A Silence in the Heavens (8 page)

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

A
nastasia 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

A
nastasia 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 fools 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.

She looked about her apartment. She had chosen to live on her own outside the Clan enclave on Tigress for a reason. She had guessed it might come at some point to this. It was time to call on an expert at having the kind of fun that would ease her mind and burn away some of the physical need that threatened to push her off the true path.

It was time to bring out Tassa Kay.

Anastasia turned to her closet and found the clothes she needed. She laid them out on the bed, item by item: the black leather breeches, cut to fit snug against the skin; the black silk shirt; the black leather jacket with its patches from Dieron and Achernar; the boots, polished black leather rising up past the knee.

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.