A Silence in the Heavens mda-4

by Martin Delrio

  “No,” she said. “I plan to look for accommodation on the local economy.”

  A person could obtain a great deal more privacy by securing private housing, and could also escape the strain of having to endure the company of potential rivals on a round-the-clock basis. Living alone would also make it easier, if she ever wanted, to bring Tassa Kay out of hiding for a few hours of irresponsible fun.

  “As the Star Colonel wishes,” said the Portmaster. “The Four Cities area has a wide range of possibilities available for officers who want to look for separate quarters, and Headquarters keeps a list of recommended housing providers on file.”

  “Excellent. I would prefer not to waste good time looking at bad rooms.” She gave him her best charismatic smile. It had worked for Tassa Kay on Achernar, and it would work again on Tigress for Anastasia Kerensky. Start with the support staff and go on from there, gaining their goodwill and admiration, or at least their respect. “Out in the field is one thing—all of us have seen worse than cold water and thin walls and the local vermin—but just because something can be endured on campaign is no reason anyone should consent to live with it afterwards.”

  “My feelings exactly, Star Colonel,” the Portmaster said. “Aside from the berthing and repair of your BattleMech, is there anything else that you need?”

  “One thing, yes,” she said. “Inform Galaxy Commander Kal Radick that Star Colonel Anastasia Kerensky has arrived on Tigress, and that she wishes to meet with him at his earliest convenience.”

  13

  Steel Wolf Headquarters

  The Four Cities, Tigress

  April, 3133; local summer

  For Anastasia Kerensky, Kal Radick’s earliest convenience came sooner than she had expected. She had spent most of her first day on Tigress combing through the local rental and purchase listings, tackling the acquisition of living quarters with a ruthlessness that left sales and rental agents exhausted. Her efforts brought their own reward: By late afternoon, she had the keys to a one-bedroom apartment in neither the best nor the worst section of the Four Cities. The building itself was an unattractive brick structure, like a shipping crate with windows, but it was well kept up by neighborhood standards, and its security systems were excellent.

  And for all the building’s laboring-class ugliness, it possessed one overwhelming advantage: Nobody in the Steel Wolves would expect to find Star Colonel Anastasia Kerensky living in such a place. She still had Tassa Kay’s mustering-out money from her service on Achernar, in good Republic stones—more than enough to cover her first and last month’s rent and her security deposit, and to pay for the activation of utilities and a connection to the planetary communications net. All done with the pleasant anonymity of cash.

  Privacy, she thought. And cheap at the price. She hoped that hard currency would continue in use on Clan worlds in the Republic. If the Steel Wolves ever managed to reestablish the standard Clan voucher system locally, such anonymity would be much more difficult to come by.

  She checked the net connection on the spot by locating and opening her official mail. Nothing there… except for a note asking for the pleasure of her company at dinner that evening with Galaxy Commander Kal Radick.

  “Fast work,” she said aloud, and didn’t bother to explain her comment to the rental agent. Radick obviously wanted to meet her before she had a chance to settle in—wanted to catch her on the run and see what she was like with her guard down. “Well, the hell with that.”

  Her personal gear was still back at the DropShip field; she hadn’t wanted to haul a full duffel all over the city while looking at apartments. But her earlier cordiality toward the Portmaster proved to have been a good investment. Upon her return, he proved willing to let her clean up and change into uniform in the female employees’ locker room.

  “I do not want to keep Galaxy Commander Radick waiting,” she explained as she collected her duffel and headed for the showers. When she reemerged a few minutes later, scrubbed clean and freshly dress-uniformed, Tassa Kay was gone completely and the Star Colonel was ascendant.

  Public transport took her to the Headquarters building where Kal Radick had his quarters—no living off base for him.

  “Star Colonel Kerensky to see Galaxy Commander Radick,” she said to the guard at the front entrance. “I am expected.”

  The guard consulted his data pad. “You will find his quarters on the top floor, Star Colonel. Take the elevator up and follow the signs for Twenty-Five A through F.”

