CnC Chpt 1

==Cat and Crescent - Chapter 1 -==
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===Negotiations===
Barony of Blackfoot
Girondas, Taurian Concordat
Saturday, August 21st, 3024 
"You're throwing quite a party here," the visitor said, stepping into the baron's office. "What's the occasion? Fall festival?"
 
"Not at all," Baron Remihel Greenbrier said. He extended a hand to his visitor and exchanged a warm, firm handshake. He was a tall, dark-haired man of thirty years - twenty of which he'd already spent as the baron of Blackfoot after the premature death of his father. Aside from his sharp blue eyes, he looked unremarkable, and flowed into any role based on the needs of the moment. To the population of his barony, Remihel played a quiet man usually seen rambling around on horseback or an old tractor. He'd get knee-deep in the mud to help pull a farm truck out of a ditch. During his four years of service in the TDF, he distinguished himself as the commanding cornet of a mech lance. And today - almost an aberration - he'd dressed to kill. He looked the part of a Taurian noble, in tailored black slacks, white shirt, and burgundy silk vest. 
 
"Harvest won't be brought in for another month here on Girondas," Remihel continued. "What you see outside is a wedding."
 
Jake McQueen raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Not your wedding, is it? I presume you would have messaged me…"
 
"Oh, I definitely wouldn't tell you," Remihel said. "But I'd still expect your tasteful yet humorously sarcastic wedding present to be waiting for me in the honeymoon suite."
 
"That is my style." McQueen agreed.
 
Remihel stepped back and waved his guest to a chair, closing the door to his office behind him. "The wedding is for my sister Evelyn. Step-sister, if you want to be accurate."
 
"I do prefer accurate intelligence," McQueen said, his voice filled with dry humor. After forty years in the ranks, most recently as a station chief on Herotitus, he'd recently received a well-deserved promotion. Now he served as one of the deputy directors of Taurian Military Intelligence, or TMI. "I apologize for calling on you unexpectedly, then. I'm sure you're quite busy."
 
"Not at all," Remihel said, waving it off. "I'm supposed to show up, make a speech, dance with a few of the girls, and pay for everyone's drinks." He took a seat behind his desk, leaned back in his chair, and fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt. "Oh - I'm a poor host. Can I get you something to drink?"
 
"Yes, thank you," McQueen said, nodding.
 
Remihel retrieved two glasses from a cabinet and a bottle from a small refrigerator. When he cracked the lid, a serpentine psssh sounded through the office. Remihel poured a cup for McQueen, and thick foam sizzled in the tumbler. The older man took a quick sip, then looked in suspicion at his drink. "What is this?"
 
"Root beer. Dark and Stormy, from the family brewery," Remihel said, and set the bottle down on the end-table between them. The label showed a pin-up girl clad in very little other than her long, dark hair, carefully arranged to show nothing, but imply everything. "You expected something else?"
 
"Not root beer," McQueen admitted. "I pegged you as a bourbon drinker."
 
"We make a bit of bourbon, but… it doesn't sell half as quickly as the root beer or the orange cream soda," Remihel chuckled. "My grandfather would be livid - he didn't even want to diversify into soda at all. But we've got a few casks of bourbon on tap for the wedding party, and I've got a bottle of cholobara for the happy couple."
 
"Very generous of you," McQueen said. "Last time I looked, a bottle of cholobara cost more than my month's salary."
 
"As I said, it's my job to pay for tonight's enjoyment and tomorrow's hangovers." Remihel sat back in his chair. "But you didn't come out to Girondas just to drink my root beer and listen to my complaints. What can I do for you?"
 
McQueen took another sip from his cup, then set it down on the desk between them. "I have a job for you when your six months' leave ends. If, of course, you plan to return to duty."
 
"Ehm." Remihel bit his lip and looked toward the panorama window. Outside, a mixture of Girondas's reddish-orange and vibrant green flora covered the rolling hills. Some of his horses, descendents of an Icelandic breed, grazed in one of the pastures. "You know, I've spent more of my adult life outside the Concordat than in it," he pointed out.
 
McQueen inclined his head. "I've served the Taurian Concordat for longer than you've been alive," he pointed out. "Most of that time, I was stuck in some forsaken Periphery system far from home. Cluff's Stand, Joppa, Guldra, Herotitus…"
 
"You have me there." Remihel fiddled with the cuffs of his dress shirt. "This isn't going to be like last time, is it?" he added, now somewhat skeptical. "I spent over a million C-Bills of my personal money, then faced a five-month inquisition from Internal Affairs before I got paid back."
 
