Standing in the offices of BattleTechnology, the mechwarrior holds a small black object, a TekCom Ak IX battlerecorder. It is scratched; a corner is crumpled; there is a suspicious dark stain along the ID plate. "I took it off the body of a hostile, one of the militia on Second Try. Her unit took out one of our Wechs. My Hatchetman was down for two weeks while the Techs looked for parts. I thought I was going to be one of the Dispossessed. Marcel's Stinger? He got its foot caught in the Pack Rat wreckage. It was burning and he couldn't get loose. Kept going into heat shutdown, over and over. I almost froze before he made pickup." "The way I said, I salvaged this off her body. Sort of a trophy. I got somebody to translate. Thought If d play it for the guys to show them what a hero I was. But now I don't sleep. I keep hearing her voice. If I gave it to you, I thought maybe..Maybe you'd print it. She wanted to tell her story. You know, they kept us fighting for more than two months. Brave people. Hope they work into the Federated Suns all right. Print her story. Then I can stop listening. " He presses the switch. The charge light flickers. Her weary voice speaks out, with its stumbles and pauses. How vulnerable she sounds, this dying enemy... I wonder what it's like to be warm enough? In stories from other worlds they talk about summer, a season where people go outside barefoot and get heat stroke in the sun's heat. Here on Second Try, summer is the season where you can work out of doors without gloves. After six hundred years on the planet we still double-wall our buildings and insulate our doors. We wear layer on practical layer of air-trapping clothing. Our homes are dark with weather sealant, and heatsaver paint; however bright and cozy we make them inside. I do wonder what it's like to be really warm. In every group of people there ar those who like to work in just a therm suit, and those who buy the warmest coats they can; the window openers and the ones who want the heat turned up. I'm always the one in the pictures wearing gloves and a big hat. I'm always cold. That makes it ironic that I choose militia duty for my service obligation. Militia get the jobs that are too unrewarding, too troublesome for warrior units. We drill -- gods, how much we drill -- in castoff uniforms (read thin), with outmoded weapons (which we spend a lot of time repairing). We stand-to for defense of the planet when the glamor regiments are in ceremonial attendance on the Chancellor's Envoy or having fun at fleet maneuvers. We're the objects of the humor programs on the vids. We are to regular infantry what regular infantry are to MechWarriors. Target practice. We get civilian rations to do military tasks. Sometimes in the spring they draft us for dam maintenance. Sometimes in the fall we police the shipments of harvest fleeces. I don't even want to talk about what we do in winter -- but we get all caught up on creative griping. Do you see what all these jobs have in common? They all happen out of doors. In the slush. In the wind. In the cold. Second Tryers take a long time to think things through. It's a planetary characteristic. The first try is just to get the heft of the job. The First Try at settling this world saw all but one family die out before the relief expedition arrived. But the First Families had mapped, had documented, had done mineral surveys - lots of pretty rocks, but that's all - they'd done the slow exploratory work in sufficient detail so that their relatives on the second ship could make a go of it. Second Try isn't an easy place. I wouldn't live anywhere else. I love the beauty of my world, from the Everice mountains on Deepsnow, the south continent; across the Windy Sea, to the glaciated tips of North Glacier. I love the tough people who live here, who sing as well as they fight, and do both at a moment's notice. I'm proud of our libraries, our ice festivals, event the silly meta-sheep whose thick wool is our principal export. I'll admit that nine years in ten nothing happens here. I suppose it's somehow my fault that I joined the militia just in time for a tenth year. I can't remember ever being this cold. And I can't seem to move. Guess I'll have to spill it all into my battle recorder and clean it up later for the report. When I was a kid I listened to Granpa tell stories about the Third Succession War. I used to tease him for stories. He always obliged, but he got a pinched expression sometimes when he mentally returned to past hardships. Now I'm seeing the same expression in the