by Unknown
And one more thing—a knife in its sheath, designed to be hidden up her sleeve. She had not needed the knife on Achernar, among comrades-in-arms; and she would have scorned to wear it on Tigress, among the Wolves. But the knife had come in handy more than once on the journey from Arc-Royal, and Tassa Kay liked it very much.
She dressed quickly, then left her apartment and headed for the Strip. Every DropPort had a Strip, regardless of what name the district might actually carry. It was the part of town where the entertainment establishments stood open all night and all day, where there were always bright lights and loud music, and where the law walked carefully if it entered at all. The Strip was full of places to spend money and blow off the mingled tension and boredom of long DropShip passages.
One would not—most of the time—find top-ranked Clan Warriors in places like that; only—sometimes—Clan members from the other castes, and non-Clan citizens and transients. And if one went looking for it, one could find trouble.
Anastasia Kerensky found a barroom. It had a garish multicolored facade, all pulsing lights and pounding music. Pleased by the gaudy spectacle, she went in.
She didn’t have to work her way through the crowd. It parted for her as soon as she stepped across the threshold. She went up to the bar, and similar magic made an empty place appear.
“Vodka,” she said, before the bartender could speak.
“Yes, Star Colonel.”
Damn, she thought. Even here they knew her. She tossed back her drink, and made to leave the cash for it on the bar.
“On the house, Star Colonel.”
A wave of frustration washed over her. She pulled out more cash and laid it down. “Buy the house a round on me, then. Good night.”
She turned and left. As she went, she heard the excited murmurs behind her . . . “Kerensky?”
“Kerensky!” . . . and headed deeper into the back alleys of the Strip.
Anastasia found, at last, a dive. The building had no windows anymore—the windows it had once were now all bricked up. The sign over the door, in mostly burned-out lights, read:BUCKET OF BLOOD .
She had to elbow past a stubble-bearded thug in a greasy coverall to make it in through the door, and then push herself in between two other lowlifes to reach the bar. She was not the only female in the room; but she was the only one whose occupation was not immediately obvious. Of the other women, two of them wore DropShip workers’ coveralls—they were a pair, it looked like, and smart enough to do their payday drunken revel on the buddy system—and the remaining three wore skintight skirts, mesh blouses, and body glitter. All five of them looked at her glossy leathers with surly resentment.
The bartender eyed her suspiciously. “What do you want?”
“Strong drink,” she said. “Vodka.”
“Pay first,” said the bartender. “No tabs here.”
She slapped money down onto the bar. “Tell me when this runs out. And give me a drink.”
Hot breath stirred the hairs on the back of her neck, and she half-turned to see the man she had shoved coming in the door.
“Hey,” he said, in angry tones. “Who do you think you are?”
She gave him a sweet smile. “The person who is drinking here,” she said. She felt the adrenaline rising, and shifted her position and her balance to be ready when Big-and-Greasy made his move. “If you want to drink here, you will have to do something about it.”
He gave her a truculent glare. “You better be careful. Talk to the wrong person like that, and somebody could get hurt.”
But not him, apparently, not here and not now. He was backing down and moving away grumbling. Damn.
She was really feeling it now, the angry reckless burn, and she had nothing to let it loose on. She downed the last of her vodka, swept the bar with a contemptuous gaze, and swaggered out.
Anastasia made it two blocks before the footsteps she heard behind her gathered enough courage to come at her in a rush. In a surge of wild fierce joy she spun around and stepped into it, the knife dropping into her hand and punching upward into the attacker’s gut.
Big-and-Greasy, she thought. Bleeding out on the pavement. No surprise there.
A voice from the street ahead commented, “That was nice.”
She looked at the speaker. He was young and dark-haired and muscular, his voice and his dress both Clan-but-not-quite—freeborn to a local, perhaps? In the light from the nearest streetlamp, he was smiling.
“I wasn’t doing it to give you a show.” She let her accent slide downward out of true Clan precision—she was Tassa Kay tonight, and Tassa suddenly had another need, as strong as the need for violence. “But if you liked it—”
The man’s smile grew wider. “Oh, I did.”
She smiled back at him, the corpse of Big-and-Greasy already cooling at her feet. “Then we can go back to my place and do some other things that you might like even more.”
16
Kerensky residence
The Four Cities, Tigress
May, 3133; local summer
Anastasia Kerensky woke up in a much better mood than the one that had sent her out looking for trouble on the DropPort Strip. Daylight filtering in through the drawn curtains of her bedroom brought her to full awareness slowly and comfortably. Her muscles felt relaxed and pleasantly fatigued, and she was conscious of the warm weight of another person lying next to her. Full memory of the night before returned, and she smiled as she treated herself to a langourous, full-body stretch.
It was a damned good thing, she thought, that the bed had turned out to be a solid piece of furniture, and not a shoddy piece of work some local landlord had purchased on the cheap for a furnished rental unit.
Otherwise, the two of them could have broken it, after the point where she had discovered that her partner for the evening—freeborn local or no—was strong enough that she had no need to worry about breaking him.
