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[Sparks Murphey]

Heather still remembered the last time she’d rented a car. The pouring rain, the frustration at navigating the winding streets. Almost getting killed by the man she’d been hired by. Even though it was sunny, this time, she took a taxi.

The streets of Solaris City seemed strange to her, colder, cleaner and more civilised than she’d remembered. On the other side of Lyran space, men and women were fighting for their lives against the Clans, the advanced descendants of the ancient Star League come to...well, to be fair, Heather didn’t really know what they wanted. Conquest and domination, she supposed. Solaris seemed to have responded with airs of culture and refinement, the only sign of the burgeoning crisis a newssign reading “3rd Command Lost This Week”. Maybe the taxi driver was just taking her by the tourist route; certainly, this didn’t compare to the dirty streets of the International Zone she remembered as a child.

The warehouse was as she remembered it, though. Crumbling red brick topped with rusted corrugated iron made for a poor mausoleum for the war machine interred here after her father’s death. Heather hadn’t returned here in the last five years, preferring to live in the fantasy her stable had crafted around her. The Blacksmith, the vengeful daughter of Firestorm Walker, ready to take her anger out on anyone who stood against her in the arenas. Heather pulled the key from her pocket, the label on it almost faded entirely away from years of neglect, and removed the padlock from the double doors sealing the ‘Mech’s tomb. Their runners were clogged and her still healing right leg complained at the force of opening them, but she was d**mned if she was going to let a bit of pain block her.

Inside stood the Warhammer her father had piloted in his fights, the Anvil to her step-mother’s Hammer. She'd always thought they should have been named the other way around. The Anvil was as immaculate as it had been at the funeral, save for dust and a few spider webs, it’s red-and-flame paint deceptively unmarred. Hand over hand, she climbed the rungs bolted to machine, her mind recalling the first time she had done so as a child, shortly after her father won the Warhammer. It was almost a surprise to catch sight of herself in the reflection of the cockpit glass and find not a 6 year old girl, but a full-grown woman. She’d never been a beauty, her face a little too long, her nose a little too pronounced, but the scarring over one side of her face had laid to rest any remaining notion of her physical attractiveness. Not that she had need of it.

“Blacksmith!”

Heather turned to look. In the doorway was her agent, Josh Deutmann.

“Does this look like a spaceport to you, Josh?” she asked, turning back to the task of undogging the canopy.

“Hey, I was just tied up for a bit. I got there in the end, but you’d already left without me. What was I meant to do?” Josh said.

“I was waiting for half an hour, Josh.”

“Sure, sure, I’m sorry. Say, those scars don’t look as bad as you’d said, though. Make you look dangerous. I think the media will...”

“I’m not returning to the arenas,” Heather interrupted

“What? Why not?” he spluttered, “Wasn’t that the entire idea? You go off for a bit of training, leave the public hanging for a bit, come back a real frontline warrior, try to drop the heel image. Sure, no one anticipated the Clans, but that works for us! You’ve actually fought the Clans, and have the scars to prove it! The people will love it! You’ve come back stronger, hardened, and...”

“Josh, shut up. I could care less about your little drama back here. The Clans need to be stopped, or in a few years there won’t be a Solaris.”

“Oh, and you’re going to do that, are you, Heather? Just hop in your Dad’s Warhammer, and...”

“It’s my Warhammer,” Heather reminded him, “It’s. Mine. And no, I’m not going to stop them by myself, but I am going to stand shoulder to shoulder with those who are trying. And you’re going to help me.”

“Me? No. You’re outta your mind. PTSD or something.”

“You’ve still got two years left on contract as my agent. You either pay me a forfeit fee, or you do your damn job as an agent and set up a merc company for me,” Heather said, “Just think of the broadcast and advertising rights.”