Service for the Dead

by Martin Delrio

  Taking care of a hypocrite like that, Bannson thought as he read the reports, would be a pleasure all by itself. He was the first man to admit that his own hands were not clean, but whatever he’d done, he’d done in the pursuit of business, and he had never hidden it. He’d certainly never changed his name afterward and pretended to be a lover of the people and a defender of the right.

  The HPG network had just gone down, with Bannson still pondering the best use to make of his hold over Ezekiel Crow, when a wild card had shown up in the game: Anastasia Kerensky.

  Anastasia had surprised him, which Bannson didn’t like. She’d come out of nowhere—well, out of Arc Royal, which was one place his external security force had yet to penetrate. She’d walked into Steel Wolf headquarters on Tigress with nothing but a BattleMech, her genetic ID, and—so far as he had been able to learn—a few scraps of military experience gained under a false name, and had walked out again two months later as a Galaxy Commander and the person in charge of the whole Steel Wolf operation.

  According to Bannson’s sources, she had pulled off that feat by killing the rogue group’s Galaxy Commander, Kal Radick, with her bare hands in a Trial of Possession. Bannson was not pleased by that. Radick had been straightforward and predictable, if you allowed for the inevitable Clan peculiarities, and no one ever had any trouble figuring out which way he was going to jump. If anyone had ever tried to teach Radick how to dissemble, Bannson thought, the Steel Wolf leader had obviously skipped the homework and failed the final exam.

  Kerensky, though, was different. Trueborn on Arc Royal, she was alien in a way that the Tigress-born Steel Wolves were not. She was also ruthless and ambitious—not a crime, in Bannson’s view—but a factor to be dealt with nonetheless. And he’d read enough of the Clans’ history to know what a weight of expectation, and the inherited ability to match it, accrued to the holder of the Kerensky Bloodname.

  Jacob Bannson had spent too much time cultivating his position as the preeminent force in Prefecture II to appreciate seeing it seriously threatened by anyone else. Having an Arc-Royal Clan Warrior take over from him in the role of first among equals would not, he thought, be a good thing. Not for Bannson Universal Unlimited, and not for anyone else either.

  So . . . he had three problems: Campbell, Kerensky, Crow.

  Campbell could wait, for now. She didn’t have any serious ambitions above the Prefectural level; she didn’t have any interest in pushing into Prefecture IV; and between the Steel Wolves and a duplicitous Paladin, she had problems enough on Northwind to keep her distracted from Bannson’s activities in Prefecture III. She would stay put, and Bannson could give her his full attention later.

  Kerensky, on the other hand, needed close watching, not least because he had absolutely no idea what she was planning to do next. He’d tried tempting her with the poisoned apple of mercenary assistance, and she’d refused it outright. Perhaps it was time to throw BUU’s support behind Northwind instead. If he played this game right, Bannson thought, he might even come out of this as one of the Countess’s friends.

  As for Ezekiel Crow . . . the man had served his purpose on Northwind, making Kerensky’s victory there possible through his betrayal. He’d shown his true colors then. In Bannson’s experience, a man who’d sold out once could usually be persuaded to do it again, and a man who’d sold out twice could be relied upon to do it a third time.

  But Crow was also a clever, dangerous bastard. Bannson knew that the Paladin wouldn’t have abandoned his own plans and ambitions because of a single setback, and the threat of exposure wasn’t going to work forever. Records could be erased, witnesses could be suborned or killed—and without records and witnesses, all you had was mere gossip.

  Crow, then, remained the real threat. Bannson was going to have to take further measures to deal with Ezekiel Crow.

  He flipped a switch on the nearest communications console. “I want a JumpShip kept on hot standby at the Tybalt station,” he said, “and advance arrangements made at all Terra-bound intermediate stops for priority recharging of the K–F drive. Hire DropShip couriers if necessary to get out the word. I may have to relocate to Terra unexpectedly, at some point in the near future, and I don’t want to waste time getting ready if I do.”

