TEXT: BATTLECORPS
  SHADOWS  
  OF FAITH
  Volume 7 
  by Loren L. Coleman
  TALES OF THE JIHAD
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Shadows of Faith • Page 2
  8
  Harlech 
  Outreach 
  28 November 3067
  Was there anything worse than being left behind?
  Again?
  Hands shoved deep into the side pockets of his dungaree cov-
  eralls, Jason Williams shouldered his way through the saloon’s 
  swinging doors. The mixed scent of heavy alcohol and fresh 
  wood chips assailed him as his vision adjusted to the dim lighting. 
  Fragrant cigarette smoke stung his eyes. Left the taste of cloves 
  on the back of his tongue.
  Mac’s Place was not what most expected out of a MechWarrior’s 
  saloon. Not the least of which being that any Dragoon was welcome, 
  MechWarrior or not. There was no high polished chrome here. No 
  cold wash of neon or the latest in trendy holographic displays play-
  ing through the smoky air, either. Damp sawdust and alder wood 
  chips covered the floor, shoveled out and replaced daily. Tables and 
  chairs were basic, the kind you didn’t care if they got busted up 
  on occasion. And they did. Lights were old-style: flickering bulbs 
  beneath thick plastic shades decorated with advertisements for 
  Timbiqui Dark, Glengarry’s Finest, Sirius Ale, and the like. A few flat-
  screen monitors mounted up high, out of the way of danger, played 
  a highlights reel from the Immortal Warrior series. The reel was run 
  on a repeating loop, no sound, the constant stream of silent explo-
  sions casting down pools of garish light.
  
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  The kind of place common tourists would likely glance around, 
  and turn right back for the door fearing for their dental work. Never 
  realizing—and no one was going to tell them, of course—they were 
  as safe here as they would have been locked in a bank vault. No 
  Dragoon started something in Mac’s when it was “more than just 
  family.” Not if they wanted to come back. Ever. Mac’s rules were 
  ironclad.
  So were his habits. As Jason waited, Mac himself leaned out from 
  behind his polished mahogany bar to tap a small metal wand against 
  a ship’s bell hung on the wall. A single, soft peal rang through the 
  large room, announcing the arrival of another Dragoon and also let-
  ting Jason know the place was clean. No civvies. 
  The ringing bell was mostly ignored by the afternoon crowd, but 
  that was all right. Jason had no interest in company.
  Not until he reached for a tall stool at Mac’s bar, and recognized 
  who had claimed the far end. The long, smooth piece of mahoga-
  ny protected one entire wall, sheltering an oasis of exotic liquors 
  and more beer on tap than any saloon Jason had ever known. And 
  there, nursing a tall schooner, Major Tara Lucas, Zeta Battalion, 
  rested with elbows on the padded rail, her dark eyes boring holes 
  into the Legacy Wall.
  Mac had already pulled a frosted mug of Bright Sun pale, a 
  Federated Sun’s favorite which Jason refused to give up despite 
  his abandonment on Elgin and his forced change of allegiance. 
  Showing a hint of prescience common (in Jason’s experience) 
  among the best bartenders, Mac slid the glass away, down the 
  bar’s immaculate surface—coasting it to a perfect stop at the seat 
  next to the major.
  Jason debated it for all of three seconds, then nodded. “Yeah,” 
  he muttered beneath his breath. Slouched down to the end of the 
  bar and rested one hip only on the tall stool. He might not be stay-
  ing long.
  “What the hell are you doing here?”
  The frontal assault. Subtle. 
  Tara Lucas didn’t look around. She continued to stare at the pho-
  tos and the few holograms jumbled together on the Legacy Wall 
  as part of Mac’s ceremonial collage. Her smile was both tight and 
  grim—if she’d had fangs, they would be showing—but at least it 
  was a smile. That was something, right? 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Shadows of Faith • Page 4
  “I thought the line was ‘What are you doing in a place like this?’” 
  she shot back. More of a solitary sniper round than any kind of 
  barrage.
  Picking up his mug, Jason blew back some of the foam and 
  sipped deep. Buying him some time. Retrenching his position. The 
  cold, amber ale washed away a measure of his bitterness. “No,” 
  he finally said. “I mean why aren’t you with Zeta?”
  Another forward probe, but gentler. A reconnaissance in force, 
  perhaps.
  She shrugged. “Zeta should be somewhere special? Not wel-
  come at Mac’s place anymore?” 
