AUTHOR'S NOTES: A long chapter this time, but a talky one. If you're looking for fast-paced 'Mech action, well...we'll get there. I wanted to do some character building first. Sheila didn't learn how to command a company overnight. Max needs a little more depth than I gave him the first go-around, Maysa is just starting her heroine's journey, and then there's Todd and Mira. It's a long chapter, but hopefully not boring.

This chapter is definitely PG-13, so be warned.

Sentinel Base Grunwald

Grunwald, Donegal March, Federated Commonwealth

21 April 3050

"Attention on deck!"

Sheila thought the order, barked out by David Ladyman, to be a bit strange; the Sentinels weren't a naval unit, and they were standing on the concrete of the 'Mech bay. All the same, it was impressive to see 15 MechWarriors snap to attention for her. Ladyman stood in front of the assembled MechWarriors. He saluted Sheila. "Company present and accounted for, Major. We are at full strength."

She returned the salute. "Thank you, Lance Commander." She looked past him. "At ease." The company went to a stand-easy stance, hands behind their backs, feet spread slightly apart. Well, that went all right, Sheila thought. My voice didn't break.

"Okay," she said, glancing at her datapad. "So I don't know if you heard, but we've been given three weeks to get squared away." There were visible looks of shocks and audible groans at that; the battered regiment had been looking forward to several months' of downtime. "Hanse Davion is trying to build a line centered on Sudeten, and as one of the very few units to engage the Clans and actually survive, we're up." She saw Mimi's hand go up, but shook her head. "I'll take questions at the end." Mimi looked a bit shocked at that, that Sheila didn't immediately answer her question, but put her hand down. "So…the schedule for today is working on our 'Mechs, getting them fixed up. The Clans are still a long ways off from Sudeten, but we have to assume we're going to have to fight them sooner or later, so Commander Bighorn-Vlata wants us to be ready when we get there. Means getting our hands dirty." She checked the datapad again. "We'll be up for company exercises by the end of the week, then we'll have some downtime. We're up first because Alpha/4 is still intact." Sheila paused. "Some of us are new transfers into the company. Those of us who have been here for awhile, let's not get territorial, okay? You're going to be fighting alongside these people from now on, so get to know them." Sheila felt stupid as soon as she said it; the overwhelming majority of the MechWarriors under her command were veterans, or at least had more or equal experience to her own. She had talked down to them. She checked their expressions, but no one seemed to be offended. "Um…" One more look at the datapad. "I'd like to meet any of you that I don't know today. So meet me over by my 'Mech—whenever you get a chance to. And, er…" She smiled, and tried to make it a winning one. "That's all. Dismissed."

Ladyman executed an about face like a cadet. "Company, dismissed." The MechWarriors came to attention for a moment, then left to go back to their 'Mechs. "Dammit," Sheila whispered, because she had forgotten to pause for questions. It was too late to call them back. She had also forgotten to tell the ones with undamaged 'Mechs to help those who did have damage, but luckily they all knew that.

Mimi made her way through the crowd. Sheila gave her a pained smile. "Mimi, sorry…forgot to ask for questions."

"Ahh, no big deal. Just wanted to ask where the hell your dad was going to get more replacements from—'Mechs and MechWarriors."

"We're getting some 'Mechs from House Davion." Calla had told her that the night before. "Castoffs, probably—whatever they can comb out of replacement depots and March Militia units. Warhammers, Enforcers, Quickdraws, that sort of thing."

"Quickdraws. God, that'll make Nicia shit a brick. She hates those things." Nicia Caii had an unreasonable hatred of the Quickdraw. "I guess as long as they don't give us Urbies, we'll be okay."

"How did I do?" Sheila asked.

Mimi grinned. "You did okay." She slapped her friend on the shoulder. "Okay, I'll quit being so familiar with the company commander." Mimi snapped to and saluted. "Your orders, Major?"

"Carry on with today's schedule, MechWarrior." Sheila returned the salute.

