Down below, out on the landing field, the infantry had gotten themselves clear of the DropShip and into lines for boarding transport vehicles to take them to their assigned barracks. The cargo ramp was now spewing forth other stuff than soldiers: hoverbikes, all-terrain vehicles, armored cars, tanks, and self-propelled guns; all the muscle and sinew of mechanized war. The vehicles, armor, and artillery drew up in ranks on the tarmac as they emerged. Farrell’s mercenaries, Crow thought, were a fearsomely well-equipped group.
“It won’t happen,” Tara Campbell said, breaking into his silence. “What you’re thinking about. This”—she gestured at the field below—“is all about stopping it before it happens.”
“I know,” he said. “And I know that hiring mercenaries was my suggestion in the first place, and that I argued for it until I convinced you. But still.” He looked out over the growing array of military machinery with a growing sense of ill-defined unease. “One worries.”
The mercenaries’ BattleMechs were offloading from the DropShip now. The smaller ones came first—although “smaller” was a relative term, since even the least of them towered over the big self-propelled guns. Crow spotted first a Spider, then a Firestarter, then a Mad Cat III. Nobody was making do with Industrial or Agricultural Mods here; all the mercenary force’s ’Mech’s had been designed for battle from the start. Then the last of the BattleMechs emerged from the DropShip’s shadowed interior: a Jupiter, one hundred tons of heavily armored slaughter and destruction, One-Eyed Jack Farrell’s own deadly darling.
“They’re certainly a well-equipped bunch,” Tara Campbell observed. A wistful expression passed over her features. “I wish the Council loved its own Regiments enough to vote us money for hardware like that. Hell, I wish there was money enough available that I’d feel right about asking for it.”
She stepped away from the window with a sigh. “I suppose it’s time to go shake Mr. Farrell’s hand and bid him welcome to Northwind. I hope he wasn’t expecting to get a formal reception.”
“His kind of people seldom do,” Crow said.
22
Balfour-Douglas Petrochemicals Offshore Drilling Station #47
Oilfields Coast
Northwind
January 3134; dry season
Evidence. Damning evidence, spread out across the screen of the data console in Anastasia Kerensky’s quarters.
The medic Ian Murchison had given her nothing more than a name, an account of a disturbing—and unreported—incident, and a conjecture. That had been a good move on Murchison’s part, Anastasia thought, reminding her that his Bondsman status didn’t give him any room or authority to dig further, followed up by throwing her detective challenge right back into her lap.
And it had been a clever move as well. Murchison had slipped out from under responsibility by denouncing the Galaxy Commander’s known favorite, thus forcing Anastasia to carry out the rest of the investigation herself.
She was the only person on #47 with a high enough security override authority that she could track messages sent out over her name, or with her access codes; and she was the only person who could swear definitely that some particular message was one that she had never sent.
Once she had found the first such message, the rest came much more easily. She was able to track the use of those access codes to set up hidden mailboxes, and from the mailboxes she was able to find records kept in them and—foolishly!—never erased. Carrying out a search like that was not a knack most people would expect Anastasia Kerensky to have. She was all Steel Wolf Warrior, and Warriors were supposed to be above such things.
Tassa Kay, though, had an un-Wolflike interest in learning all sorts of unseemly skills. She had learned the rudiments of this one from a temporary lover several planets back. Anastasia had needed almost two weeks to uncover what her old bedmate could have brought to light inside a few minutes, but that did not matter. She had taken the time, and now she had the proof.
Now to wait. Nicholas Darwin had been away inspecting the DropShips all this while. That was yet another point in support of Murchison’s theory: Darwin could pass off a healing knife wound as an injury gained during that period. He would be coming back today, though, and sooner or later—sooner, if she were not where he could easily find her in the oil rig’s public spaces—he would come to her quarters.
She was ready for him. She would wait.
She had dressed for the occasion in Tassa Kay’s boots and leathers. The choice was fitting, she thought. She had been playing at Tassa Kay when she first met Nicholas Darwin, and she had been playing at Tassa Kay when she brought him home to her bed. She should be playing at Tassa again now, for at least this one more time.
One more time, she thought, and never Tassa Kay again?
That was tempting, but in her heart Anastasia knew better. She might need Tassa Kay again sometime, and it was not her way to throw out a good knife because she’d been fool enough to cut her hand with it.
She poured herself a tumbler of the late drill rig manager’s potent liquor, then sat on the edge of the bed not drinking it. After a while footsteps sounded outside in the corridor—she tensed, then relaxed—and Nicholas Darwin entered.
Anastasia saw him again as if for the first time: the compact, muscular body; the dark skin that had always so pleasantly surprised her with its smoothness under her touch; the bright black eyes and the laughing mouth. He had been the best of all her lovers in so many ways, a match for her in temper and in stamina, with but a single flaw…
She set down her tumbler of whiskey, rose from the bed, and greeted him with a kiss.
“How are things on the DropShips?” she asked, pulling away before the kiss could deepen into something more. More would distract Darwin, which was good; it would also distract her, which was not.
“They are doing well. All the modifications are holding, and the ship captains report ready to lift at any time.”
“Good.” She took his hand and led him to the edge of the bed, pushing him on the shoulder to make him sit down. “That will do for a summary. We can go over the details later.”
Anastasia knelt on the bed behind Nicholas, with her arms wrapped around him and her lips close to the skin of his neck. She let her hands tease at the collar button of his shirt—the garment was Clan warm-climate issue, the fabric light and breathable but strong, made to resist rips and tears.
“What are you doing?” he asked. His voice sounded amused, warm and rich with anticipation.
“Unwrapping you,” she said.
She had the collar button undone, and moved on to the second button, her fingers teasing and tickling. Her teeth nibbled at his ear.
She continued in a whisper. “No way to play if the wrapping is still on.”
She undid the third button, then the fourth, and ran the fingernails of her left hand across the bare skin underneath. At the same time, she tickled the upper curve of his ear with her tongue, making him gasp a little with surprise and pleasure. He had nicely shaped ears, close to his head and not over large, and his skin tasted pleasantly of salt.
He laughed. “Missed me, then, while I was away?”
“Yes,” she said, and grabbed with her trailing left hand at the collar of his partially unbuttoned shirt.
With one sharp motion she jerked it down to midchest, pinioning his arms to his sides. Her right hand brought the point of her dagger up against the side of his throat, tight against the skin over the carotid artery.