mirror. The old curse goes "may you live in interesting times!" I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. Our little world is being invaded; fought over by two of the great Successor Houses. Our old master, House Liao, left the planet stripped of troops. The militia was to hold in the unlikely event of an invasion. Nobody told the Feds they were unlikely. We have fifteen companies of militia, armed personnel carriers, scout vehicles, a sprinkling of tanks. We had twentyodd 'Mechs on planet, not counting pelagiculture specials (the fancy word for seafarmers). We used to have aerospace fighters; they must be gone by now. I never realized just how fragile a human body is until I saw one that had been stepped on bg a "light" 'Mech... Melancholy thoughts are the warrior's bane. Besides, if you cry out here your lashes freeze. Our Chancellor gave us the honor of holding this world; we've held it now for a month and a half; forty seven days. Our vid station broadcasts the day count above their logo at station breaks. When you go for medical attention you get treated like heroes; too bad there's no time for R&R! The town would be ours! I'd like to be treated like a hero, just for a few days. I'd like to go home again. Just for one day. I'd like to taste my mom's darkapple turnovers again - if she's home to do any baking! Mom's on a fire control team these days. We've all got our worries and stories. Look at those dreadful gloves Hogan's sister knitted for him. They're yellow and purple; we used to tease him about them, till the sister went missing after a raid. We don't think about winning any more; we sure don't think about losing! We just want to spit in their eyes for one more day. Take today. We started out as a squad of sixteen, with two Pack Rats and our pride and joy, the Patton. It's a sixty five ton tank from a company, Defiance Indus. Heaven only knows how it got here; what with the arms embargo and all. It's got a quiet fu-engine, a ten- round autocannon, a small laser, a five- rack of long range missiles, and a rear mounted flamer for surprises. It's got more armor than most light 'Mechs. The crew swear it handles like a private car! It's seen action twice, but only the paint shows damage. I swear, with twenty of them we could hold the planet. Could have held the planet. Today's plan had the Pack Rats out taking a "lunch break" on a long stretch of road between the Sharpstone foothills and the winding ravines of the Backbreaks. What they were really doing was trolling for foolhardy 'MechWarriors, using themselves as bait. If air cover spotted them, and something less than a full lance came after them, they'd dawdle up the road looking stupid, keeping just ahead of the 'Mechs, then they'd pull off the road just past our prepared positions and we'd give the AFFS a surprise. Once the Patton was in position, we had four hours to wait, longer if the Pack Rats didn't attract attention on their first fishing expedition. It took a couple of hours to buildup the slope of the hummock with rock and snow so that the tank was hidden behind the crest of the little hill. As we finished there was a short snowfall, fifteen minutes of soft lazy flakes that covered our work artistically. Thompson broke out in a whoop at the picture it made, "Pretty as a SUNDAY POST cover. All it needs is the snowman!" Somebody began to laugh. Hogan, who hadn't smiled since Week One of the invasion. He started with a snicker, repeated it, worked up to a chuckle, built to a roar, and ended up in a snowbank on the far side of the Patton holding his sides to keep from laughing any more. Chang caught it next, then I did, laughing and hiccuping like maniacs. Then darned if Thompson and Jow didn't start building a snowman! Right behind the Patton on the rear slope, packing together armfuls of snow and rolling them into a huge ball for the base. Anderson and Chang, not to be outdone, rolled up another ball for the torso. Pretty soon we were all working away at it, except for Frances and Jessop who were tossing snowballs at everything in sight including each other. It was a fine snowman. We found some round black rocks for the mouth; it gave him a charming smile. His head tilted just a little to the side as if he were inspecting the rocks behind the Patton. Hogan was just snapping a picture when the radio startled us. "Ssu- ma, Huang, Oley! Come home to lunch." Victor dived for the codebook. "Stinger, Hatchetman, Ostscout! Pursuing at full speed!" The mood changed abruptly. Jessop let his hand drop to his side, releasing