Mimi bowed so deeply that a Kuritan would have found it insulting. "Hai, Tono!" Then she ambled off to her Crusader.

Sheila headed to her Shruiken, shaking her head. Techs were already swarming over it, pulling and cutting off broken armor plating, replacing the hasty repairs done on Persistence after the battle. Normally, she would have gone over and helped—the Sentinels were chronically short on techs, and Calla expected his MechWarriors to know basic repairs, as well as how to reload magazines. However, on her first day as company commander, she wanted to get to know her people a little better.

They came over one at a time over the next few hours. Sheila noticed the ones that walked over first were the new people—Nkosiyabo Malinga, Charles Badaxe, Maria Thyatis, Peter Zelensky. The others held back for awhile. Kaatha, Marcus Drax, and Mimi already knew her, of course, but the veterans were measuring her, gauging her against Yoriyoshi Kazikawa. There would be tests, of course: someone would try her on, see what they could get away with, how much they could slack off. Sheila wasn't looking forward to that. The Nagelring actually trained its cadets how to handle discipline problems: there were entire days spent where other cadets would try to be as much of a jerk as possible.

Sheila shook hands with each one of them, trying to memorize faces, exchanging small talk, trying to remember things about her company. She knew some of them liked her already; evidently, Kaatha and Marcus had been talking her up, and the damage to her Shruiken showed that she was not afraid to get into combat. Others were standoffish and more wary. None were openly hostile.

As the day went along, Sheila found that she was actually enjoying herself.

Speer City

Grunwald, District of Donegal, Federated Commonwealth

21 April 3050

I don't want to do this, Max Canis-Vlata thought to himself. I want to go home. Or at least back to the base. Dammit. He hesitated on the doorstep to the modest house. I don't have to do this. Mica's dad already knows. Father Dan probably came out here already. Or maybe one of the House liasion staff. Somebody did. He doesn't need me to tell him. He probably doesn't even want me to.

Max stood there, torn by indecision. Then the decision was made for him, as the door opened. The man that confronted him was taller and broader than him, with a Lincolnesque beard. "Can I help—" Then he saw the dress uniform. The uniform was essentially a stripped-down version of the Steiner dress uniform, with a sash displaying the tartan of the 93rd Highlanders—Max's lance. Max only had a single medal: one for Persistence, issued the day before. Max saw the man's eyes flick down to the nametape above the medal. He wasn't sure what to expect, but not for the older man to smile. "You're Lance Commander Max Canis-Vlata?"

"Yes, sir."

A hand came out and engulfed Max's. "Theo Ballew. Come in." Max followed Micajah Ballew's father into the house. "Would you like something to drink? Soda? I have a few beers, if you want something stronger."

"Thank you, sir. A soda would be fine."

"Have a seat." Max did as instructed, and the elder Ballew disappeared for a moment into the kitchen. The living room was well kept and clean, with a tridee on a stand, several shelves of books, and a fireplace. Above the fireplace were several pictures, and a small, woodcarved Shadow Hawk. Theo Ballew had been a MechWarrior in the 22nd Skye Rangers, and the regiment's flag hung above the pictures. He returned and sat on the sofa across from Max, and handed him the soda.

There was silence for a few moments as both men drank, then Theo faced Max squarely. "I know what you're here for."

Max nodded. "Yes, sir…I suppose Father Dan came out to talk to you."

"Not yet. To be honest, I would be somewhat surprised if a Catholic priest would talk to a Lutheran." Theo pointed to a piece of paper on the coffee table. Max saw the emblem of ComStar at the top of it. "I actually got the message from ComStar a week ago."

Max was surprised at that. The Precentor on Persistence had closed the HPG once the Jade Falcons had arrived. Calla had sent him a casualty list with no real expectation it would be sent, but apparently ComStar had. It had beaten the Sentinels back to Grunwald. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know."

"Would you have come if you did?"

This time Max didn't hesitate. Now that he was here, he wouldn't. "Yes, sir. Micajah was my roommate, my lancemate, and my friend."