  6

  Belgorod DropPort

  Terra

  Prefecture X

  February 3134; local winter

  Even with the HPG net down and interstellar travel diminished, everything of importance passed through Terra. The Belgorod DropPort, located on the steppe of old Russia, dealt mostly in heavy cargo rather than passenger traffic, and it was at Belgorod that the DropShip Quicksilver, out of Northwind, touched down and let off one man and a BattleMech.

  Ezekiel Crow could remember when Belgorod and the other Terran DropPorts had seen DropShips landing and lifting in a constant stream. Tonight, he had no time to indulge in nostalgia. He had a great deal of business to take care of, and he had to take care of it before the Countess of Northwind—who was, he thought with some bitterness, most certainly no longer his friend—managed to get a messenger out with her side of the story. If he did not have all of his countermoves in place by that time, he would be, for all intents and purposes, dead.

  First and most important, he needed to see to the care of his ’Mech. The fast and hard-hitting Blade was technically the property of The Republic of the Sphere, but it had been his and his alone ever since he first became a Knight of the Sphere. Even if the worst happened—especially if the worst happened—he could not afford to lose such an asset. While any of The Republic’s military or diplomatic facilities on Terra could supply him with access to a ’Mech hangar free of charge, such a facility could always be closed against him by orders from above, and using one would betray his location to anyone who might be interested.

  Commercial storage was safer. The Belgorod DropPort maintained storage facilities for hire, including—as part of its heavy cargo focus—a limited number of hangars for corporations moving IndustrialMechs back and forth. Crow’s luck was in; one such hangar was currently free. He handed over an exorbitant deposit to the Portmaster and received the hangar lock’s cipher code with an inward sigh of relief.

  Someone still might shut him out and keep him from his ’Mech, but now the job would be considerably harder. The safeguards placed by The Republic on civilian property meant that the legal process would take longer, and would require more evidence and justification. Furthermore, his rank as Paladin should suffice to overawe the facility operators into complying with his requests. Barring a direct order from the Exarch himself, the Blade was now as safe and as easy to retrieve as Crow could make it.

  The next item on his agenda was tricky, but vitally important. Crow had thought about it during the long DropShip transit, and had arrived, eventually, at a conclusion. This was not something he could trust to official Republic channels. Other channels existed, however, and as a Paladin he knew where to find them and how to gain access. He’d never counted on using his knowledge in this fashion, but life, as he had come to know well, was full of unexpected developments.

  Not more than two hours after securing the BattleMech, midnight found Ezekiel Crow in Belgorod DropPort’s uptown strip. The establishments there were elegant lounges and high-rolling casinos, rather than the low dives and gaming hells of the streets closer to the port, but the same people ran both.

  He moved through the crowd, a quiet man in dark clothing, taking advantage of the fact that outside of the panoply of his office he was an essentially unremarkable figure. The only striking detail about his appearance was the unexpected combination of blue eyes with dark brown hair and olive skin, and he knew better than to draw attention to it by gazing directly at the people on the street.

  He looked instead at the signs on the doors and windows and walls of the local buildings. Most of them were in English, here in the up-scale part of town: THE SILVER SLIPPER, CARDINI’S, THE TAJ MAHAL, THE GARDEN OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS.


  Ah, yes, he thought. That’s the one.

  He entered the lounge. The large room was dim and crowded; the floor show featured a single singer under a blue spotlight. Well-dressed men and women sat drinking and talking at small tables. The scene was sophisticated, if relatively tame. Crow knew that other, more dangerous stuff was available in other parts of the building—none of it quite illegal, but most of it definitely on the far side of unwise.

  Crow wasn’t interested in delights, licit or otherwise. He was looking for the manager on duty. He spotted the man a few tables over and approached him politely.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  “Good evening,” said the manager. “Is there anything that you require to make your visit to the Garden a more pleasurable experience?”