  Striking at him from the flanks. Trying to box him in. He eased 
  himself up fully onto the bar stool, turned away. “All Dragoons 
  are welcome at Mac’s,” he said. Feigned a retreat as he lapsed 
  into an uncomfortable silence with the major, both of them staring 
  straight ahead, picking familiar faces off the Legacy Wall. 
  Out of the hundred or so faces spread before him, Jason found 
  Corporal Paul Scholes and Lieutenant Bryce Karlsson, both from 
  the Home Guard. Both men he had worked alongside, fought 
  alongside. And both killed during the TempTown assault on 
  Harlech. Teresa Black, Wolf Spiders, who fell on New Home. Jarl 
  Tepps, body not recovered, Keid. 
  That was Mac’s Legacy Wall. Every face staring back at Jason 
  had died a Dragoon. And back toward the center, in a place of hon-
  or, was the one face no one had ever thought to see pasted there. 
  At least, not until old age had finally claimed him—and even then 
  most Dragoons would have bet on a Trial of Refusal being fought 
  against The Grim Reaper. 
  Jaime Wolf.
  The Blakists would pay, of course. In blood. No one doubted for 
  a second that this did not end with October’s assault. TempTown 
  trash and a few Word of Blake terrorist cells razing Harlech, de-
  stroying the Hiring Hall? They were to let that go? The Dragoons 
  did not roll over for anyone like that. 
  Which was why it was strange that a senior officer from Zeta 
  was still around. What with the counter-strike task force stag-
  ing at Outreach’s nadir jump point, nearly ready to head out of 
  system. Beta Regiment and Zeta, supported by the First Dismal 
  Disinherited, with WarShip escort. As a senior officer in the Home 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Shadows of Faith • Page 5
  Guard, Jason knew the rough outlines of their reprisal strike. Take 
  out the Word of Blake research facilities on Mars, and remind the 
  Blakists that—though they might have stronger arm these days—
  they, too, could be reached.
  Solid. Proportionate. Jason would just have rather been invited 
  along.
  He sipped at his ale. Mood darkening again. “Look. If it’s opera-
  tional security, you only had to say.”
  Tara slammed down her glass, hard. Golden brew slopped up 
  over the rim of the tall schooner, splashed the bar and Jason’s 
  hand. She turned, glared at him, dark eyes cold and deadly, like 
  twin gun barrels. “Do you really want to go at this?” she asked, 
  voice furious and pitched just low enough not to carry past Jason, 
  possibly Mac. 
  “You walked in here with a chip on your shoulder, and on a 
  normal day I’d already have knocked it off. Zeta ships with the 
  Beowulf, which has been on picket duty. So we’ll use a pirate point 
  outbound. Lift-off is midnight, so I thought I’d come in here and 
  say goodbye to a few friends.” She nodded to the Legacy Wall. 
  “Who knows if it’s nearly my turn up there, or if this place will still 
  be standing when I get back—nothing’s for certain anymore, is it. 
  There. You have your answer. So if you want to pick a fight, stop 
  dancing around and throw a real punch.”
  Jason knew when he was outmatched. And out of line. He used 
  the bar towel Mac threw him to wipe off his hand, and clean up her 
  spill. “It’s hard,” he said, running up a white flag, “being ordered to 
  stay behind. They were my friends, too. He was my commander.”
  “And you were on the ball.” Tara nodded, grudgingly. “When The 
  Colonel went down, you didn’t waste time. You held up your end. 
  Which is the only reason you aren’t picking yourself up off the floor.”
  Jason remembered. “That was you,” he said. “That day. In the 
  Annihilator.”
  A shrug. “Who can remember that far back? Just another day in 
  the life of a lowly merc, right?” The fire had left Tara’s voice, but 
  not her eyes. “This isn’t Elgin, Captain. This is Outreach and you 
  are a Dragoon. Whether you believe you are treated as such or not. 
  And we both have our orders. You keep our home safe.”
  Sliding off her stool, Tara dug into one pocket for a couple of 
  crumpled bills and a single silver kroner, tossed them onto the bar 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Shadows of Faith • Page 6
  and waved Mac to show she was paying for both drinks. Nodded 
  abruptly at Jason as she stepped away from the bar.
  “Tara,” Jason called after her. Was surprised when she actually 
  stopped and looked back, one slender eyebrow rising toward her 
  hair line. What else to say, in the spirit of détente if nothing else?
  “Give them hell,” he said.
  “No,” Tara Lucas said. Smiled tight and cold. 
  “They don’t get off that easy.”
  
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