with curiosity as she leans forward slightly. —What happened when you finally claimed your prize : the ship, the Ghost Shark? How did you feel after that odyssey? Viktor pauses, his gaze growing distant. He swirls the amber beer in his glass, watching the light play through it.

—It was an eerie sensation — he begins, his voice taking on a more thoughtful cadence. —When we finally boarded the Ghost Shark, it was like stepping into the tomb of an ancient emperor who had been buried with his army and treasures. The docked DropShips with their cargo of BattleMechs, perfectly preserved, still functional after all these centuries.

He takes a sip of his beer, pausing as his audience waits.

—Of course, the rubber seals had rotted, there was no atmosphere, and frost was everywhere, and many sections were dark. But the AI was still there, still running and trying to complete its mission. Her name is Amelia. And I say "her" because the Amaris programmer who wrote her code was a twisted guy: he gave her a female personality. And not a pleasant one like the one from BattleMech computers that tells you in a velvet female voice the worst news, like "Reactor critical. Shutdown imminent," like she's saying, "Honey, dinner is ready."

Laughter ripples around the table, glasses raised in appreciation of the comparison. Katya's eyes sparkle with mischief as she leans forward.

—You must hear that one a lot, Viktor — she says with a grin. —When you were in the Roughriders wasn't your callsign "Shutdown"?

Viktor's expression turns mock-serious, pointing a finger at her across the table.

—Shut down, Katya. I mean, shut up!

Schlosser's booming laugh fills the room, his scarred face creasing with amusement.

—Jawohl, that's Viktor! His 'Mech radiators are filled with coffee instead of coolant!

—You too Sebastian! — Viktor protests, though his own smile betrays his enjoyment of the familiar banter. He waves a dismissive hand at his subordinates before continuing, his tone growing more serious.

—Those are just automated voice messages. But Amelia has a personality. And a bitchy one at that. The guy who programmed her was surely married — he says, earning chuckles around the table. —We had to… convince her that mission parameters had changed. It's like talking to a ghost.

His voice drops slightly, and the room grows quieter.

—The Combine naval technicians were freaked out, not because they believe in ghosts, of course, these are trained computer specialists, not the laborer caste. They were freaked out because they are afraid of the unknown. That's the biggest fear of all.

Viktor's fingers drum against the table.

—And nobody in his right mind would use something programmed by the Amaris bastards. Nobody except us, of course. After much wrangling about the salvage clauses, the Combine agreed we would pay the prize value and we could keep it because not even a Draconis spaceman is suicidal enough to embark on a ship that works on its own, and nobody knows when it will break down.

He spreads his hands, the gesture encompassing the room and everyone in it.

—We figured out that even if it's at the end of its service life, if it has worked for two centuries, it may last for a couple more decades, if we live that long. Not only do we have our own DropShips, we have our own JumpShip! We have our own transport to come and go as it pleases us without depending on the House transport fleet, which comes in very handy the next time we decide to suddenly switch sides, like Visconti said.