She rolled over to look at him, and saw that he was already awake and looking at her. In the daylight that made its way past the curtains, he was not quite as young as she had guessed in the streetlamp’s glow, but still perhaps a year or so her junior. He was dark-skinned and muscular, in a pleasantly compact kind of way, with black hair cropped short and a nicely shaped skull underneath. He had surprisingly full lips, and his eyes were a dark brown, almost black, very lively and curious.
“Good morning,” she said, and smiled at him. “After a very good night. Do you happen to have a name?”
He smiled back at her with a flash of strong white teeth, like a carnivore’s. “Nicholas Darwin.”
That was a local name, she thought, not Clan. She felt a slight disappointment. Locals could be fun, in their way, but they always had people they wanted to go back to, and work that they did not want to abandon.
“Are you off one of the DropShips?”
He laughed. “No. I’m a tanker. Star Captain.”
That was not so bad after all. She propped herself up on one elbow and drew a fingernail along the line of crisply curling hair that ran down the center of his chest. “Darwin is not a Clan Wolf name.”
“It was—” his breath caught as her fingernail slid downward “—my mother’s family name. My father was a Wolf Clansman, or so she said, and the genetic tests agreed.”
“Ah.”
Her hand stilled, and she considered him for a long moment in the morning light. Not really a local, then.
True, he was freeborn and only half Clan—not quite good enough, it seemed, to go all the way to win a Bloodname and earn the right to ride a ’Mech into battle. But nevertheless he was both pleasant to look at and pleasant to take to bed, and Star Captain was a good enough rank that she need not be ashamed.
She made her decision.
“My name is Anastasia Kerensky.”
“I know,” he said.
“What!” she exclaimed indignantly. She sat bolt upright, so that the sheet slid down off her body and crumpled around her hips. “You knew ?”
&
nbsp; He was laughing, damn him, and giving her an unrepentant grin. “I recognized you buying drinks for the Purple Light Bar and followed you out.”
“You followed me out.” She was still seething, although inwardly she had to admit that she had not exactly been keeping a low profile at the time. “Why?”
“Curiosity,” he said. “You acted like you were looking for something, and I wanted to see if you found it.”
His expression turned reminiscent. “And you certainly did. The way you handled that guy in the street . . .
remind me never to make you mad.”
“You’re coming real close right now,” she said, but she let her accent slide downward into Tassa Kay’s casual imprecision, to take the sting out of the threat. “But you’re right, Nicholas Darwin. I did indeed find something that I was looking for.”
She rolled out of bed, heedless of Nicholas Darwin’s gaze, and went over to the closet and began pulling out clothes for the day. Uniform, this time, and working, not dress. “I had a question. I was looking for the answer. And I found it.”
“Fortune-telling through personal violence? That is a new one.”
“There are a great many liars in the universe,” she told him. “But death and violence, in my experience, tend to tell the truth.”
At some point the night before—she was not sure if it had happened during the fight in the alley or during the sex afterward—Anastasia Kerensky had achieved an enlightenment of sorts. She knew what she wanted—she had always known what she wanted—but she understood now that the subtle approach was not going to work. On the likes of Duke Aaron Sandoval, perhaps, or on the offspring of House Kurita—clever, subtle adversaries who could appreciate a well-turned ploy. But Kal Radick was not a subtle man.
She shut the closet door and headed out of the bedroom, carrying the clean uniform with her.
“Where are you going?” Nicholas Darwin said.
“Right now? To get washed and dressed. And after that, Headquarters. I have words to exchange with the Galaxy Commander.”
17
Steel Wolf Headquarters
The Four Cities, Tigress
May, 3133; local summer
Anastasia Kerensky entered the Steel Wolves’ strategic planning room unannounced and let the door shut behind her. She noted with satisfaction that Kal Radick was indeed where his aide had told her he would be; even better, the big, high-ceilinged room was packed with Kal Radick’s trusted subordinates, Star Colonels Ulan and Marks, as usual, as well as other high-ranking Warriors of the Steel Wolves. The tri-vid map display filling the surface of the table in the center of the room confirmed her suspicion that she had walked in on yet another batchall. Based on the map, Small World was the latest planet chosen to be the target of the Wolves’ concentration.
As soon as she had everyone’s attention, she strode up to the table, to a spot opposite Kal Radick. She gave herself a slow count of five to look at the map of Small World, then deliberately raised one eyebrow and nodded as if to herself. Only then did she look across the table and say to Radick, “I am glad to see that our reverses on Quentin have not daunted you.”
To either side of her, in her peripheral vision, she could see Marks and Ulan shifting position slightly and looking at each other. Their uneasy reaction confirmed her guess that she had not even been supposed to be here for this bidding.
He ignores me, he cuts me out. Me, Anastasia Kerensky.
The realization added fire to her resolve; she felt anger now, as well as justification. She channeled that anger into a wealth of dubious scorn as she spoke to Radick again, “But . . . Small World?”
Galaxy Commander Radick regarded her with a look of dawning unease. He replied carefully, as befitted the circumstances, when he must know that she had some agenda of her own, but not yet what that agenda might be. “Star Colonel Kerensky, would you care to participate in the batchall?”
“No.”