its snowball back to the frozen ground. He seized up his rifle and started to jog through the snow. We were all on the move. The half-squads circled wide, in where the broken rockfall would conceal their footprints. We settled in to our prepared positions, a klick down the road. I looked at Hogan. His face was buried in his scarf. He'd already started that slow exhalation you use in ambush training, the one that keeps your breath from pluming out in the cold air. We waited. We breathed slowly. We didn't move; snow settled on our combat suits; good, it would bring down our reading to heat sensors. Suit heaters? You must be kidding! We felt our toes toes tingle, turn icy, lose sensation. OK, hero, I thought to myself. Why do you always have to be cold? Some people manage to defy death in deserts. Some people complain about never getting outdoors. You have to join the militia, where your nose never has a chance to stop running! Frances pantomimed falling asleep. I wondered if Jeffers really was asleep. He seemed so still, so placid. Was I the only was who was keyed up? Chang cleared his throat nervously; I felt better. It's like hearing with the back of your head, waiting for 'Mechs. You aren't even aware you're hearing them. There's a steady beat, like a slow pulse; you feel it before you hear it. Then it gets louder, and you realize that it isn't your heart; it's 20-plus tons of plasteel and ferrocrete looking to step on you and squash you like a bug. What did the Locust say to the infantryman? Squirp! Radio silence was strict, but I don't think there'd have been much chattering anyway. All that talking the city stations had been doing about "our brave militia" came back to me. I wasn't brave. The other guys, they were the brave ones. I knew I didn't belong there, but if I ran away everybody would see that my knees were shaking. So I stayed. Hogan had this grin on that he always gets before combat. I told you about his sister, remember? Chang was pale as you can get; his eyes were huge. I wondered what I looked like. The footsteps were thunderous now. I could have shouted and nobody would have heard. We saw it go past us; we hunkered even closer into the snow. A Stinger! I could smell coolant as it went by. More footfaIIs passing us. Triangular head, right arm squared off like ... it was a Hatchetman! What would the Davions throw at us next? The last 'Mech was straight out of the recognition manuals - an Ostscout. As it stepped on by us, so closed I saw rust on its hip actuators, I began counting silently, wiggling my toes inside my boots to get my feet ready. "...And twenty! MOVE IT!" Hogan reared back and threw his grenade. We all opened fire, both sides of the road at once, pouring it all into the less- armored back of the 'Mech. Further up, I saw the Pack Rats had left the road simultaneously, circling around the pair of hummocks. The Stinger was pursuing one of them; the Hatchetman was angling around it for a clear shot! WHUMMPH! The Ostscout got its shot off first, half turning into the center of the Sergeant's eight men. I closed my eyes against the sight. There was rock everywhere like rain, and something with it that was warmer. I opened my eyes to see our side of the road battered and bloodspattered. The other side was just a crater, a hole where the men had been. I leveled my rifle. Frances and Jeffers got off our SRM shot, into the rusty place on the actuator! It took two long steps toward us, tottered and fell. It seemed to fall for a long time, getting larger till it filled the sky. It was falling toward us. We were scrambling up the trench to evade it; we seemed to be caught in slow motion. We couldn't move fast enough to ... there was a colossal thud. The ground shook; snow sprayed up twenty feet. Everything disappeared. I couldn't breath. I was flying through the air. I hit, and it didn't hurt at all, but I couldn't hear. The sound of the 'Mech falling played itself over and over in my eardrums. I looked for the squad. All I saw was snow. Snow, and a broken Ostscout. As I waded toward it through the snow, I saw a wisp of steam rising. Perhaps someone was alive! Then, seeping upward through the snow, came red, the red of bright arterial blood. Scooping through the slush I found an arm, a yellow mitten, more blood, already turning cold. It puddled, a freezing pool of red, a quiet testimony to violent death beneath. I found myself running through the snow with a rock in my hand, lamenting my vanished rifle as I sought a way to do violence to the 'Mech. Down the road, a barrage of