Theo was silent for a long time, staring at Max. Then a slow nod. "Good. That tells me a lot about you, Max. You didn't have to do this. A letter would have sufficed."

"I didn't want someone to tell you that didn't know Mica, and a letter is too impersonal."

Theo smiled a little. "Actually, letters can be even more personal than in person. That was why Mica and I wrote each other, even though it's far more efficient to send a vidmessage. Old-fashioned, but to us, more personal, as I said." He leaned back. "Mica wrote me about you. He liked you. He said you were kind of quiet, kept to yourself, but that you liked old movies and you played chess."

Max laughed. "Sir, I'm not very good at chess. Your son beat the hell out of me."

Theo laughed too. "I taught him, and he used to beat me on a regular basis." He took a drink from the soda. "Tell me how it happened, Max."

"Sir?"

Theo tapped the letter. "This tells me nothing."

"It's…not a pretty picture."

"My son is dead, Max," Theo said evenly. "There is nothing that could make that pretty."

So Max told him. He told him about the battle, the Clans, the assault, and the almost freak accident of a thousand-ton door falling inward and crushing Mica's Orion. They had cut the body out of the cockpit, but there was a reason why Mica had been cremated. Max was very thankful he had not seen what was left of his friend, but he had heard the rumors. He supposed that some of it was classified—Max didn't know how much about the Clans was being told to the people of the Federated Commonwealth. He also didn't care.

It took about half an hour, during which time both men drained their sodas. Max sighed at the end, spent. "I'm sorry, sir. There was nothing I could do." It was true, but Max still wondered, as he had wondered since that day: was there something he could've done? "At least…I don't think there was."

"There wasn't. It was just bad luck. And these Clans, whoever they are." Theo looked at the ceiling. "I was a MechWarrior for twenty years, Max. I got lucky in that I never lost a 'Mech, or got seriously injured. I married when I was in my forties, became a father when I was fifty, and a widower when I turned sixty."

"Mica told me about his mother—your wife, sir." Jeanette Ballew had died in a hovercar accident.

"I'm seventy-five now." That surprised Max as well: Theo Ballew looked maybe sixty. He shrugged. "I suppose that's why I'm taking this so well. When your kid is a MechWarrior, you know that someday that letter or than man or woman in a dress uniform could cross your threshold. Nothing prepares you for it, but…you know. That's why I got married after I retired. I didn't want anyone to feel that." Theo was quiet for a bit. "I suppose too that when you get older, death isn't as fearsome as it once was." He looked at Max. "Do you believe in God?"

"Yes, sir. I'm a Catholic."

"Traditional or New Avalon?"

"New Avalon." Max felt a little ashamed. "I suppose I'm lapsed. I couldn't tell you when the last time I went to church was."

"Angry at God?"

The question took Max aback. "No, sir." Though my parents would be enough to get mad at God for allowing it, Max added to himself. No, that's unfair. It's not God's fault they're screwed up. He didn't want to stay at the Ballew home too long, but he didn't want to go back to his home, either.

"Good. You should get right with God, Max. You never know." Theo got up and walked over to the mantle. He picked up a picture of him and his son, after a fishing trip. "I'll see him again someday. I'm not worried about that." He fell into silence again, and Max politely did not say anything. Growing up in a regiment, one always heard the euphemisms for death. Fighter pilots talked about flying west. MechWarriors used the term the Last Jump, or Last Drop, though the latter usually was a joke about going to hell. People joked about meeting in a heavenly bar, where the beer was free and always good, where MechWarriors for the past few centuries gathered and swapped stories in a neverending party. Max wasn't really sure about any of it. It was vague and epheremal. I wonder what Mica felt. I wonder if he felt anything. He glanced at his hands. And what did the Clanners in those weird battlearmor feel, when I killed them? Do they even feel?

Finally Theo broke the silence. "Max, you've gone above and beyond the call of duty in coming here. I appreciate it more than you could know."

