The three Steel Wolf DropShips formed a triangle around their primary staging area with two kilometers to a side. He reviewed that arrangement every day as he jogged the perimeter for a morning workout. Acceptable, he decided again. The Lupus had followed down their Triumph–class aerodyne, the Wulfstag, waiting until the massive troop carrier ground to a halt using Highlake Basin as a modified landing field. The Stealthy Paw’s arrival completed their defensive perimeter. Plows leveled a very rudimentary runway, and as his OmniFighters returned they coasted into the protective field at the center.

Four Omnifighters, returning without Star Captain Mehta. That was today’s problem.

He had brought down two more Jagatai with the Lupus, bringing his on-planet total to six craft. Three of the fighter craft remained under camouflage tarps. Torrent drove by close enough to make certain, passing between them and his first rank of VTOL craft. The artificial wind generated by his high-speed tugged at the tarp edges and stirred up yet another layer of dust. He knew that two Visigoths sat out on the runway as his ready-alert interceptors. Which meant there was still one fighter unaccounted for, being worked on inside the Stealthy Paw’s maintenance bay. Something told him he had a fifty-percent chance of guessing who that one belonged to, and his instincts sniffed at Star Commander Xera.

It was his own fault, leaving his decision open for as long as he had. But with the battles on Achernar to be decided by ground forces, the star colonel indulged himself in testing the pilots.

Torrent grabbed up a headset lying on the floor next to his seat, and held it next to his ear. Idle conversation—two tank drivers arguing about the merits of the Scimitar Mark II. Torrent ordered them to clear the channel and then used the frequency to contact the Wulfstag. His report, and seeing the aerodyne carrier, reminded him of more unfinished business. So long as he was out and about…

“Wulfstag,” an on-duty communications officer acknowledged.

“Wulfstag. This is Star Colonel Torrent.” He gave the other man a moment to sharpen his wits. “Connect me with Star Captain Demos. Wherever she is.”

“It will take me a minute to locate her, Star Colonel,” the man said, trying to buy himself time.

“Bargained well.” Torrent grinned to himself at the thought of the other man’s sudden realization. “You have one minute.”

Just to see, Torrent began a slow count of the seconds. He did not set impossible tasks for his crew, but he expected them to perform to high standards where he was concerned. He would give the communications officer sixty seconds, and then he would give him an extra shift.

The man came back within forty. “I have Star Captain Demos, sir. She is on maneuvers near the Taibek Hills.”

Torrent placed her on his mental map of the area. Twenty kilometers away, where the Tanager Mountains bent north to go around Hahnsak and the B’her farming valley. “Commendable.” His praise was short, but effective. “Patch her through.”

“Star Colonel Torrent.” Nikola Demos’s voice sounded shaky, as if her Mobile HQ was bouncing her over some rough terrain. “How may I serve you?”

“Are you overly busy?”

“No, Star Colonel. Taking an aerial view of our forward posts.”

She was in a VTOL. That explained the chopping noise cutting apart her voice—the blades of the aircraft. Torrent nodded. He guided the Fox in a gentle swerve that pointed him directly toward the Okinawa–class carrier. “Nikola. Meet me at the Stealthy Paw. We have matters to discuss.” He threw the headset back down onto the floor.

Grounding the Fox hovercraft at the foot of the Okinawa’s narrow ramp, Torrent secured the vehicle and cracked his door. The full heat of Achernar’s high desert plateau slammed into him with physical force. It felt as if the heat were sucking the moisture right out of his body. He shucked his jacket, stripping back down to field pants and a black tank top, and left the jacket and his service cap in the vehicle.

He paused halfway up the ramp, gazing over the dry lake, and inhaled deeply as if testing the air for the scent of predators, or prey. Achernar smelled dry and abandoned. From his staging area, it was difficult to believe that such an out-of-the-way world had suddenly become so important to Kal Radick and the Steel Wolves. Torrent wiped a large hand over the back of his head, brushing away sweat and dirt. Looks were often deceiving. Reviewing battleroms from the recent assaults had reinforced that old maxim.

The Okinawa’s main bay—its largest space with most of the ship’s OmniFighters and conventional aircraft grounded outside on the lake bed—had been converted into a primary maintenance area. From the wide-open bay doors Torrent noticed one thing immediately.

No one was working.

His disposition took a dark turn as he walked past torn-open vehicles and infantry battlesuits downchecked for preventative maintenance. He saw an abandoned welder, and only barely picked up the acrid, fading stench of hot metalwork. Grease and paint were much stronger, but then with so many barrels cracked open and bleeding fumes into the air, they would be. Whatever had happened here had stopped work better than thirty minutes before, and there had obviously been no resolution.

His workforce gathered around a Jagatai, the OmniFighter shining bright silver from fresh armor but only partly repainted. He bulldozed through the ring of spectators, shouldering aside those who were in his way without breaking his stride, and walked right up to the side of the craft where the pilot’s name was painted.

Star Commander Xera. Just as he’d thought. And instead of listing her command as Ripper Flight, under her name was the new callsign Broken Fang.

No, it wasn’t. Torrent yanked the dark glasses off his head, tucked them into his belt. Actually it read Broken Fan with the “g” still missing. Paint and stencils sat on a nearby work platform. That would be Xera provoking the situation by trying to co-opt Star Captain Mehta’s flight callsign, slowly assuming his position. Drops of bright red blood darkened toward drier brown on the nonskid deck at his feet. A fight.

He swung about, and the look in his eyes sent most people back to work. The ones who hadn’t slipped away after his obvious arrival, that is. The slow-learners. Those who stayed behind shifted about on nervous feet, the techs waiting to finish work on the aerospace OmniFighter.

Except for two.

Star Commander Drake stood closest to him. Torrent studied him head to foot, noting the dark smear of blood under his split lip and the righteous fire burning behind his pale green eyes. The man had fallen into Xera’s trap, pulling her away from the Jagatai and earning a fist or foot for his effort. Not even the five minutes it must have taken Torrent to arrive had slackened his fury. Or it had been incredibly strong.

Xera stood a more relaxed post off to one side. A master tech and two apprentices separated the two pilots. Not keeping them apart—lower-castes did not interfere in a fight between warriors—but showing support in the way they stood closer to Xera than Drake. Torrent noted that, too.

“You two should have taken care of this three days ago.” He kept his deep voice under careful control, simply pointing out the facts. “A hot stick is not enough. If either of you had an ounce of Laren Mehta’s leadership potential, you would have challenged sooner.”

Neither Star Commander said a word, which was to their credit. He glanced at Xera. “You struck Drake outside a circle of equals?”

She nodded. “He laid hands on me without permission. That is an attack.”

As Torrent had already surmised. “Do either of you have an official challenge?”