She saw him relax a little at her answer, and under the relaxation noted a flicker of what had to be carefully suppressed contempt. He said, “The Star Colonel may remain and observe the bidding if she chooses.”
Anastasia smiled a little at Radick, just to unnerve him further. “I am not interested in observing the bidding.”
That caused a whispered buzz of comment among the assembled officers. They looked from her to Radick and back again, aware like their commander that something was up, but not knowing what.
“Then what is your purpose in coming here?” Radick asked.
“I wish to declare a separate batchall at this time.”
The blunt statement brought on another, louder buzz of comment. Anastasia pushed on. “I am bidding myself, and myself only, to fight against Kal Radick in a Trial of Possession.”
This time, there was dead silence in the room for the space of several breaths. Then Radick spoke. “For which of my resources or possessions do you intend to challenge?”
“Your rank as Galaxy Commander. And leadership of the Steel Wolves.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that they are yours and that I want them to be mine.” She met his gaze across the map table, where the three-dimensional topography of Small World lay spread out between them. “We are Wolves, are we not—what more is needed?”
“Rank and position are not appropriate stakes for a Trial of Possession.” Radick looked at her narrowly.
“Judging by your own words, it seems that you intend a Trial of Grievance.”
Anastasia kept her face unchanged with an effort, though she could not keep her chin from lifting slightly in the face of Radick’s insult and her shoulders going back. She had not anticipated so deft a counterchallenge.
If she were to fight a Trial of Grievance against Radick and win, she still would not have the rank and position that she desired. To obtain it, she would have to fight her way through a Trial of Position with all of Radick’s other Star Colonels—who would almost certainly turn their attention to eliminating her, the outsider who had defeated a popular commander, before moving against each other.
And he insults me as well, she thought, implying that I am ignorant of proper tradition and protocol. He thinks that making me angry will make me stupid. Wrong, Kal Radick. It only makes me angry.
“You have done me no direct injury, Galaxy Commander. I have no Grievance.” She was in motion again, stalking around the perimeter of the map table, ending—deliberately—just outside comfortable speaking distance with Radick. “You, on the other hand, have something that I want.”
She took another two steps, which brought her well inside speaking distance. “And I believe that I am better suited than you to possess it.”
Radick stood his ground. “How so?”
She pivoted and threw out an arm in a deliberately theatrical gesture, pointing to the map.
“Look at this!” Her voice was pitched to carry; she was talking now to all the Star Colonels as well as the Galaxy Commander. “Small World! Of what use to us is a place whose very name proclaims its insignificance?”
“If the Star Colonel had ever planned a long-term campaign, instead of fighting in the campaigns of others,”
Radick said, “she would perhaps understand the need for incorporating more worlds into our power base.”
Anastasia sneered. “We are Wolves; we are our own power base. And what will the rulers of the Inner Sphere say of us when they look at this campaign?”
She paused and let the silence drag out, waiting for the intake of breath and slight shift in expression that told her Radick was about to speak. Then she spoke first, forestalling him: “I will tell you what they will say. They will say, ‘The Steel Wolves are no real threat to us. They choose easy targets these days because their leader, Kal Radick, is a cautious man.” ’
There, she thought. I have said it. He will hear the word: Coward .
She saw the ugly flare of anger in his eyes before he suppressed it, and knew that she had him. She p
ushed on.
“I say again, Galaxy Commander, I am bidding myself against you in a Trial of Possession, your rank and position to be the stakes. Augmented or unaugmented, your choice.”
Radick looked down at her, letting their position emphasize his extra inches of height. “Unaugmented, Star Colonel. Name a time and a place where we can come together, and let this meeting return to its scheduled business.”
“The time is now, and the place is here.” She turned to Star Colonel Marks, who happened to be the nearest of the assembled Warriors. “Clear the floor and make a ring. The Galaxy Commander and I are going to fight.”
18
Steel Wolf Headquarters
The Four Cities, Tigress
May, 3133; local summer
Anastasia stood a little way away from Kal Radick as the chairs were moved and stacked, and the big map table, its tri-vee display extinguished, was shoved up against the room’s far back wall. Once the floor was cleared, the senior officers present formed the ring. The other officers and MechWarriors crowded close behind them as eager spectators—some even climbed up onto the table for a better view. There were more people present than Anastasia remembered; word of the proposed Trial must have spread while she and Kal Radick were talking.
The last chair was moved, and the circle closed. Without bothering to see if Radick followed, Anastasia stepped inside.
She heard his footstep on the tile floor behind her. He had not hesitated. Once she had reached the center of the circle, she turned to face him. He was standing closer to her than she had thought, and he was smiling.
He pulled off his uniform tunic and tossed it aside, out of the ring. He moved with a carelessness that implied contempt for his opponent, as if he didn’t care whether she attacked or not. Any assault would be brushed aside.
“So, Anastasia,” he said. “You look thoughtful. Are you not so eager to fight me, after all?”
“As eager as you are,” Anastasia said. “And more.”
She knew that Radick’s careless pose was a deliberate misdirection. She could see how his feet were planted, how he was keeping his center of gravity low, how he was making sure that she stayed inside his field of view—the forward hundred twenty degrees that defined human eyesight.