long range missiles jolted into the Hatchetman, while autocannon rounds whanged and flashed around the Stinger. That Stinger pilot was good! He was airborne almost before he was hit, jumping clear over the hummock to land behind the attacking Patton. The Hatchetman's autocannon flared to life. I was almost to the Ostscout now. The 'Mech's fall had started a snowslide. The dirty snow slipped and crumbled under my feet. A body fell, not fifty meters from me, landed with a dreadful limpness. Jessop. I tracked through red freezing crystals, trying not to think what might be below. A flare! The Patton's crew flamed the jumping Stinger. A roaring as the Patton and the Hatchetman exchanged missiles and autocannon fire. The Stinger was airborne again, firing all weapons at the tank as it leapt to the apparent safety of the second hummock. The first Pack Rat, the one near the Patton, opened fire on the Hatchetman. He returned with his medium lasers, spraying the scoutcar's armor. I scrambled along the fallen 'Mech, scraping snow away from the cockpit, intent on the pilot's lite. The Stinger pilot must have forgotten the second Pack Rat. His attention was focused on moving and firing, keeping in motion, keeping his barrage on the Patton. It was an expensive mistake. The Pack Rat got him at short range with the entire six-rack of missiles. He went down on one knee. The Hatchetman must have won medals in gunnery. He raised his autocannon deliberately and scored on the Patton again. He was closing in on the tank now, letting his medium lasers rake the first Pack Rat again. The Ostscout's canopy was icing over. I found a release lever and pulled it across. Now I'd have a chance at him! A lucky hit on the immobile Stinger! The ammo in his center torso blew. One burst, then another, larger explosion. The flame of the explosion welled out and out, until the cloud of fire enveloped the attacking Pack Rat in its awful glow. The Hatchetman and the Patton traded laser bursts, following with autocannon fire. The Patton wasn't hitting with its autocannon; I wondered if the tracking mechanism had been hit. The 'Mech was almost on top of the Patton now, starting to raise that huge hatchet. The tank scored this time; I could see large chunks of armor falling off the torso. But he'd been firing his autocannon steadily as he advanced, the crump of each shot followed by the thud of a hit. The Patton was coming apart. I turned to the opening canopy. The pilot lay half off his couch, neurohelmet still in place. The neck was turned at an unnatural angle. There was a picture stuck to the control panel, some blond woman. The pilot sprawled like a ragdoll. Whatever I'd meant to say to him or do to him; he had an unanswerable response. No way to even the score here for Chang or Hogan or little Frances. My leg had begun to hurt badly. I looked down. There was a big chunk of shrapnel embedded in my thigh. Blood was running down my leg. I was leaving red tracks wherever I went. The Hatchetman brought its weapon down hard on the first Pack Rat. There was no way I could reach them; nothing to do if I could. As the hatchet descended to finish them, the Pack Rat's crew scored with their last set of missiles, three hits directly into the torso. While the Pack Rat's pieces were still flying into the air like split kindling, the Hatchetman's chest erupted. Its head seemed to explode a fraction of a second before the chest did! Now the head was moving, was coming through the air, was seeking me out on its rockets. The head leered like a giant skull, as it seared towards me, with the same dreadful slowness as the falling Ostscout. It was going to hit me n... it passed over my head! The rockets flared a second longer, then it came to rest in a snowbank ten meters away. Nothing moved. The sounds of battle had stopped. There were no voices, no motors. My ears hummed with cold and silence. I tried to walk toward the Hatchetman's head. Everything was so slow. My legs were heavy, heavy and sore. I tried to drag my left leg behind me. Mother, believe me, I tried as hard as I could. But I can't make it move any more. Did we really take out three of them, just militia against line-regiment 'Mechs? I can't get over there to check on him. I guess I've done all I can. I can't see him very well. It seems to be snowing again. How odd! I'm quite warm now. Warm all through. The snow is like a thick blanket. Maybe I'll just have a nap while I wait. Nobody will mind, will they? It's so lovely to be warm. 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