"I have a special account ready for you," McQueen said. "If you play the job right, you may even come out ahead. Significantly so. I can't tell you any more until you agree and sign the paperwork, though."
 
Remihel sighed. "You know I'm a sucker for these things."
 
"I do actually think you'll like it," McQueen hinted. "Figure it will last eight to twelve months. You'll have a free hand to run the op whatever way you wish."
 
"Very well," Remihel said, with chagrin in his voice. He accepted the "You've got me again. How may I serve the Taurian Concordat today, Deputy Director?"
 
"You have a passing familiarity with the Lyreton system?"
 
"Yes," Remihel said, though he tempered this with a shaky back-and-forth wobble of his hand. "Shipped through there once. System with a very large gas giant in the habitable zone. Three moons, three governments, they fight. There's a significant shipyard there owned by Capellan and Canopian financiers."
 
"That's correct," McQueen said. He opened his carry-case and pulled out a small folio, which he handed to Remihel. "The Capellans occupied Lyreton for a century and a half, and left their stamp on all three moons. On the third moon - Moab - there's a dozen local nobles called mandrinns. Every six years, they elect one of their number to take over as their head of state - the Shonso. Or Shanna, when a woman holds the post, as has been the case for the last three years."
 
Remihel took the folio and thumbed through the pages. "Cassie Jalal?"
 
"Yes. A very average candidate for the job. She was the lowest common denominator everyone could agree on. Another mandrinn named Jairo Crivoi ran against her. He lost, she won, he's sore about it. Jalal is a mediocre ruler, and Crivoi an ambitious underling."
 
"Ehm. I'd guess, then, that our ambitious mandrinn's preparing some sort of mandatory retirement party?"
 
"So we presume." McQueen gestured to the folio. "If that's his goal, he's suffered a few difficulties along the way. His home district suffers unrest. Crivoi learned a very Capellan style of governance. Two years ago, one of his House mechwarriors nearly deposed him. Crivoi tumbled to it at the last moment. He hired a lance of ex-Aurigan mercenaries who hot-dropped into the capital and crushed the coup."
 
Remihel leafed through a few pages. "That'll be De Souza's Reavers, from page two."
 
"Charming folks," McQueen said. "Denis de Souza served House Arano and the Aurigan Coalition... though I use the word served very loosely. The Aranos censured him three times for brutality. When House Espinosa deposed the Aranos two years ago, de Souza lit off on his own with a dropship and five battlemechs. To strengthen his force, he raided an Aurigan prison and recruited several of the Fjaldr pirates from their cells. Eventually, they ended up in the Lyreton system, working for Crivoi."
 
"Sounds like a great partnership," Remihel said. He glanced at the synopsis of the Reavers and their equipment. "Five mechs, decent weight. This is a formidable force in the Periphery."
 
"Yes. They recovered a wrecked Wasp a few months ago after a raid. Nor are they Crivoi's only forces. He's up to ten mechs, though the Reavers still represent the core of his force. It seems fairly obvious to us that Crivoi's gearing up to depose Cassie Jalal and seize the title of Shonso for himself."
 
Remihel nodded. "Does the Taurian Concordat find this objectionable?"
 
"Well..." McQueen said, thoughtfully combing his fingers through his beard. "In truth, the situation is more complex. The Taurian ambassador to Lyreton speaks very highly of Crivoi. Therefore, our official position is purely neutral."
 
"Our official position," Remihel said, seizing the nuance. "How about our unofficial position?"
 
"Ah... that brings me back once again to de Souza's Reavers," McQueen said. "They dance the fine line between disreputable mercs and pirates. Don't forget Moab's only one of the three moons of Lyreton. There are Taurian business interests on all three moons, including some significant mining and manufacturing firms that support the ship-repair facilities. Two months ago, the Reavers - as part of a larger operation - raided Lyreton's first moon of Nephi, and attacked part of that supply chain. They damaged a number of Taurian business interests and killed eighty-six Taurians working in some of the factories. As a result, Protector Calderon sanctioned a covert operation to eliminate the Reavers."
 
"And Mandrinn Crivoi?"
 
"Understand me very clearly when I say that I have no directives about Crivoi." McQueen leaned forward and arched an eyebrow. "I leave the matter to your discretion."
 
