45
A Small Neighborhood Restaurant
Geneva, Terra
Prefecture X
April 3134; local spring
Late in the evening after the battle, the Countess of Northwind and Paladin Jonah Levin sat talking over dinner in the small restaurant near the Pension Flambard where Jonah took most of his meals. The meal, and the venue, had been his idea. Tara Campbell had gone directly from the brutal stress of an all-day pitched battle to an equally brutal onslaught of news reporters and the Exarch’s public gratitude, with scarcely a chance to shower and change into a dress uniform, and she had clearly found the experience harrowing. The Genevan media corps were no respecters of personal boundaries, and extravagant public praise from Damien Redburn had clearly done little to wipe out Tara’s earlier, private grievances.
Jonah had watched the Countess of Northwind give her third in-depth personal interview in a row with unflagging courtesy and smiling charm, and had decided that a rescue mission was in order. He’d exercised his authority as a Paladin to break up the conference on the grounds that the Countess’s presence was urgently required within, and had taken her away, going into the depths of the government office building and out again through an inconspicuous service door. From there he brought her by circuitous ways to his neighborhood restaurant, where the proprietor neither knew nor cared that the middle-aged offworld gentleman who dined there regularly was a Paladin of the Sphere.
Jonah could tell even before they arrived at the restaurant that he had made the right choice. Tara Campbell said little until they were seated discreetly at a corner table not visible from the street. Perhaps, Jonah reflected, the owner knew who his guests were, after all. Then the tension that had held her together in public seemed to break all at once like a cut string, leaving her seeming much tireder, much younger, and much less self-assured.
“Thanks for getting me out of there,” she said. “One more stupid question, and I would have cracked . . . and the way I feel right now, they’re all stupid questions.”
“Sleep and a good meal will help,” he promised.
“Will it make the news reporters any brighter? Will it make the Exarch—” She stopped and closed her mouth tightly. After a moment, she picked up her dinner roll and began breaking it apart into small, even pieces. Her hands were trembling. “Maybe I need to go home and go to bed right now. Except I can’t—we blew it up, you know, so that the Wolves couldn’t have it.”
The fate of Castle Northwind had been included in Tara Campbell’s original detailed report to the Exarch: a bare, concise statement, stripped clean of emotional resonance. Jonah was distressed with himself now for taking it at face value. He had thought of the castle as a landmark only, never realizing that it had also been the home of someone’s heart.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He continued, gently, “I know that food and rest don’t help with everything . . . but in the morning, not everybody will be stupid.”
Tara Campbell gave a shaky laugh. “I’ll take whatever improvement I can get.”
Dinner arrived—roast beef with horseradish and small new potatoes steamed in their jackets—simple food but filling, and well-prepared. Jonah was pleased to see that Tara, after taking a few tentative mouthfuls, attacked everything with a good appetite. The waiter—an observant man, and the restaurant owner had to know more about his guests that he was letting on—was assiduous in keeping her water glass brimming full no matter how often she emptied it. An all-day battle could leave even the hardiest of MechWarriors in a state of borderline dehydration. By the time the meal had reached its end—a dessert of pears simmered in red wine and flavored with cinnamon—Tara Campbell had relaxed enough to talk.
“I meant what I said about going home, though,” she said, when the conversation came around again to postbattle events. “I know that a lot of people seem to want me to stay here.”
“You’re a local celebrity,” he said. “At least temporarily. You exposed a traitor and you saved Terra from the Steel Wolves.”
“I didn’t expose anyone,” she insisted. “All I did was have the bad luck to be standing in the way when the truth came out. And as for saving Terra—every man and woman in the Northwind Highlanders did as much as I did, and gave as much as I did. Some of them gave everything, and there’s nothing The Republic or anyone else can do to give it back.”
“I know,” Jonah said. He had discovered that bitter truth himself, after the battle on Kurragin, and had taken a long time to come to terms with it. “But it’s you that everyone associates with those things. Whether you like it or not, that gives you a great deal of power at the present moment.”
Tara shook her head and made a pushing-away gesture with one hand. “I don’t want power in Geneva. Northwind is a big enough problem—the economy is shaky, the main DropPort and most of the capital are going to have to be rebuilt from the ground up, and we still have to provide defense for Prefecture III. I don’t know where the money for all of it is going to come from, either. You can’t tax people if they don’t have anything left.”