Max took that as a dismissal and stood. "Like I said, sir. He was my friend."

Theo seemed to come to a decision. "Wait here." He went down the hallway that Max supposed led to the bedrooms, and returned with a little case. He handed it to Max, who opened it. It was a gold watch, an old one—with hands, and a winding button on the side. "It was Mica's. It was also mine, and my grandfather's, and his grandfather's. I suppose that thing's about two hundred years old, but it keeps time like it was made yesterday."

"Sir, I can't take this!"

"I want you to, Max. I would've given it to Mica's children, but…well." He closed the case and put his hands around Max's. "I don't know your parents very well, though I've met them a few times. When Mica said he was joining the Sentinels, I didn't want him to because they were mercenaries, but they've proven themselves to be more than hireswords or thugs with 'Mechs. In any case…it's yours. Give it to your kids, if you ever have them. Just tell it who it belonged to."

Max shook his head. "Sir, I'm not…I'm not worthy."

"You let God worry about who's worthy, Max." Theo drew him into a hug. "Thank you for being my son's friend, Max. You are always welcome here." He let go. "In fact…hell, you want to stay for dinner? I'm no great shakes as a cook, but I make a mean Irish stew." Theo smiled sadly. "But I suppose you probably have somewhere to be."

Max smiled back. "Actually, sir…I don't."

"Well, hell, then. It's five o'clock somewhere. Let's have a beer and talk shop." Theo steered him to the little dining room. "Now, tell me about these Clan OmniMechs. There's got to be a weakness. There always is."

St. Maurice Catholic Church

Grunwald, District of Donegal, Federated Commonwealth

21 April 3050

Monsignor Joseph Berent was barely five feet tall, if that. His thinning hair was completely gray. He prided himself on still walking two miles a day, even if his knees creaked and his bladder ached. As he walked the short distance from the sacristy to the chapel, he smiled up at the warm, cloudless sky, and thanked God for another day. He unlocked the door and walked into the church. It smelled pleasantly of incense and old wood. He knelt in front of the altar, wincing as his knees popped alarmingly, and prayed for a few minutes, then managed to get back to his feet. Saint Maurice was the patron saint of infantry, and once upon a time, Berent had been one himself. It was strange that so many former military men became priests, rabbis, imams and so on, as if they wanted to make penance for the things that had done and seen.

As usual, there were not a lot of people for Confession. A few older people, some his age or even older, a smattering of adults, two teenagers. He smiled again as he noticed one of them: Maysa Bari, who was hard to miss, her red hair shaved on either side of her head in the fashion of Steiner MechWarriors, the rest of it gathered into a braid. She looked nervous and fidgety, but she usually did.

Berent went over to the confessional and closed the door behind him. St. Maurice was a traditional Catholic Church, rather than the more open and liberal New Avalon version, and still held closed Confessions. For the next forty minutes, he heard their confessions through the screen that partially hid the confessor's features, and his own, to keep the confessional private. Berent knew enough of the parishoners by voice in any case.

Finally, even through the screen, he saw the shock of red hair and knew it was Maysa. She knelt, crossed herself, and spoke. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last Confession…" The two of them began an exchange that was nearly three thousand years old, formal and bound in tradition and prayer.

"And what sins have you committed, my child?" Berent asked. That was not the correct formality, but his voice held a note of curiosity, despite himself. Maysa Bari was not exactly a hellraiser.

"Father, I have looked at others with lust in my heart. And I have said things to someone that…I shouldn't have said it, even if she deser—I mean, I shouldn't have said those things. And I missed Mass because, er, well, we were getting slammed doing emergency repairs, and I got so busy I didn't think about it, and—um…"

Berent stifled a chuckle. The first two were things that Maysa usually confessed, and neither were surprising; she was fourteen and only human. "My child, did those repairs save lives?"