  She was not surprised, when she reached her destination, to find Kal Radick’s rooms austere almost to point of bareness: stark metal-and-crystal furniture, with the walls and carpet and curtains done in shades of brown and gray and bone ivory. The Clan aesthetic sense ran to the purely functional in matters of design, even when the materials themselves, as here, were the best available. Anastasia Kerensky, trueborn of the iron wombs on Arc-Royal, approved, but the voice of Tassa Kay whispered impudently in the back of her mind that some people might consider that the Galaxy Commander was trying a bit too hard.

  Radick himself was a lean man, on the tall side for a MechWarrior, with dark hair and a complexion either deep tanned or naturally olive. He came forward to greet her at the door.

  “Star Colonel Kerensky,” he said.

  He sounded genuinely pleased by her arrival, and Anastasia had to remind herself that the Galaxy Commander was younger than he looked. His true age didn’t show in his appearance or in his general bearing, but she had delved into the history behind his meteoric rise to the rank of Prefect. Mixed in with the triumphs—his gaining of the Radick Bloodname, his successful challenge for the position of Galaxy Commander for the Clan Clusters in Prefecture IV—she had seen other, more disquieting things.

  His dealings with the new Prefect of Prefecture III, for example. Kal Radick clearly had no idea how much he had offended the Countess of Northwind by his suggestion that The Republic of the Sphere might eventually be replaced by a renascent Star League. The Campbell woman was passionately loyal to Devlin Stone’s Republic. Anastasia, for her part, found such passion for a jerry-built political experiment more amusing than anything else—and had reacted to Kal Radick’s offhand comment as though he had spoken deliberate treason.

  If the Countess of Northwind had been Clan, Anastasia thought, we would have had a Trial of Grievance by now, and the whole Inner Sphere would have learned which side had the stronger argument.

  All this passed through her mind as she weighed the proper response to Kal Radick’s greeting. The tone of the evening was social, rather than official—their meeting was in private quarters rather than in public space, and food and drink were on offer—but not too social, since Radick wore a plain working uniform rather than civilian clothing.

  Anastasia settled for making eye contact and giving Radick a nod in reply. “Galaxy Commander Radick.”

  “Have you eaten?” he asked.

  “Breakfast this morning only,” she said. “I have been occupied with settling in.”

  Radick gestured toward the table she had glimpsed earlier. It stood in a window nook overlooking the DropPort. Night was falling outside, but the silhouettes of Lupus and its mates were still visible on the landing field. “Join me, then.”

  “Happily, Galaxy Commander.”

  The meal that waited for them turned out to be much like the room it was served in: everything of the best quality, but all of it plain to the point of simplicity. Not ostentatiously so—the Galaxy Commander did not dine at home on field rations, or on anything badly cooked or otherwise inedible—but bland and unsophisticated nonetheless. She wondered if the near austerity was meant as a political gesture, to demonstrate to the more militant among the Steel Wolves that he was uncorrupted by the ways of The Republic in spite of having been immersed in its politics.

  “What brings you to Prefecture IV?” Radick asked. He filled his plate with sliced roast meat and boiled greens as he spoke. “Tigress is a long way from Arc-Royal, quaiff?”


  In more ways than one, she thought. “Aff.”

  “Yet you came here by way of Achernar. Why?”

  Anastasia began filling her own plate. After not having had a chance to eat since leaving the DropShip that morning, even plain meat and greens were going to taste good.

  “The DropPort on Achernar makes a convenient stopover point,” she said. “Or do you mean—why did I fight beside the locals while I was there?”

  “That question is also one that requires an answer.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “I desired to see for myself what the famous Steel Wolves were made of.”

  “And did you?”

  She gave him a quick, predatory grin, feeling for a moment more Tassa Kay than Anastasia Kerensky. “Oh, yes.”

  “I trust you found it satisfactory.”

  “Had what I seen not pleased me, I would not have continued on to Tigress afterward.”

