39

The Fort

City of Tara, Northwind

June, 3133; local summer

The Highlanders’ Combat Information Center lay deep within the hardened bombproof recesses of the Fort. Ordinary residents of Northwind’s capital city might be frightened out of their sleep by the intermittent flashes and rumblings that came from the direction of the DropPort, where local aerospace defense fighters contended with the Steel Wolves for control of the skies. Down in CIC, however, neither light nor sound could penetrate. Only the flicker of display monitors and the hiss and slide of message printouts falling into receiving trays gave any hint that somewhere outside a battle was raging.

Tara Campbell had been in CIC since before the Steel Wolf DropShips had landed, living on stale sandwiches and mugs of strong sweet tea and listening to the battle reports as they came in. She knew that the figures and the dry summaries didn’t tell it all. Men and women were dying, burning like meteors across the sky above the DropPort; and miles away in Red Ledge Pass, Steel Wolves and Highlanders confronted each other in the dark.

She wished for a moment that she was out there with the troops holding the pass, and that Colonel Griffin had been the one left behind in bombproof safety. She knew from experience that it was much easier to be a junior officer, or even a Colonel, out in the field. Your only worry then was the enemy directly in front of you. A Prefect, on the other hand, had to worry about everything: the Wolves in the pass, the retrofitted ’Mechs still in the factories, the reserve air cover that had yet to be scraped together from God-knew-where.

The door to the Combat Information Center sighed open, breaking into her exhausted thoughts and admitting Ezekiel Crow. The Paladin was clean-uniformed and freshly shaven. If Tara hadn’t known for a fact that he’d been awake almost as long she had, those minor changes would have done a surprisingly good job of convincing her that he’d shown up alert and well-rested after a full night’s sleep.

Paladins, too, had to worry about everything.

“Countess,” he said, by way of greeting.

Her answering nod was formal and correct, a triumph of training over exhaustion. “Paladin.”

“What’s the status?”

“The Wolves aren’t packing up and going home. But we knew that already.” She mustered enough energy for a smile—the troops, after all, were watching. “The good news is, they seem to have halted for the night.”

Crow came over to join her at the map of Red Ledge Pass displayed on the planning table. The red lights that marked known and conjectured enemy units hadn’t moved in over an hour; she couldn’t remember whether they’d advanced at all while the Paladin had been away from CIC.

Now he studied the map gravely and said, “Rather than trying to force a narrow road in the dark? I’m not sure that I blame them. What they lose in time, they’ll make up for in daylight by being well-rested.”

“You really know how to cheer a woman up, my lord.”

He shook his head regretfully. “Heartening lies aren’t what’s called for at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“Damn. Because I’ve run out of good ones to tell myself.” She gestured at one of the work-stations, currently attended by a young woman in regimental fatigues—Corporal Baker, according to her name tag. “Meteorology is starting to make unhappy noises about weather patterns to the southeast of here. We could end up fighting in the rain, or worse.”

Crow considered the meteorology screen and the map table, and nodded gravely. “True enough. On the other hand, all that low cloud cover seems likely to discourage attack from the air.”

“Good.” The Clan Wolf aerospace fighters had been yet another factor delaying the combat readiness of the converted Construction– and MiningMechs. Moving the new battle machines out of the factory and into the streets of the city would make them into easy and convenient targets if the Wolves’ air wing wasn’t neutralized first. “Once the skies are safe—”

She fell silent, twisting a strand of her hair around her forefinger as she tried to estimate the point when local air support would have inflicted enough damage on the Wolves that the converted ’Mechs could roll out without taking too many losses. The answer eluded her—the part of her brain that normally handled such calculations with ease was fogged by lack of sleep.

She felt the light touch of a hand on her forearm, and suppressed a start.

Turning her head, she saw that the hand belonged to Ezekiel Crow. The Paladin looked concerned, causing Tara to wonder exactly how much exhaustion she herself betrayed to an outside observer, if the visible signs of it could worry him.

“Prefect,” he said. “A word with you in private?”

Translation, she thought, let’s not disturb the rank and file with this discussion. She nodded and followed Crow out into the empty, dimly lit corridor.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he turned to face her, stopping just inside casual speaking distance—not close enough that a chance passerby might notice and remark on it, but still a change from his usual punctilious formality. This close, she could see the lines of fatigue marking his face, and not even the natural tan of his complexion could hide the dark circles under his eyes.

When he spoke, his voice was blunt but kind.

“Countess, you will be of no use to Northwind tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep tonight.”

“I shouldn’t leave CIC—”

“Let me take over that duty.” He gave her a wry smile. “A Paladin will function as well as a Prefect for reassurance and inspirational purposes, at least for an hour or so.”

The thought of getting some rest was tempting, but she felt obliged to give resistance one more feeble try. “You need sleep as much as I do.”

“I caught a quick nap in my office earlier—not much, but sufficient. You need to go do the same.”

She was still reluctant, but when she found herself struggling to smother a yawn even as she stood there, she gave in. “All right. But only for a couple of hours. And call me at once if anything changes.”

“Of course,” he said, and stepped back inside CIC.

She didn’t bother going to her quarters in the New Barracks. They were too far away. If she was going to take an hour or so off for sleep, she didn’t want to waste any of it.

Her office—the small temporary office down here in the depths, rather than the personal office in her quarters or the large formal office several levels above her head in the Fort proper—contained a couch, an elderly specimen that might have been intended for the comfort of visitors, but more than likely was meant to be used as she was planning to use it now. She half dropped, half fell onto the cracked green leather cushions, not bothering to loosen her clothing or take off her shoes, and was asleep within seconds.