"Um…yes, Father. I mean, they would have if we had gotten into another fight, but we retreated offplanet, and I'm not sure I should tell you about that, but anyways…"

"Then you have performed a corporal act of mercy, and committed no sin. Our God is a God of battles, and understands." He paused, but Maysa was silent. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, Father." Her voice was tiny, almost inaudible. "I…I wanted to kill someone."

Berent's eyes widened. He looked at her through the screen. "Mays—my child, that is a very serious thing!"

Maysa started crying. "I know, I know…but I wanted…I wanted to…" Her head rested against the screen. "I wanted to fight, I wanted to get into it…I know it's wrong, and I'm evil, I'm a terrible person, I'm going to burn in hell—"

Berent stared at her as she continued to cry. Then he cracked open the door of the confessional. The church was empty; Maysa had been the last. Mass would not be for another two hours. Then he leaned back into the confessional. "Maysa."

She stopped shaking. "Father? Er, Monsignor?"

"Come out here. We're alone." He got to his feet, wished he had younger knees, and hobbled over to a pew. Maysa followed, her face stained with tears, looking like she wished she was dead. She slid into the pew next to him, not facing him. "All right, then. What's this about wanting to fight?"

"I…I want to be a MechWarrior."

Berent nodded. "That makes sense. Your mother is, all your friends are, and you work on 'Mechs. Naturally, that's what you want to do."

"Is it wrong?"

"No, as long as you do it for the right reasons." He leaned against the pew. "What are the right reasons, Maysa?"

"Um…to defend people who need defending? To carry out the orders of those placed over me, to preserve the House we work for, within reason—"

"That sounds like an oath of enlistment, Maysa. But what do you think?"

She looked at her hands for awhile. "Because…I know I'd be good at it. And I could save lives. And I could help my friends." She wiped her eyes as new tears started to fall. "We lost a lot of people, Monsignor. People I knew. I listened to the battle, from the 'Mech bay, underground. It shook. We heard explosions. 'Mechs came down the ramps, all shot to pieces, people hurt, bleeding. And I have a 'Mech now—a Rifleman. I modded it. I wanted to go up there. I wanted to get at the Clans—the people who attacked us, nearly beat us. And…I wanted to kill them. I really wanted to." She sniffled. "And that is so wrong, sir."

Berent nodded. "It is wrong. But tell me, Maysa…did these Clans, did they invade Persistence?" The Sentinels' deployment was no secret.

"Yes."

"And it was the Sentinels' job to defend the planet?"

"Yes, sir."

"To defend the people, defend the base, and fight for the people alongside them?" Maysa looked up, and gave him a nod. "Do you know St. Augustine's Just War theory, Maysa?"

"No…no, sir."

"Go home and study it. That will be your penance, I think." He took her hands in his own gnarled ones. He was missing two fingers, courtesy of a Kurita infantryman's katana. Berent could not speak for a moment. He had beaten that man to death with his helmet. That was the last time he had ever killed. "You didn't want to kill, Maysa. You wanted to help. War is killing, yes, but there are mitigating circumstances that St. Augustine points out. If you start taking pleasure in it, that is a very terrible thing, but in war sometimes you must kill to save others."

"And that's not a sin?"

Berent shook his head. "It is a sin. It is always a sin to take the life of another, because you have taken that other's life and everything they will ever be. But sometimes it is an even greater sin to recognize evil and do nothing. Even our Lord said that you must sometimes sell your cloak and buy a sword." He let go of her hands. "It's a contradiction, Maysa. It's a contradiction every soldier has faced. How old are you?"

"I'm fourteen. I'll be fifteen in a few months."

"That's very young for a MechWarrior."

Maysa sighed. "I know. Mother would have tarred my butt if she'd known I'd suited up to fight, but if they'd gotten into the 'Mech bay…" Berent almost laughed. He knew Marion Rhialla. The fiery woman had always been polite, even deferential to him, but the deference was always tinged with contempt—not because Berent was a priest, but because he was a former infantryman. He prayed for Rhialla's soul, though he was fairly certain that, if Marion Rhialla went to hell, Satan would soon kick her out for fear she would take over.