  Radick looked satisfied by the answer, and Anastasia Kerensky allowed herself another, more inward smile. She had no intention of explaining to the Galaxy Commander exactly what she had found pleasing: the knowledge that the Steel Wolves were strong enough and hard enough to be made into a sword that could break apart The Republic of the Sphere; but more than that, the knowledge that Kal Radick would not be the one to use them.

  14

  Kal Radick’s Headquarters

  The Four Cities, Tigress

  April, 3133; local summer

  Anastasia Kerensky’s first opportunity to test the mettle of Kal Radick’s Steel Wolves from the commanding, rather than the opposing, side came within a week of her arrival on Tigress. The Wolves were planning a strike against the planet Ruchbah in Prefecture III, ostensibly to gain control of an additional source of civilian and military vehicles. It was clear to Anastasia, however, that the primary purpose of the strike was to test the strength and fighting will of The Republic in Prefecture III.

  It was also possible, Anastasia reflected as she made her way from her apartment to Headquarters through the morning Four Cities traffic, that Kal Radick wanted to give his warriors an easy victory, to lift the spirits of those who had noticed that the fighting on Achernar had provided them with nothing of the sort. She laughed aloud at the thought—better to give the Wolves a true challenge and let them beat it, in her opinion—and the other occupants of the municipal hovertransport looked at her oddly but said nothing. A Star Colonel, even one who lived on the edge of the rough part of town and relied on public transit to get about, was entitled to laugh at whatever happened to strike her as amusing.

  When she reached the Headquarters building, she made herself known to the guard at the door. Then she proceeded to the main strategy room, where the upcoming batchall—the bidding before combat—was slated to take place. The Galaxy Commander himself was not yet in evidence, but a quick glance around the room showed that it was already full of his supporters. She recognized Star Colonels Ulan and Marks, currently two of the highest in Radick’s esteem. A number of Star Captains and Star Commanders stood among the group of uniformed men and women gathered around the central map table, but they would most likely be only spectators, come to observe the batchall and take their initial measure of the leader they would have to serve under in the upcoming campaign.

  The lower-ranked officers made way for Anastasia as she moved through the crowd to take a place at the perimeter of the map table. The table’s surface was divided at the moment into two displays, one showing the overall topography of Ruchbah, and the other the streets and buildings of the capital city. Star Colonel Ulan looked at her suspiciously; Marks ignored her. Anastasia said nothing to either Warrior.

  The door of the strategy room opened to admit Galaxy Commander Kal Radick, then closed again. Radick came up to the table and announced, “Trothkin, the Wolves are bound for glory, and that path currently leads us to the world of Ruchbah. Let all who would join in that glory step forward for the batchall in this Trial of Possession for the Michaelson Industries plant.”

  A cluster of buildings on the city map lit up in yellow as Radick spoke.

  “The cut-down for the bidding is two Trinaries,” he continued, “each Trinary to be composed of five ’Mechs, ten vehicles, and armored and unarmored infantry. Let none who would not achieve victory participate. Who will bid first?”

  Star Colonel Marks spoke first. “I bid a Cluster.”

  A Cluster—three full Trinaries—was a good bid, though not an especially daring one. It was well above the cut-down set by Radick as the minimum amount of force needed to achieve the objective. Marks was no fool; he had been among those officers who came away from Achernar less than happy with the outcome of that campaign. He had drawn lessons from the experience, it seemed; though not necessarily the best ones.

  “Star Colonel Marks bids a full Cluster,” said Radick. “Is there a lower bid?”

  “I bid two Trinaries and a Star,” Anastasia said. She saw the spectators begin exchanging glances. They must not have expected a newcomer like herself to enter the bidding, even though her rank gave her the right to do so if she chose.

  Radick himself looked startled by her bid, but the change of expression was a fleeting one and he hid it well. If she had not already expected that Radick might find her participation in the batchall disturbing, she might not have noticed it at all.

  “Star Colonel Anastasia Kerensky bids two Trinaries and a Star,” Radick said. “Is there a lower bid?”