She gave a tired sigh. “I swear, fighting the Steel Wolves is already starting to look easy by comparison.”
That question at least, Jonah thought, was one that he had an answer for. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” he told her. “I expect that the Senate and the Exarch will be happy to express the thanks of a grateful Republic in the form of an appropriate recovery aid package.”
“Especially if I go back to Northwind with it?”
“Your departure will free them of an inconvenient reminder that Exarchs can be mistaken in their judgments, and that Paladins are not incorruptible.”
“Gratitude at a safe distance,” she said. “I can live with that.”
Jonah reminded himself that Tara Campbell had grown up around politics, and that not liking a game didn’t necessarily imply ignorance about how it was played. Less fearful now of her possible disillusionment, he said, “There’s a chance that some people may want to show their gratitude with more than aid packages.”
“What do you mean?”
“With Ezekiel Crow . . . gone . . . there are only sixteen Paladins remaining. And you are the heroine of the hour.”
Her shoulders stiffened. She met his gaze, her blue eyes clear and more than a little angry. “I’ll tell you right now: If they ask, the answer is no. It would be a slap in the face to every Knight of the Sphere who has a right to be considered, and it would be an insult to me, as well. I am the Countess of Northwind, and The Republic of the Sphere does not need to buy my loyalty with another title.”
“I doubt that anyone would think they did.”
“Maybe not,” she conceded, relaxing a little, but still looking dubious. “But even if they do it out of sheer goodwill and the kindness of their hearts, it would be stupid. I’m a decent administrator and a fair-to-middling field commander, and Prefecture III is about all I can handle.”
She grinned at him suddenly. “Ask me again in fifteen years or so, Paladin Levin—maybe then I’ll say yes.”
46
Highlander Encampment
Belgorod, Terra
Prefecture X
April 3134; local spring
The day after the great battle, Will Elliot was back at the table in the Sergeants’ Mess, writing another letter home.
Dear Mother—[he wrote]
By the time this reaches you, everyone on Northwind will probably know that our Countess has done it again, and beaten the Steel Wolves in a big battle here on Terra.
My friends and I are well; all we had to do this time was keep our heads down and let the tanks and BattleMechs do the hard work.
Lexa McIntosh came up to the table with a mug of tea and a sandwich and sat down next to him. She glanced over at the letter and shook her head. “Oh, Will, Will. Didn’t they ever tell you that lying was a sin?”
“She’s my mother,” he said. “Do you think I’m going to tell her what it was really like?”<
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“You’ve got a point there.” Lexa took a bite of her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “She’d just get after you to leave the infantry and come back home.”
“I could do that, you know. When my enlistment’s up.”
“Are you going to?”
“I don’t know yet,” Will said. “I’m thinking about it.”
The question was one that had been occupying his mind off and on for some time now—ever since the dinner in Kildare with his sister and her family, if not before. Sometimes, he missed the mountains of Northwind with an almost physical pain, and there were days when the constant press and presence of his fellow soldiers was enough to make his head hurt. At times like that, all he wanted out of life was to be alone somewhere above the timberline in Red Ledge Pass, with snow on the ground and a clean wind blowing. But he wasn’t certain he could feel the peace there like he used to. He was a different person now, in too many ways.
He set the problem aside and turned back to his letter.
You’ll be happy to know that we won’t have to worry about the Steel Wolves again for a long time. Anastasia Kerensky was badly wounded near the end of the battle, and that took the heart right out of them. When our Countess offered them the chance to get aboard their DropShips and go home for good, they took it.
He didn’t really believe that Anastasia Kerensky was going to stay defeated for all that long. After fighting against her and her armies in three campaigns, Will knew better than that. She’d go home to Tigress, yes, but as soon as she was patched up and back in fighting trim, she’d have the Steel Wolves out making trouble somewhere.
The Countess of Northwind apparently agreed with him. She’d already announced that there was going to be another big recruitment drive once they got home to Northwind, with promotions and reenlistment bonuses for any experienced troopers who chose to stay in. That was something else Will hadn’t told his mother yet.
He was still trying to think of what to write next—something about the fight between Tara Campbell and Ezekiel Crow, he thought; Ruthie’s children would think it was exciting, and his mother would be happy because he wasn’t anywhere in it—when Jock Gordon entered the mess.
“What’s the news of the day?” Jock asked, coming over to join Will and Lexa.