"I think, Maysa, you have some time to think about your career choice. You have at least two years before the Sentinels will even allow you to enlist as a MechWarrior. You may change your mind between now and then. However, being a MechWarrior is an honorable profession—if you become one to defend the helpless and fight for what is right." Berent wondered if he was committing a sin himself by saying that. The Fourth Succession War, his war, had been fought because Hanse Davion hated Maximillian Liao, and Katrina Steiner wanted to retake worlds from Takashi Kurita. Millions had died so a map could have different colors, and middle-aged warlords could claim victory. Was I fighting for what was right? It was a question he often asked himself, and he had no answer for it.

"I will, Monsignor."

"Good. MechWarriors have an advantage over other warriors—they can shoot to wound, rather than to kill. As far as I know, and I know the catechism pretty well, it's not a sin to destroy a machine."

"I'll remember that, sir."

"Good," he repeated. "As for the lust in your heart, you are a teenager. You will have those feelings. Learn to control them—and no sex before marriage." He grinned at her. "Well, with your mother, I suspect that will not be much of an issue."

Maysa laughed. "Yes, sir. I wouldn't anyway." She sighed, with all the wistfulness of an adolescent. "I'm too ugly anyway. Nobody would want to go with a grease monkey."

"You would be surprised, Maysa. And with this person—I suppose I may be breaking the seal of the Confessional, but is it Mimi Stykkis?"

"Yes, sir."

"It usually is." Mimi Stykkis would try the patience of Job, Berent thought. "All the same, you must forgive her, and ask forgiveness of her."

"Even if she just laughs in my face?"

"Especially if she laughs in your face." He winked at her. "Seventy times seven, Maysa."

"Yes, sir."

"Then I absolve you of your sins…" He made the Sign of the Cross over her. Maysa bowed her head, then got up. "See you next week, Monsignor," she said as she got out of the pew.

Berent rubbed his forehead. "Maysa, what possible sins could you commit in a week?"

Sentinel Base Grunwald

Grunwald, District of Donegal, Federated Commonwealth

21 April 3050

Mira Canis-Vlata put her phone in her back pocket with a smile. It had been a rather decent day. Max had been worried Theo Ballew would hate him or even take a swing at him, and though Mira had suspected that would not happen, she was proud of her son for taking the time to inform a father of his son's loss. Fathers should not have to bury their sons, she thought. Nor mothers. It happened far too often, and Mira found herself wishing Max had become a doctor, or an accountant, or anything but a MechWarrior. But he wants to be like you, and his father, she admonished herself. And the Vlatas have always been MechWarriors, all the way back to Karelia, who died fighting Amaris. Yep, we're a stupid bunch. All the same, she was still so proud of her son, who was becoming a fine young man and officer. She knew he would.

And, Mira reflected, she was rather proud of Sheila Arla-Vlata, too. Sheila had always been something of an unofficial niece, although Mira and Calla were cousins, so there was barely any blood relation. In any case, Sheila had been thrown into a bad situation herself, taking over a company in the middle of a war, with no real experience. Mira had quietly talked to David Ladyman and Meduit Rori after the company had been dismissed at 1700 Hours. Both had said Sheila had done well for a first day, and they had confidence in her. The real test would be in combat, but it was the small things outside of combat that usually ensured that test would be met and passed.

Mira walked down the sidewalk, enjoying the cool summer air; Grunwald had long summers but tough winters, with not much spring or fall in between. As she got closer to home, her smile faded. Todd would be waiting there. Maybe, she corrected herself. They had been back on Grunwald for a few days; it was about time for Todd to fall off the wagon—or take a jump from the tailboard, she thought morosely—and get insensibly drunk in a bar off-base somewhere. There would be plenty of MechWarriors that would be more than happy to oblige when Todd was buying rounds. The two of them had reached a truce while Max was home, and Todd never drank when combat was imminent. Yet Mira knew, with a sad inevitability, that Todd would get drunk. He was never violent, but she hated his drunkenness all the same—and hated herself for taking lovers on the side.

