“By challenging you for command in a Trial of Position.”

“You cannot. You have no standing here.” She paused, hedged. “Unless…” Only one thing might back up such a claim: unless Tassa Kay was Clan, and a Wolf.

A fact Tassa proved by reaching up to pull her necklace charm out from her shirt: a clear, faceted data crystal, banded with golden trim.

The star captain grounded herself back in the conversation, putting together an earlier comment by Tassa Kay with her recent orders. “You plan to accompany us back to Tigress.” It was not a question; almost coming out as an accusation. Her resolve hardened. “You believe Kal Radick will support you so easily?”

With a quick yank Tassa broke the chain, then tossed the military codex to Nikola. “You will find your answers in there.”

It took a single moment to power up the computer built into Torrent’s office desk—her office desk!—and slip the faceted data crystal into a small slot along one edge of the spotless surface. The holographic emitter charged to life, throwing up a white screen over which scrolled two-dimensional pages of text, dates and a directory of video reports. Tassa Kay’s military history, dating back from Achernar, through a military operation on Dieron and before that on the Republic world of Marfik.

And more. Tassa’s original Trial of Position as a Mech Warrior and Star Colonel. Also her full genetic history, and a note of her victory in winning a Bloodname from the House of—

“You are…“ Nikola began, then swallowed dryly to coax greater strength out of her voice. “That is, we have another…”

Tassa shook back her mane of dark, red hair and awarded Nikola Demos a poisonous smile.

“The name you are looking for,” Tassa said with a generous helping of serious humor, “is Kerensky.”

Epilog

Blackout

ComStar HPG Station: Stryker-A7

Achernar

19 March 3133

Helping Raul over the larger piles of rubble and through the twisted wreckage that had once been the HPG station’s front entry, Jessica Searcy worked to keep her opinions from showing. There was still too much left to work out between Raul and herself, but she had hope for the first time in days, and she didn’t care for the way he pushed himself only one day after so much dehydration and blood loss. He was, if nothing else, a patient. He was also a man she had cared for—did care for—deeply.

The compound looked better from the outside, Jessica decided, getting her first look at the ruined interior. Fire-blackened walls and a missile-scarred street was all that remained to tell of the recent battle, that and a scorched superstructure running up one side of the support tower into a twisted framework on the back of the mammoth dish.

The interior destruction was far worse, striking her like a heavy slap in the face.

Consoles sat darkened at every customer service desk. Some monitors had blown outward, as if from a massive power surge. Dark, greasy smoke stains blackened the ceiling overhead. The acrid, ozone smell of an electrical fire hung thick and cloying in the air.

Glass slivers littered the floor and stuck into seat backs as if shot there from a gun. The damage reminded Jessica of the various shards and splinters she had removed from Raul’s neck and shoulder, once the corpsmen dragged him out of the Jupiter’s cockpit: twelve deep lacerations, counting the shard he had pulled from his own shoulder. Yes, he’d have a good scar by which to remember the day. And why did she feel guilty about that?

She hadn’t actually meant for him to get hurt.

Well, she also believed—truly believed—that Raul hadn’t meant for her to get hurt either. But was she ready to stop making him feel guilty about it?

“What the blazes is he doing here?” Raul asked, tensing beneath her touch.

Erik Sandoval-Groell picked his way over a collapsed portion of the wire-hung ceiling, dusting chalky residue from his hands and glaring daggers at Raul. The young lord had a smudge of charcoal over one ear where he shaved up his hairline. His topknot had seen better times, sweat-matted and streaked with plaster.

A burly infantryman—their driver and courtesy guard—stepped between the two men until Raul waved him aside. Erik somehow managed to look down his nose at the taller soldier, but afforded Raul something akin to respect. Not of equals, certainly, but better than he awarded the average man.

“Do not worry. Your Governor Haidall allowed Legate Stempres and I the courtesy of twenty-four hours before liftoff. Stempres is still packing. I thought I’d use the time to make certain the HPG was down.”

Raul nodded, as if expecting no less. “What about your toady, Michael Eus? Any sign of him?” The Governor’s expulsion edict, arranged the previous night and which Jessica had read about this morning, had not stopped with Erik Sandoval and Brion Stempres. All Swordsworn military forces and quite a few civilian managers of companies with economic ties to the Sandovals were joining them. All but Michael Eus, who had gone to ground.

“I’m certain he will turn up,” Erik promised darkly.

At the most inopportune time, Jessica felt certain. She watched Raul survey the room, and nod at a nearby ComStar manager who left his technicians and joined the small group. “Quite the mess,” he greeted Raul, trading a handshake that belonged more in a mahogany-trimmed boardroom than a ruined station. Raul introduced him as Hanson Doles, chief operations manager for Stryker Productions. “I never thought I’d see the day I’d be glad to be out of business.”

“We’ll have you running again as soon as we can spare enough engineers and material to patch up the dish,” Raul told him.

Doles slumped a bit. “From our own early evaluations, that may prove to be optimistic. We were fortunate enough to be spared when the net went down, but whatever gave us immunity, well, the blackout looks to have a hold of us now. We get no test return from Ronel, or out of Genoa.”

Jessica had been wondering about that. The interior of the compound looked bad, true, but in a superficial way, like a scalp wound that bleeds worse than its actual severity.

“You can move the dish?” Jessica asked, and felt Raul tighten under her touch.

“The dish was locked onto a strong signal from Ronel when it went down,” Doles told her. “Our margin of error allows us to still try and use it, at least for another four days. Once per day we swing through a good position for Ronel and for Genoa. But so far, no return. We may be down for good.”

Erik appeared cheered by the news, though he frowned again at Raul’s easy shrug. “Of all the scenarios I ran through in my mind,” Erik said, “that you would force the charges to detonate was not one of them. Even after I chased you—Tassa Kay, whoever was in that Leigonnaire–from the city, I didn’t see it coming.”

“That’s called détente.” Raul glanced around the open room. “With the HPG out of our way, there’s nothing left to fight over.”

The nobleman smiled, thin and cold. “You win your world back, and I go home to Tikonov as a hero of the people. Of my people.” He caught Jessica’s look of confusion, and politely addressed himself to her. “My orders were to deny this station to the Steel Wolves. It was the reason I thought the Swordsworn and Republic could work together.”

“Not a mistake you will make again,” Jessica said frostily.

“No. Not again,” Erik agreed. “Still, it was my foresight that prevented a loss of the compound to Torrent’s Steel Wolves, and our arrival at the spaceport which turned the battle. A modest victory, considering the forces I had to work with. In Caesar’s Game, I believe that should be worth some kind of prize. A promotion, and perhaps a barony.”