“Our Will here is telling his mother all about the great battle, and how we brought a picnic basket and watched it from the sidelines.”
“I told you,” said Will. “She’s my mother. She gets upset about things.”
Jock nodded in understanding. “Will’s right. You don’t want to worry your mother.”
Lexa looked from one of them to the other. “The two of you are a pair, do you know that?”
“Aye,” said Jock. “But you love us.”
Will let them tease at each other, and went back to his letter.
I don’t know what stories you may have heard about the Paladin that came to help us on Northwind last year—how he turned traitor and abandoned us when the Wolves landed in the city—but I can say that the whole truth is even worse, or at least what I’ve heard of it. He was a wicked man, but our Countess dealt with him the same way she did with the Steel Wolves. I saw what was left of his BattleMech, after the fighting was over, and she’d chopped it into pieces.
Lexa broke off her chaffering with Jock to glance again over Will’s shoulder.
“Just goes to show,” she said. “Never make an enemy of a girl who rides a Hatchetman ’Mech.”
“Are you writing this letter, or am I?” Will demanded in mostly mock indignation.
“I’ve got an interest,” she said. “I’m thinking of stealing some of it for myself. There’s still one or two old flames and partners in crime back home in Barra Station who might be interested.”
“You’re not planning on going home and telling them yourself?” he asked her curiously.
Lexa shook her head. “Not me. I’m taking the Countess’s bonus and signing on for another hitch. Join the infantry and see The Republic.”
“Most of it’s mud,” he said.
“Nah. Some of it’s under three feet of snow, and the rest of it’s desert. But what the hell, it’s home.”
Will, smiling, took up his pen again, realizing that he had in fact, come to a decision.
I’ll be visiting you on leave as soon as the regiment gets back from Terra, but I won’t be staying. I’m going to keep on with the army instead.
Somebody has to keep Northwind safe from people like Anastasia Kerensky and Ezekiel Crow, and right now, it’s us.
My love to everybody—Will
Epilogue
Garden of Earthly Delights
Belgorod DropPort, Terra
Prefecture X
May 3134; local summer
The foyer of the Garden of Earthly Delights was smoky and dim. A man entered and paused at the doorway to speak with the bouncer.
“I want to talk to Suvorov,” he said.
“No one here by that name,” the bouncer replied.
“Give him this,” the man said. He held up a ring—Footfall work, done in red gold etched with an elaborate pattern. “Tell him I’ll be in the bar.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man walked on in. He wore a dark coat with a high collar, despite the warm air outside the Garden of Earthly Delights and the overheated atmosphere within, and a hat that he did not bother to remove. The turned-up collar and the overshadowing hat brim weren’t enough to hide the mass of heavy bandages that covered the entire right side of his face and neck.
“A whiskey,” the man said, sitting on a stool in the bar. The bar was, if possible, even dimmer than the foyer. The drink came. He paid, but didn’t touch it.
A little while later, resplendent in a white suit, Suvorov himself slid onto an adjacent bar stool.
“You remind me of a man,” Suvorov said.
“Many people say that,” the other replied. “They’re all wrong.”
“Ah. I understand. What can I do for you tonight?”
“I need passage off Terra. With a new set of papers.”
“I see. Such things are likely expensive.”
“I believe you hold some funds in trust for a man who is not coming back for them.”
Suvorov raised a finger. The bartender brought him wine mixed with sparkling water.
“I could just keep those funds,” he said. “Since you say the man isn’t coming back.”
He sipped, watching for a reaction.
“You could,” the man said. “But I don’t think you will.”
“Are you the sort of person who remembers his friends?” Suvorov asked.
The man said, “I am.”
“Then the papers will be here tomorrow. Where do you want to go?”
“Off earth. Beyond that is of no importance.”
Suvorov sipped his watered wine. “You remember your friends?” he said again.
“Yes,” the man said. “Nor do I forget my enemies.”
“I would not have thought you did. The deal is arranged. Be here tomorrow at this time. Alas, there are no more funds in the fellow’s account.”
“I understand.” The man with the bandaged face pushed the untouched glass of whiskey away from him and stood to leave.
“Always a pleasure doing business with you,” he said.
With that, he walked out through the foyer and into the night.
Contents
PART ONE Falling Earthward
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
PART TWO Bearing Witness
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
PART THREE Coming to Judgment
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
Epilogue
Service for the Dead Page 18