Worst of all, she still loved him, in spite of his drinking. And she knew that he still loved her, in spite of her infidelity.

As she reached their home, down the hill from Calla's place, she saw there was a light on. Since Max had informed her that he was eating dinner with Theo Ballew, that could only mean Todd. Calla would always invite Mira to his house if they needed to discuss anything. She took a deep breath and opened the door, half expecting to see Todd passed out on the floor, a bottle or four next to him.

There was Todd, and there was a bottle, but he was not passed out and the bottle was not open. It was a rather large bottle of scotch. He looked to be just staring at it. There was a glass in front of him, but the ice was partially melted, and there was nothing in it but that.

He looked over as Mira shut the door behind her. "Hey."

"Hey." She motioned at the bottle. "Waiting for me? That's unusual." She couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice.

"No, not waiting for you." Todd returned his attention to the scotch. "I've been sitting here for the past hour, with this thing in front of me. I want to drink it. I want to drink it all."

"So what's stopping you?" She took off her shoes by the door.

"I don't know."

"Calla chew you out?"

"He hasn't done that in years." Calla had given up trying to cure his sort-of cousin-in-law of his alcoholism. As long as Todd remained dry in combat, he would remain in the Sentinels—and even Calla admitted that Todd drunk was still better than most of the MechWarriors in the Inner Sphere. "So I don't know why, Mira. I've just been staring at this fucking bottle, wanting to get drunk, and I'm not."

Mira sat down at the table, across from him. "Did you make dinner, at least?"

"Yeah. It's in the fridge. I already ate."

"At least you ate." She looked at the bottle. "There was a day I would've drank that with you."

Todd laughed softly. "Yeah. You remember that one night…right after we got married? You and I got fucked up on PPCs, and you decided you were going to go wake up Arla."

Mira smiled. "At 3 AM, screaming my head off. She nearly shot me through the door." She was quiet for a moment. "A long time ago."

"Yeah. Long time." He adjusted his eyepatch. Todd always felt a bit ashamed of that. Mira thought it made him look piratical and dashing. She still did. "You want to…drink this with me?"

"No. Never again. You know that." Mira had recognized that she had started drinking too much, even after learning she was pregnant with Max. She had quit, limiting herself to the occasional beer. It had not been difficult to stay off the booze, not when one was married to a drunk.

"Sure." She got up and went to the refrigerator, getting out the meal Todd had made; he was actually a good cook, when the mood was on him. She put it in the microwave. "Where's Max?"

"Having dinner with Theo Ballew. He made a good impression," she told him.

"Good on him. That must've been awkward as hell. I would've gone."

"So would have I, but Max insisted."

"How did Sheila do her first day?"

"Pretty well."

"That's good." Another long silence, as Mira got out the dinner. She had originally intended to eat it in the living room, but she sat at the table instead. Todd reached for the bottle, and Mira steeled herself, willing herself to say nothing. It would do no good. To her surprise, he drew his hand back. He drank the melted ice instead. He put the glass back down, staring into it. "You still love me?" he asked.

"Yes." Mira put down the fork. "I don't know why. We should've divorced years ago."

"And have Max come from a broken home?"

"Better than to live in one, Todd."

"Well, he's grown now. We could go down tomorrow. File papers."

She fixed him with a burning stare. "Is that what you want?"

"No." He stared back, just as hotly. "Is that what you want?"

"No," she snapped.

"You sure? You'd be legal then. Wouldn't have to worry about adultery."

"You fucking bastar—" Mira closed her eyes, took another deep breath. "Let's not do this, Todd. It's the same old argument, over the same old thing."

"Yeah, you're right." He glanced at the bottle again. "Make you a deal, Mira."

She picked at her food, suddenly not very hungry. "What's that?"

"You answer a question, and I don't drink this bottle."

Mira looked up at him, a wry smile on her face. "This ought to be good. What's the question?"

