Michael Griffin was not an unperceptive man. He was as self-aware as the next person and by no means stupid. He knew quite well that he had succumbed early on to Tara Campbell’s particular combination of courage, beauty, and charm, and he was equally certain that the Countess had never come close to regarding him in a similar light. But it was to him, and not to the Paladin, that she had earlier given the task of holding Red Ledge Pass.

An electric runabout waited beside the VTOL landing pad. The vehicle required no driver, being self-steering over its programmed path to and from the castle, and Griffin boarded it at once. The VTOL pilot had not yet finished his postflight routine; Griffin would send the runabout back to the pad empty, and the pilot could come up to the castle later if their stay turned out to last more than a few hours.

Castle Northwind’s butler—an impressive individual who reminded Griffin of a regimental Sergeant Major in mufti—was waiting for him at the main entrance.

“The Countess is in the lesser hall, sir. Up those stairs and to the right.”

“Thank you,” Griffin said, and followed the directions up to a large room—“lesser” only by comparison with the great hall below, which was big enough to contain an entire political rally, if some Count or Countess ever wanted to hold one. This room was considerably cozier, with a thick carpet, a fire crackling on the hearth, and a view of snow-covered mountains through the leaded-glass windows.

Tara Campbell and Ezekiel Crow were working together at a long table covered with folders and printouts and portable data terminals. The Countess’s aide, Captain Bishop—another Tara; sometimes it seemed to General Griffin as if half the female twentysomethings on Northwind answered to that name—had another, smaller table off in one corner, with its own data terminal and stack of papers.

The Countess looked up and smiled as he entered the room. “General Griffin! Thank you for coming so promptly.”

“Orders from the Prefect do have a few advantages,” he said. “I bumped aside five other people and got the next available military VTOL leaving the New Barracks.”

“A wise decision,” said Ezekiel Crow. “You’ve seen the intel report?”

“Of course,” Griffin said. “It’s another reason I moved as rapidly as I did. The prospect of Anastasia Kerensky active again on Northwind is most disturbing.”

The Countess ran a hand through her short blond hair, making it stand straight up. “That’s probably the understatement of the year. When you add in the stories about those Steel Wolf DropShips never returning home to Tigress, it’s worse than disturbing—it’s downright scary.”

Griffin nodded. “I take your meaning. We have to assume that those DropShips are somewhere in the Northwind system—the question is where.”

“It would be handy if we had some idea when they reentered Northwind space,” the Countess said. “But with the observation post at the jump point still only working about half the time, we’re as likely to have missed them as caught them sneaking in.”

Captain Bishop looked up from her workstation’s display long enough to ask, “But how do you hide something as big as an entire flotilla of DropShips?”

“With considerable difficulty, I should imagine,” said Ezekiel Crow. “But Anastasia Kerensky is daring and resourceful; she will have thought of something.”

“They could be lurking on the far side of one of the moons,” Captain Bishop said.

The Countess gave her aide an approving glance. “That’s a good thought. We can send a couple of DropShips up there as soon as we can spare them, to make a swing around and check for signs of life. But this new piece of intelligence puts Kerensky or someone a whole lot like her down on the Oilfields Coast. And I don’t think that the Galaxy Commander is going to stray far from her ships.”

“So you believe that she’s hidden them here on the planetary surface somehow,” Griffin said.

“Exactly,” the Countess said. “And we can’t look for her on the surface using remotes. There’s too many places to look, and it takes an instruction set a lot more complex than ‘fly past and report anything not logged on previous flyby.’”

“You’ll have to send troops out of Fort Barrett to conduct a reconnaissance in force.”

The Countess turned to Ezekiel Crow. “I told you he’d see the point right away.” Then to Griffin she said, “You’re right—I want a reconnaissance in force. And I want you to be the one who conducts it.”

“I’m honored by your trust, my lady.”

The Countess gave him a wry smile. “You should be furious with me for handing you another chance to get yourself killed. But the last time I asked you for something impossible, you delivered. Now your good deeds are being rewarded because I’m doing it again.”

She paused for a moment, while Griffin heard only the fire on the hearth, crackling and hissing, and the soft but distinct patter of sleet against the window panes. Then she continued.

“General Griffin, I need you to find those DropShips, and quickly. If Anastasia Kerensky has brought the Steel Wolves back to Northwind, she won’t stay hidden for long.”

PART TWO

Hunting

December 3133–February 3134

12

Balfour-Douglas Petrochemicals Offshore Drilling Station #47

Oilfields Coast

Northwind

December 3133; dry season

Sixteen 120-count boxes of latex examining gloves.

Another Friday night in sickbay, Ian Murchison thought as he entered the number into his data pad and closed the supply cabinet door. In some ways his situation had changed radically since the Steel Wolves’ takeover of Balfour-Douglas #47; in others, however, it remained much the same. He was still functioning as a medic, still patching up those individuals who happened to fall ill or injure themselves out here on the rig. But now he had a double cord around one wrist, and a new status to go with it: Bondsman to Galaxy Commander Anastasia Kerensky.

He wasn’t certain why she had spared him, when the Steel Wolves had killed all the other drilling station personnel, either in the battle or afterward. For all he knew, she’d wanted a pet, and liked the idea of one who wasn’t afraid. He would have been afraid, he thought, if he could have taken the time away from checking the bodies of the station team, but once Anastasia Kerensky had found him, there’d been no point in cowering when it looked like she was going to kill him whether he cowered or not.

Now he was mostly bored. The Steel Wolves had proved to be a disgustingly healthy lot, and if it weren’t for their habit of fighting each other on a regular basis, often for reasons Murchison found frankly incomprehensible, he wouldn’t have had any injuries to tend either. Today had brought him a broken wrist and a knife wound, both from the same altercation. Murchison had wanted to write up an aggressive-incident report form, but everybody involved had seemed to regard the affair as settled. He’d written up the form anyway after they left. Habit and routine were wonderful things.

Now he was reduced to inventorying medical supplies for his entertainment. He wondered if his position as a Bondsman—in which, as he’d had it explained to him, his value to the Galaxy Commander derived from his medical expertise—extended to requisitioning replacements for expended stock. He gave an inward shrug. He could always ask. After that, it would be up to Anastasia Kerensky what the Wolves did with the request.

He’d barely begun working on the list when he heard footsteps in the corridor outside his office, and recognized the Galaxy Commander’s distinctive tread. Speak of the devil, Murchison thought, and he enters without bothering to knock. Or she does, in this case.