"Ehm." Remihel nodded. "All right. So you want me to eliminate the Reavers. The most direct route is to assemble a kill-team or we hire another mercenary company to hit Moab. The Sableheart Irregulars might do it."
 
"Yes, they might. But I wish to do things a bit… differently. I'd like you to build a small mercenary company of your own to use during the strike. You see… I have an ulterior motive."
 
Remihel tilted his head. "Well, this better be good. Pray continue."
 
"One of my analysts noticed an uptick in mercenary companies signing new long-term contracts. The data's not entirely clear, so it could be a statistical anomaly. The contracts are all filed, as usual, with ComStar and the Mercenary Review Board. They filter through independent worlds like Herotitus and Zathras, but the money behind them is Canopian."
 
"...Canopians." Remihel frowned and turned up his upper lip in disgust. "Does TMI have any working theories?"
 
"A few. There's one I favor. We've seen consistent rumors that Kamea Arano survived her uncle's coup, and she's gunning for a return to power. One of our agents recently reported her at Zathras, as a guest of the court. I believe the Canopians might be bankrolling her."
 
"Hm!" Remihel sat back in his chair. "Kamea Arano at the head of an army of Canopian mercenaries, returning to the Aurigan Reach after three years...? Can't wait for the conspiracy theorists to pick that one up."
 
McQueen nodded. "And so my proposal - and your ultimate mission - is to create a company of mercenaries for the Canopians to hire. I want a person on the inside."
 
"Ehm..." Remihel looked out the window again. "And we eliminate the Reavers - some of our competition - in our opening ploy. If this is a play to put an Arano back on the Aurigan throne, a former Arano associate like de Souza draws their attention. Moreso any unit capable of bringing him down…"
 
"You begin to see what I have in mind," McQueen said, his grin sly.
 
"Do I need a cover identity?"
 
"I discussed that with my team. The majority don't feel it will help. Even accounting for your four-year career in the TDF, you've played a mercenary before. No reason to believe other intelligence agencies identify you as one of our agents."
 
"Won't my Taurian citizenship pose an obstacle to getting hired?"
 
"At the moment, I don't believe it will. If you want a cover identity, of course, we'll put something together. It's your role to own, after all. But at the moment, I expect it will become a liability."
 
"I'll give it some thought before I make a final decision." Remihel fiddled a bit more with the cuffs of his shirt. "Forming a mercenary company takes a bit of time. It might be faster - and more covert - to buy up the shares of a pre-existing, down-on-their-luck unit."
 
McQueen's smile turned even more wolfish. He pointed to the folio. "Section five."
 
Remihel turned to section five and scanned the page. "The Blue Crescent Rangers... registered out of Herotitus."
 
"They spent two years in garrison duties, then got hammered on their last deployment," McQueen said. "Fought some mercs on the Capellan payroll. They lost their mechs in an ambush. Their commander was killed, and the company's facing dissolution. The company's cat owns fourteen of their seventeen shares."
 
Remihel looked askance. "Their cat?"
 
"Yes, a cat. The company mascot. It holds a subaltern's rank and received all the loose shares. Read the intelligence brief on the company's financials. The Rangers were bleeding money, and I suspect the previous commander intended to use it for some shady financial dealings."
 
"Or perhaps the cat is more devious than we believe." Remihel tossed the page down again on his desk. "A decent start, but I need more equipment than the Rangers currently have. More mechs, a few more aero assets, and a dropship."
 
"I'll assign Zachary Harwood and the Hondo to you," McQueen said. "You remember Harwood, I presume."
 
"The smuggler?"
 
"Yes. He had a run-in a few months back with the Aurigan Directorate, and needs a few months for things to cool down. It'll leech the joy from his soul to taxi around a bunch of mechwarriors, but he's got the ship and the skills. For the rest? Put together a list," McQueen said. "Send it to my office and I'll fill whatever I can. I have a few mechs I can direct your way, and I'll get you a resupply shipment a few months from now."
 
Remihel nodded. "Anything else?"
 
"You should go talk to your old friend Volker."
 
"No... no, no, no, no, and no," Remihel immediately said. "I do not want to go talk to Volker. I have spent twelve years trying to avoid Volker."
 
McQueen smiled like a dagger. "Have you succeeded?"
 