"You have anyone on the side right now?"

Her first instinct was to hurl the fork at him, tell Todd exactly where he could put that question, and leave the house. Mira stopped herself. He had a right to be angry. Of course, so did she. "No. I stopped doing that. It was wrong. As much of an asshole as you can be, and you can be the biggest asshole in the Inner Sphere not named Liao, you didn't deserve that." She shrugged. "It wasn't just revenge, you know. I was lonely. You've always been a good lover—when you're sober. When you're drunk…well, we all know how long you last."

"As long as a one-legged UrbanMech in a Solaris arena." Todd was now the one with the wry smile. "When I didn't puke on you first."

"True. So when you took on that—" She pointed to the bottle. "When you took on that as a mistress, I had to find a new lover myself." Mira pushed the food aside. "Doesn't make it right."

"No. It doesn't." He looked at the door. "Back in the day, when Max was staying over at a friend's house, I'd have your clothes off by now."

"Mm-hm. Back in the day." Mira got up, picked up the dinner, and went to the kitchen counter. "I'll eat later. I probably need to look over those ammo reports, if we're moving in three weeks. No telling what's going to be left on Sudeten—"

She hadn't heard him get up, or walk up behind her. She only felt his arms encircle her. Then his lips found her neck. He knew the right spots, of course, though she was somewhat surprised he had not forgotten—it had been years. His hands were busy with her belt, and she felt his hardness against her rear. "Todd, what in the hell are you doing?"

"What I should've done a long time ago."

"But…" She shuddered as he licked her ear. One hand was now under her shirt, finding her bra, pushing it aside. "Todd—"

"You want me to stop?" He did exactly that. Mira found that she was shaking, old memories, old desires suddenly flaring again. She remembered the times—the good times. And it had been so long, with anyone.

Mira pushed his hands aside, and turned around. They locked eyes for a moment, then she kissed him, at the same time reached out and tore off his shirt, the buttons going everywhere. "God, no, I don't want you to stop!"

They never reached the bed. They didn't even reach the sofa. They started on the kitchen counter, midway through tried to get to the sofa, then ended up on the carpeted floor. Mira absently thought she was probably going to get rug burn on her back, but didn't care. It was everything it had once been. It was wonderful.

Afterwards, they lay on the carpet, staring at the ceiling, the only clothes between them one of Todd's socks and Mira's panties, down around one ankle. "Holy shit," Todd said in wonder.

"Yeah, times two," Mira agreed, still a little breathless. "Where did that come from?"

"I don't know! I just…" He rolled over and kissed her. "Well, it's that ass of yours, woman. In those uniform pants." He slapped it just for emphasis. She snickered. "Damn, you still got it for a girl in her forties."

"And you still got it for a guy in his forties…when you're sober."

"Hmm…yeah. About that." Todd lay still next to her for a second, then got to his feet. He grabbed the bottle and opened it. Mira sat up, the wonderful afterglow turning to ice in her stomach. Then her mouth fell open when Todd walked to the sink and poured out the entire bottle. He tossed the empty bottle into the garbage, and leaned across the sink. "Mira," he said evenly, "I've tried to quit before. I never have. But I swear to you I will try harder than I ever have. Starting tonight. There's no other booze in the house, is there?"

"No. Except the rubbing alcohol in the bathroom."

"Well, you may need to keep me from that. It's gonna be rough when the DTs set in. And they will. I'm going to need a drink, and you've got to keep me from that. I don't care if you put me in the damn stockade." He slammed a fist on the counter. "You know what? I'm tired of being me."

Mira got up and walked to him, hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I'm tired of being me, too."

Todd got down on one knee, and took her hand in his. "Mira Canis-Vlata, I'm just a drunk MechWarrior with no family name. My daddy got killed in some Periphery hellhole. They chucked me out of Hansen's Roughriders. But would you marry me…again?" Mira did not trust herself to speak, but just nodded, her eyes filled with tears.

It was a beginning.