  “As it happens,” said Crow, “yes. I need to speak with Suvorov.”

  Recognition flickered over the manager’s features for an instant, then vanished. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe we have anyone by that name working here.”

  “You’re right,” Crow said. “He doesn’t work here. I need to speak with him anyway.”

  “Sir, I’m afraid that—”

  “Tell him that he got away clean from the Footfall investigation because he was clever enough to have other people dirty their hands for him instead of touching anything himself. That doesn’t mean someone didn’t know exactly what was going on.”

  The manager stared at him. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Just tell Suvorov what I said. Then come back.”

  The manager departed. Crow took his abandoned seat at the table and waited. Even listening with only half an ear to the floor show, he recognized the blue-spotlit singer as a Sphere-famous recording artist. Alexei Suvorov didn’t stint on appearances.

  The manager returned, accompanied this time by an expressionless security guard of a type Crow pegged as muscle paid to be intelligent, but not thoughtful. “Mr. Suvorov will see you in the Eden Room.”

  “This way,” said the security guard. Crow followed him through the press of crowd and tables and out into a carpeted hall leading deeper into the recesses of the Garden. As soon as the door closed between the hall and the outer room, the guard stepped aside and gestured Crow forward.

  “Down the hall and on the right. Mr. Suvorov is waiting.”

  Crow shook his head and made obvious the presence of the slug-pistol he had been carrying in his coat pocket. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but no. Precede me, please. To wherever Suvorov actually is.”

  An elevator ride up to the penthouse later, Crow and the security guard arrived at a posh carpeted room with picture windows that looked out over the lights of the city. Suvorov was there, sitting at his ease with a drink in his hand.

  “Ah,” he said, smiling. “Paladin Crow, after all.”

  Alexei Suvorov was a good-looking man in late middle age. He appeared exactly like the successful club owner and entertainment entrepreneur that he was, and not at all like the ultimate Terraside organizing force behind the infamous Footfall smuggling ring—which he also was.

  “I didn’t think you’d be foolish enough to let my security take you out,” Suvorov continued, “but it was worth a try. Thank you for not breaking him, by the way.”

  “I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

  “Again, my thanks. You can go, Benson.” The guard left—Crow was not foolish enough to think that he went very far—and Suvorov gestured at the couch. “Please, have a seat.”

  Crow sat. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, of course. Now, what is it that brings you to the Garden of Earthly Delights?”

  “I have a business proposition for you,” Crow said.

  Suvorov’s expression sharpened. “Do you indeed?”

  “Yes. I need all the Terran DropPorts watched for new arrivals from a certain quarter, and I need it done discreetly. The reports should come to me directly, without going through official channels.”

  Suvorov didn’t bother denying that he had the ability to carry out such a request. “You don’t have sufficient leverage—”

  “Sufficient evidence.”

  “Very well. Evidence. You don’t have sufficient evidence to force me into anything.”

  “You’re right,” said Crow. “I don’t, or you would have stood trial years ago. Which is why I’m offering you cash in return for services rendered.”

  “Ah. That’s different.” Suvorov relaxed in his chair. “In that case, Paladin Crow, I think we can do business.”

  7

  DropShip Fenrir

  Saffel System

  Prefecture II

  February 3134

  Ian Murchison—once of Northwind, and once the medic on Balfour-Douglas Petrochemicals Offshore Drilling Station #47, now Bondsman to Galaxy Commander Anastasia Kerensky of the Steel Wolves—finished counting the full and partial boxes of latex gloves in the sick bay storage locker.

  He made a note of the number on his data pad. Murchison found the work soothing, a welcome distraction from the many changes in his life since the Steel Wolves had taken over Balfour-Douglas #47 for their base of operations on Northwind.

  Murchison’s peculiar status aboard Fenrir—more than a prisoner and less than a fully trusted passenger or member of the ship’s crew—led him to spend most of his time in the vessel’s sick bay. His sleeping quarters were nearby. He bunked with the Wolves’ tech and support people, not with the Warriors, which he suspected was meant to keep him from getting an inflated notion of his own importance.

