“If I do not go alone, she will vanish for the night and we will have to do this all over again. And I am tired of drinking beer in Fort Barrett.”
“Good point,” he conceded. “Even beer gets boring after a while. What should I do, then?”
“Wait downstairs and listen. If you hear me call out to you by name, come running with your weapons ready in your hands.”
Darwin nodded. “I can do that.”
“Good.”
Ten minutes passed. The other woman had left the room as soon as her note was delivered. Other parties came and went, off-shift refinery workers leaving the Riggers’ Rest as soldiers from Fort Barrett proper came in. Anastasia rose and drained the last of her beer.
“It is time. Wait for me here, and remember—listen.”
She went up the narrow stairs to the inn’s second floor, and down the hallway to room 9, at the far end. The door was not latched, and stood slightly ajar.
Anastasia pushed on the door a little. It opened. She stepped inside, and the door swung shut. Hearing no sound of an automatic lock clicking over, she suppressed—for the moment—the urge to react violently, and looked around the room for the other woman.
She found her sitting by the writing desk in the corner opposite the door.
“Hello, Galaxy Commander,” the woman said. “I see that you got our message.”
Anastasia took the room’s other chair without waiting for an invitation. “First things first. Who are you, and how were you able to get that message through?”
“Don’t worry about me,” the woman said. “I’m just the hired help. As for how my principal was able to get a message through to you—I’m afraid that’s proprietary information.”
“Whose information? And whose hired help?”
“I think you know.”
“I know whose name was mentioned,” Anastasia said. “But anyone can mention a name.”
The woman smiled. “Maybe so. But Jacob Bannson isn’t a name it pays to mention if you don’t have the man himself backing you up. Which, as it happens, I do.”
“Explain to me why I should believe you.”
“I thought I might have to do that,” the woman said. “So I asked the boss for this.”
She pulled a disc out of the pocket of her tailored jacket and inserted it into the room’s battered tri-vid player. The display unit filled with staticky fuzz which cleared in a few seconds to show an image of Bannson himself. The strong facial features and the full red-orange beard were unmistakable, like a viking of old in a well-cut suit; not for the first time, Anastasia suspected that he cultivated the look on purpose.
Bannson spoke. “The bearer of this disc is acting in accordance with my wishes and is empowered to enter into negotiations in my name. Her likeness is presented now for your comparison.”
The face in the tri-vid changed to an image of the other woman. Anastasia studied it, and was forced to concede that it was a match.
“So you really are who you say you are.” She reached out and turned the tri-vid off. “What does your employer want from me?”
“From you?” the woman asked. “Nothing. In fact, my employer wants to help you achieve your goals.”
“How?”
“By offering you the assistance of a unit or more of trusted mercenaries, including artillery, battle armor, and ’Mechs.”
Anastasia stiffened. “Please convey my thanks to your employer, and let him know that my Wolves and I do not desire mercenary assistance at the present time.”
“Is that your last word on the subject?”
“It is my only word.”
The other woman shrugged. “Whatever you say. But the offer remains open.” She took the disc out of the player and slipped it back into her pocket. Then she gave Anastasia a level look. “And a word of advice from me to you, purely out of the kindness of my heart—”
Anastasia was still offended. “Yes?”
“Clean up your own house before somebody outside cleans it for you. How do you think we got your secret frequency?”
8
Riggers’ Rest Inn
Fort Barrett
Oilfields Coast
Northwind
November 3133; dry season
Will, Jock, and Lexa were celebrating Will’s imminent promotion at the Riggers’ Rest. The inn was not so fancy a dining place that the management would throw out a trio of foot soldiers for daring to drink in the bar. “If our uniforms aren’t good enough to pass the dress code,” Lexa had decreed when they started out for the evening, “then we don’t want to go there.”
On the other hand, it was close enough to uptown to serve good food as well as good booze, and the owner had a soft spot for the men and women of the Regiments, being a discharged twenty-year veteran who’d bought the inn with his mustering out pay. It was, in short, an ideal spot in which to celebrate a promotion.
The time was the odd midway hour of the day, a bit too late to count as afternoon, a bit too early to be called evening, and the bar of the Riggers’ Rest was mostly deserted. What looked like the local after work crowd was filtering out as Will and his two friends entered, and the dinner crowd had not yet shown up.
Jock and Lexa were already intent on getting drunk—or if not completely drunk, at the very least well-lubricated. Will was amused; this was his party, but it looked like he’d gotten stuck with being the sober one again tonight.
The same thing had happened at the victory party in the White Horse back in Tara, after the battle on the plains. He supposed it was a reflex left over from his civilian days, when he’d worked as a wilderness guide leading parties of off-world tourists through the forests of the Rockspire Mountains. Put him in the company of people determined to be foolish, and he felt responsible for making certain they all got home.
If life as a soldier hadn’t kicked that impulse out of him, he supposed that nothing ever would. There would be no hell-raising for Sergeant-to-be Will Elliot tonight. He resigned himself to nursing his original mug of beer and enjoying a grilled seafood platter instead.
“Try the jellyfish skins,” Lexa said, halfway through the spread of appetizers.
Will looked at the bowl full of salt-encrusted, semi-transparent flakes. “The what?”
Lexa gave him a wicked grin. “Jellyfish skins. The coast here is the only place you can get them made fresh. Flash-irradiated isn’t the same.”
“I don’t know—”
“Trust your auntie Lexa. It’s probably the last chance you’ll get.”
An awkward silence fell over the table. Lexa had stated a truth they had been avoiding. After tonight, the three of them would never have quite the same easy friendship as before. The difference in rank, however slight, would always be there, coloring their interactions with obligations and duties on Will’s part that the other two did not share.
He found himself hoping that promotion would come their way as well, to ease the unwanted estrangement, but could not help feeling dubious. Jock Gordon was steady as granite, but not a particularly fast or imaginative thinker; Lexa McIntosh was fast and imaginative, all right—and a crack shot with any weapon that needed aiming—but she hadn’t completely lost the wild streak that had landed her in the Regiment to start with.
Will drew back from that line of thought with an inward sigh. He wasn’t accustomed to thinking of his friends in that manner—it had been somebody else’s job to do so until now. Feeling vaguely guilty, he scooped up a handful of the jellyfish skins and crunched them down. They tasted surprisingly good.
“I give up,” he told Lexa. “You were right.”
“Of course I’m right. Your turn, Jock—you try them.”
Jock shook his head doubtfully. He was never an eager candidate for new experiences. “I don’t know…”
“Do you want everyone to think that you’re a tourist?” Lexa demanded.