  Star Colonel Ulan took a step closer to the table. “I bid two Trinaries less a ’Mech and five vehicles.”

  A ripple of surprise—not sound so much as hastily suppressed fractional movement, raised eyebrows and temporarily halted breaths and almost-invisible muscular twitches—ran through the assembled spectators. Bidding below cut-down was a daring move. If Star Colonel Ulan could not accomplish the objective with the original force, and had to call for reinforcements, he risked a considerable loss of honor.

  “Star Colonel Marks?” Radick said.

  Marks shook his head. “I have no further bid.”

  “Star Colonel Anastasia Kerensky?”

  “I bid two Trinaries less two ’Mechs and seven vehicles.”

  “Star Colonel Anastasia Kerensky bids two Trinaries less two ’Mechs and seven vehicles. Star Colonel Ulan?”

  Ulan cast a dark look in Anastasia’s direction and said, “I bid two Trinaries less a Star.”

  The room fell quiet as Radick’s officers waited to see how the newcomer from Arc-Royal would react to Ulan’s bid.

  Anastasia herself did not find the idea of bidding deep below cut-down inherently distasteful as some did. On the other hand, the cut-down, when properly set, functioned to prevent the waste of Clan resources in fruitless battle. In her judgment, Radick had set this raid’s cut-down at an eminently reasonable level. On this occasion, she had been willing to go more than a bit under—Radick had, if anything, erred on the side of caution—but Ulan’s last bid had been recklessly low.

  “I have no further bid,” she said.

  Let Ulan have this raid, she thought. Losing honor through her own stupidity did not play any part in Anastasia Kerensky’s long-term plan.

  15

  Kerensky residence

  The Four Cities, Tigress

  May, 3133; local summer

  Anastasia Kerensky stalked into her apartment, wishing that the closing mechanism on the door would allow her to slam it. She yanked the bottle of vodka from the freezer, poured herself a tall glass and knocked it back. Imported Terran vodka, the real thing, a shame to waste that way—but she was a bearer of the Kerensky Bloodname and she would do as she damned well pleased. Terra’s fruits of vine and field should have been hers anyway.

  It was all meant to be ours, she thought. The Star League—the true Star League, not this cobbled-together latecomer called The Republic of the Sphere—was what the Clans had been created to restore and to serve, after all the rest of humanity had abandoned the ideal. People were fo
ols if they thought that the mission had been abandoned just because some part of the Clans had accepted, for a while, the words of Devlin Stone.

  Kal Radick had listened to those words. Kal Radick said now that he had forgotten them, and claimed that he was trying to lift the Steel Wolf Warriors back up to their former glory. As if he’d know a real Clan Wolf Warrior on sight.

  Anastasia Kerensky poured another shot of vodka and slammed it back.

  Kal Radick did not speak the truth.

  If he were truly interested in taking back Terra, she thought, he would stop sabotaging her efforts during the batchall. Three times now, he had set the cut-down for the bidding cautiously high, encouraging his favorites to bid below the mark. Twice it had worked, if barely—both times, the leaders had needed to call for reinforcements to achieve their objectives, and had suffered no loss of their commander’s good opinion thereby. Kal Radick had continued to allow them to bid in the batchalls, and had allowed—one might even say, had encouraged—them to undercut Anastasia’s own bid every time.

  This time, Kal Radick’s policy had led not just to embarrassment, but to disaster—defeat and humiliation, ending in a retreat to the DropShips and a run back home, on a world that she, Anastasia Kerensky, could have taken with no BattleMechs at all.

  Anastasia knew the dark mood that had over-taken her. It made her dangerous, to herself as much as others, and made her liable to do rash things. The last time she had been in such a state of mind, she had ended up leaving Arc-Royal for The Republic. That decision had proved not so bad, in the long run—but it could have been bad, if her luck had been worse, or if the long DropShip passages had not given her the opportunity to stop and think and plan.

  I need to work this off right now, she thought, before I do something stupid and ruin everything.