  He didn’t mind. The Wolf Clansmen who did the actual hard work of keeping the ship’s engines running, its communications gear listening and talking, and its crew and passengers healthy, seemed less alien to him than the Warriors. All of them, he was convinced, were crazy. From Anastasia Kerensky on down.

  Fenrir’s sick bay, on the other hand, bore a comforting similarity to every other sick bay in The Republic of the Sphere. The Steel Wolves even bought their medical supplies from the same catalogs. Murchison kept himself busy inventorying supplies and making up requisition lists. The ship’s stocks had been depleted on Northwind—the Wolves’ victory there, he thought with a bitter pride that he didn’t let show, had been far from bloodless. Fenrir would need more of everything soon, if the Steel Wolves intended going into battle on Terra.

  Murchison fiddled with the single cord around his wrist. It had formerly been a doubled cord, but Anastasia Kerensky had remained true to her word. She had given him the job of finding Jacob Bannson’s mole in the Steel Wolves, and had cut the first cord herself after he had done so, bringing him in one stroke halfway from Bondsman to adopted member of Clan Wolf.

  She had cut the traitor’s throat as well—and would undoubtedly do the same for Murchison, if he ever did anything she saw in that light.

  It disturbed him sometimes that he didn’t feel more concern for the fate of Terra. Any attachment he had to humanity’s home planet was low-key and mostly abstract. He’d never been to Terra and he didn’t know anyone who had. He’d never even bothered working for Republic citizenship. Northwind had always been enough for him. He suspected that his homeworld wasn’t as thoroughly conquered as Anastasia Kerensky thought, but it wasn’t his place to say so and he definitely wasn’t going to bother telling her as long as he wasn’t asked.

  He’d certainly never sworn any oaths of allegiance to Terra or to The Republic. The only oath he had ever sworn was to care for the sick and the injured wherever he might find them. That oath, he had kept.

  The sound of footsteps approaching roused him from his reverie. He knew the sound. Not a heavy tread, but a firm and aggressive one all the same: Anastasia Kerensky.

  Murchison braced himself. Conversations with Anastasia were like playing a game of catch with a live grenade—never dull, but hell on the nerves. He’d wondered at first why she bothered talking with him. Eventually, he decided that it was precisely because he was not a Steel Wolf Warrior. His lack of status, in fact,
made him one of the few people in the whole expeditionary force who was not, ultimately, Anastasia’s rival for power.

  When Anastasia entered the sick bay, Murchison saw that she wasn’t wearing a uniform. Instead, she had on her black leather trousers and matching jacket, and her high leather boots. Murchison became even more wary. That outfit usually indicated to the cautious spectator that Anastasia was in one of her wilder moods, and that reckless, or at least headlong, action was in the offing.

  He put aside the data pad with its inventory and requisition data, and said carefully, “Galaxy Commander.”

  “Bondsman Murchison.”

  “Is there something that I can do for you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, “there is. I need you to board the Saffel Space Station with me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Just the two of us?”

  “No. There will be others. But you will conduct yourself as the JumpShip’s medic.”

  Murchison nodded. “If the Galaxy Commander asks it, I’ll do my best. But—” He let his curiosity creep into the unfinished phrase.

  “Yes, Bondsman?”

  “I’d heard that the Akela was going to use its solar sail to pull in the power, and sunlight’s free. In that case, why bother with a courtesy visit at the station?”

  Anastasia smiled. “Because nobody’s luck is perfect. It will happen that the solar sail failed to deploy properly, and that it sustained structural damage as a result.”

  “Ah,” he said. He had been with the Steel Wolves long enough by now to understand that something other than random bad luck would be at work in the matter of the damaged sail.

  “Ah, indeed,” said Anastasia. “It will therefore become necessary for us to enter into negotiations with the station.”