"No!" Remihel snapped. "Not for lack of trying. I'm cursed to run into him every few months, and it always ends with some sort of extreme misadventure. Last time we met, he talked me into joining him for dinner at a nice restaurant. But somehow - somehow! - the evening still ended in a fistfight with four Canopian hookers!" Remihel hesitated, then cut off McQueen before he could say anything. "And it did not start or end as you're probably imagining it."
 
"I said nothing."
 
Remihel sighed, stood up, and stared out the window. When he spoke again, his voice sounded resigned. "...why should I talk to Volker?"
 
McQueen smiled. "Your friend runs one of the mech-gladiator stables on Herotitus. He's got a Lyreton girl on his roster. Her father raised the rebellion against Crivoi two years ago. She survived the fight with de Souza's Reavers and escaped to Herotitus. I think she might be a good pilot to recruit..."
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===Gladitorial Combat===
Velvet Dominion Hotel and Arena
Herotitus, Rimward Periphery
Saturday, August 21st, 3024
"All right, you dumb bitch," the coach snapped, pointing to Josie Wallace. "Lineup change. You're up in slot three! Get your gear. You've got the Trebuchet in five minutes."
 
"What!?" Marilena, the Treb's usual pilot, shot to her feet and violently shoved Josie back into her chair. "She can't have the Treb. The Treb is mine!"
 
"Shut your talking-hole, diva!" the coach snarled, turning on Marilena like a striking snake. "I didn't ask your opinion. The boss wants her on the Treb, so she's on the Treb! Come on, Wallace, put some hustle into it! This isn't a brothel - you aren't getting paid to flap around!"
 
"Yes, ma'am." Josie replied, rising once again. She tried to ignore Marilena's murderous gaze, knowing this lineup change would cause her problems later in the locker room.
 
A bored camera operator waited for her in the ready room. Josie noted the red 'record' light on the camera, took a deep breath, and put on her War Face. She gave a flirting head-toss to clear bubblegum-pink hair from her eyes and signed the Shaka. To round it out, she gave a confident grin, a sly wink to whatever viewers sat behind that camera.
 
Two pit girls clad in revealing Norse-themed chain armour brought her neurohelmet and cooling vest. Having spent six months in their ranks while she waited for a slot on the team, Josie greeted them with a friendly smile. "Hey Terese. Hey Silke."
 
Silke held up the cooling vest. "Congrats on the Treb, Josie! You go, girl!" As Josie slid into the heavy garment, Silke leaned in close, turning her mouth away from the camera, and lowering her voice as much as she could. "Watch out for Marilena afterward. Coach put her on the Vulcan..."
 
"Of course," Josie agreed, still smiling sweetly for the camera.
 
The coach swept into the dressing room, substituting her usual vitriol for a false front of pleasantry. "Two minutes. Come on, let's put some energy in this, girls."
 
Silke slapped Josie on the backside and winked. "Go get 'em, Teacup. Show Marilena why you deserve the Treb..."
 
"Hell yeah!" Josie said. She tossed another quick flirt at the camera and headed for the door. Silke followed, carrying the oversized neurohelmet.
 
A TBT-5N Trebuchet waited, its cockpit accessible from the elevated gantry. Josie wasted no time boarding the mech and plugging in her cooling vest. Silke lifted the old-style neurohelmet over Josie's head and dropped it down, helping to secure it. Once it came down to rest on her shoulders, she couldn't turn her head any more. She depended entirely on the artificial display a centimeter in front of her eyes.
 
"Thanks, Silke," Josie said. "...oh no, wait! Do you have my sash?"
 
"Right here," Silke answered, producing a ragged tartan, slightly larger in size than a hand-towel, with the dramatic flourish of a magician. "Don't worry - I took care of you, J."
 
"You're the best, Silke. I owe you one." Josie hastily tucked one corner of the tartan under the rim of her neurohelmet.
 
The radio in her ears tickled. "Valkyrie Three, moving in thirty seconds," Ground Control declared.
 
"I'm good," Josie told her friend, snugging the final snaps down. Silke withdrew from the cockpit, and Josie tapped the controls to close the canopy.
 
<<"Valkyrie Three - ten seconds, please confirm.">>
 
"Three confirms," Josie declared. "Ready to fight."
 
She only had a few seconds to compose herself. I can do this. Let's run up a score...
 
<<"...Valkyrie Three, move,">> Ground Control ordered.
 
Josie willed the battlemech forward. Her neurohelmet snagged that wish from her brain and turned it to action, shifting the Trebuchet's stance. The fifty-ton mech leaned forward, and the right leg came up, then down. Step. Left leg up, then down. Step...
 
From the moment she left the service gantry, Josie had forty-five seconds to reach the entrance to the arena. She hardly needed fifteen. The Velvet Dominion was a small, enclosed arena - the oldest on the Herotitus circuit. The mech pit used by Volker's Valkyries lay third from the entrance. A spotlight clicked on and tracked her mech. The small cams mounted inside her cockpit broadcast her every movement. Josie spared a moment to throw a thumbs-up to one of the cameras. This was entertainment. As much as she just wanted to pilot, she needed to play the audience.
 
 A click over the radio preceded a voice inside her neurohelmet's speakers. The owner of the Valkyries wanted a word. "Looking good with that Treb. Show me what you can do with it."
 
"Yes, sir." Josie replied.
 
Unlike the other arenas in the gladiatorial league, Velvet Dominion was indoors. Tight concrete corridors restricted movement. Distracting advertising flashed on giant overhead signs. It was a knife fight, and the Trebuchet didn't usually handle those well. With all its long-range missiles, it loved an open-field arena. Josie preferred the open fields as well. Here in Velvet Dominion, she always scored low, and the Trebuchet always struggled. I'm just supposed to finish, she told herself. Take one for the team. Let Marilena show off her close-combat movies in the custom Vulcan. All I need to do is finish... all I need to do is finish... to hell with that!
 
These weren't Solaris rules. Direct mech-versus-mech combat only took place in the championships, and Josie didn't expect to get there. Instead, Josie had to fight her way through a glorified obstacle course as a timer counted down, scoring points from her marksmanship.
 
Ahead of her, a door separated the mech pits from the arena proper. It swung wide as the Trebuchet approached, and the arena waited.
 
<<"Ground Control,">> the radio crackled. <<"You're good to go in five, four, three, two, one...">>
 
Josie lunged forward, and the Trebuchet's feet pounded miniature earthquakes on the packed gravel floor of the arena. She burst through the door into the arena. "Weapons hot!" she shouted, more for the audience than for herself. Who am I fooling? I'm a second-string pilot. I'm just here to push the divas like Marilena. Well then… let's push! 
 
She fired medium lasers on the first target. A long corridor opened up ahead of her, and she used one of the Treb's fifteen-pack LRM launchers against a second target at the far end. Three variants to the arena's layout, she reminded herself, mentally willing the Trebuchet into a run. One shoulder scraped a concrete wall. First fork in the road coming up. Which way is the course configured...?
 
Right turn, then immediate left. The ground dropped away into oversized stairs, steep enough to threaten a mech with a serious fall. She'd done that once and gotten knocked out cold. Not today! she vowed.
 
One of the mech's cockpit screens displayed both her remaining time - 4:23, that's a good start - and her marksmanship score. Eleven points. Very good! She got down the stairs and moved forward again, hoping the retractable blast-door at the bottom remained open. Please don't force me to use the... no! The blast-door was closed, leaving only the turn to the left, where the ground dropped once again into a pit, this time filled with water.
 
Hot water. It simmered and boiled, heated by underwater jets. She had to traverse an underwater tunnel, with her mech half-blind and fully immersed, heating the mech. With medium lasers, she blasted a target over the pit and then stepped off into the water. Wish I'd had time to inspect the cockpit seals myself... The mech sank to the bottom in seconds, and she pushed forward, walking on the bottom. The temperature gauge climbed steadily...
 
She erupted out the far side, sloshing up an incline into the first shooting gallery. Ideally she'd try to hold her fire to cool the mech off again. Not today, she vowed. LRMs against one further target. Lasers on the closer ones. The Treb steamed. The heat climbed. Sweat gathered on her brow. Her eyes stung.
 
The radio buzzed. The Valkyries' team owner watched from his luxury box high above. "Denise Nixon just finished and scored 39 points on her run. Just thought you might want to know."
 
Josie's determination shifted almost instantly to rage. She forgot Marilena - she was just a bully. But Denise? I'll beat her! she vowed. I'll beat that smug blonde trollop so hard she'll never steal from me again!
 
She pushed the Trebuchet harder, pushing the temperatures to the redline. Two minutes left. Score of twenty-one.... I can do it!
 
Done with the first shooting gallery. On to the second. A barrier threatened to close ahead of her, a twenty-second delay she couldn't afford. She made the Trebuchet sprint, and slipped through just in time. One minute and thirty seconds. Another ten points here... She ran up the heat gauge once again, and moved toward the final shooting gallery. The heat in the cockpit made her lungs burn. "I'm running her too hard," she muttered aloud. "Let's keep it together..."
 
She burst into the final galley with the mech still near the redline, and pushed it as much as she dared. Even if I have to cook, I'm going to rub Denise Effing Nixon's face in it! Thirty-five... thirty-six… She is not going to beat me. Not! Today!
 
Her timer hit single digits and the heat warning buzzer shrieked. "Thirty-nine!" Josie snarled. "Forty! Forty-ONE!"
 
The timer hit zero. Ground Control deactivated the Trebuchet's weapons. <{"Warning, emergency shutdown imminent,"}> the Trebuchet's computer informed her.
 
"You're fine," Josie snapped, annoyed. "Other mech-jocks have done worse to you."
 
<<"Move that mech off the course,">> Ground Control told her.
 
She heard the arena announcer outside her cockpit. "And that is a new personal arena best for young Josie Wallace, putting her and Volker's Valkyries in the leader's slot. But we've still got a lot of strong contenders coming up..."
 
The Trebuchet steamed as she brought it back to the pits. When she opened the canopy, she felt heat radiating through the air. Silke exercised plenty of caution as she climbed into the cockpit to lift off Josie's neurohelmet and lay a damp cloth on her forehead. "Blake's Teeth, Josie - you're in the lead!"
 
Doesn't matter, Josie thought. I beat Denise. "Thanks," she said, her voice weak.
 
"Marilena's going to be mad," Silke continued, sheltering her face from the cameras to deliver another private message to Josie. "Keep an eye on her."
 
"Sure, sure," Josie mumbled. She didn't care now about whatever Marilena might do. I beat Denise. Not today, you tramp… not today. Silke had to help her out of the cockpit, but Josie waved to the cameras as she limped back to the Valkyries barracks.
 
Her high score stood almost to the end of the evening, when a gladiator from the Steiner team reduced her to second place. My first podium finish, Josie realized. And I have to share it with Denise Effing Nixon in third place… at least she's not ahead of me.
 
The Federated Suns woman wore a coy smile and a costume modeled off ancient Greek armor. It irritated Josie. Doesn't she recognize that I beat her?
 
The announcer finished blowing smoke about the Steiner ace, and got around to her. "Second place, from Volker's Valkyries - with a final score of 41.6 - Mechwarrior Josie Wallace!" She smiled for the cameras, and tossed her hair in the flirty way she'd been coached. The cameras circled her like predators.
 
"Third Place, from Spartan Stables," the announcer continued, "With a score of 39.8, Mechwarrior Denise Nixon!"
 
Josie tried to keep smiling as the ceremony continued. I only have to shake her hand once, she reminded herself, as the ceremony finished. I can get through this.
 
As they descended from the podium, Josie calmly shook hands with the first place winner. The Lyran deserved his win, she admitted. He achieved an impressive forty-four points with a customized CRB-20 Crab. She couldn't fault that performance.
 
But then Denise came forward, still smiling. "You did really well, Josie," Denise said. Her handshake felt insincere. Her eyes gleamed wickedly. "You did so well," Denise continued, "that I decided to send a present to your suite."
 
Josie felt a cold sweat on her brow and the back of her neck. A trap, a trap, a trap, her mind screamed. She tried to keep her cool. "Oh?" she asked, on guard for anything.
 
"Yes," Denise said. "I think you'll enjoy it! I found you one of those Canopian-made inflatable toys."
 
Josie clenched her teeth and hissed. "What."
 
Denise smiled and pushed too far. "Since you're going home alone tonight, and I'm taking Colton back to my hotel r-"
 
Josie chose violence. Her hand swept up, palm open, and struck Denise Nixon on one cheek. The slap echoed through the room. Denise stumbled back, tripped, and fell flat on her backside. Josie lunged after her with a war-cry fit to make her Scottish ancestors proud.
 
Teammates grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back. Denise bounced back to her feet with blood streaming from her nose and lower lip, anxious to get in a swing of her own. Others intervened and dragged them both apart. They screamed obscenities at each other instead, until they no longer saw each other.
 
"Let me go!" Josie screeched at her teammates, as they dragged her back into the locker room. "I'm gonna feed that bitch into a food blender, piece by tiny piece!"
 
"Sedative!" the coach ordered. Josie felt a sting in her shoulder.
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