Anastasia Kerensky could not have been back long from her mainland expedition, but she had already changed out of her plundered hiking gear and into her favored black leathers. She had also returned her hair color to its previous glossy black with deep red highlights. Murchison smiled to himself at the speed of the reversal. Life as a mousy brunette had clearly not suited Kerensky’s temperament at all.
“Bondsman Murchison,” she said, as soon the office door had closed behind her.
He got to his feet. He wasn’t certain what the customary etiquette was for their relative positions, but it never hurt to pay the standard respect to authority until instructed otherwise. Besides, being within arm’s reach of Anastasia Kerensky gave him a “be ready to move out of the way in a hurry” feeling, and keeping on his feet helped him to deal with it.
“Galaxy Commander,” he replied.
“I trust that the good health of the station continued in my absence?”
“Aye. No illnesses, only minor accidents, only one fight.” He extracted the aggressive-incident report form from his desk and handed it over. “Warriors Jex and Zane.”
“That Trial has been coming for some time,” she said, with no visible surprise, and scanned the report. “Nothing permanently disabling—good. Who won?”
“Not my place to ask, ma’am. So I didn’t.”
He heard a snort of suppressed laughter, and struggled against the urge to shudder—Kerensky’s good humor was as frightening as the rest of her. Eyes bright with what Murchison sincerely hoped was amusement, she said, “A Clan Wolf medic would have at least been curious.”
Amusement or not, he was damned if he was going to grovel. “We are who we are, Galaxy Commander.”
“True,” she said. “You, for example, are discreet and conscientious. You are also my Bondsman.” She indicated the pair of cords around Murchison’s wrist. “Do you understand what those mean?”
“Not completely.”
“Then I will explain. These are a symbol of your probationary status. When both of them are cut, you are no longer isorla–part of the spoils of war—but abtakha–an adopted member of the Clan. In the old days, mind, your situation would not be so fortunate; it was only Warriors who could become abtakha. But the Steel Wolves move with the times—so your present status is not necessarily a permanent one.”
She looked at him as though expecting a reaction. His mind caught on two words—probably the ones she’d meant him to notice. “Not necessarily?”
“Complete a task for me successfully, and I will cut one of the cords.”
For a long moment, Ian Murchison said nothing. He had to remind himself that Anastasia Kerensky was dangerous in the extreme even without her Steel Wolves to back her up—capable of killing him where he stood if she needed to, or if she thought it might be amusing. But she respected fearlessness and appreciated honesty, and those qualities had kept him alive so far. “Are you making me an offer, Galaxy Commander?”
“Are you trying to negotiate with me, Bondsman?”
Her smile was dangerous enough to make anyone hesitate. But there was no backing down now. “No, ma’am. But not all jobs are the same. If I knew that I couldn’t do one, I’d turn it down and wait for another.”
“Even though there might never be another?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Are you that afraid of failure?”
“Not of failure, Galaxy Commander.”
There was another long pause, during which Anastasia Kerensky regarded him with a steady, considering expression, and he wondered if she had decided to kill him out of hand, anyway. At last, however, her expression changed from consideration to grudging approval.
“You are a stubborn and stiff-necked bastard, Bondsman Murchison. If I can make a Wolf Clansman out of you, you will fit in well.”
He supposed it was meant as a compliment. “If you say so, ma’am.”
“I say so.” He couldn’t tell if the faint sound she made then was a private laugh or a resigned sigh. “Very well, Bondsman Murchison. I will tell you what task I have for you, and you will tell me yes or no. But one thing”—she held up her right hand, and now it had a knife in it—“if the answer is no, you will not speak of this conversation elsewhere, on pain of death. Are we clear?”
“We’re clear, ma’am.” He watched the knife go away. “What is it that you want me to do?”
“I want you to find me a man.” She paced restlessly the few steps across the width of his small office and back again, and he took note. This was something that disturbed her more than she wanted to say outright. “Or a woman. I do not know. But this—person—if he or she exists—has been in contact with Jacob Bannson.”
“Bannson Universal Unlimited? That Bannson?”
“Yes.”
“I thought The Republic had clipped his wings a while back. Told him to stay in Prefecture IV and keep out of trouble.”
Anastasia Kerensky’s lip curled. “As you may have noticed, not everybody is playing by The Republic’s rules any longer. I do not; neither does Jacob Bannson. But that does not make us natural allies, no matter what he may think.”
“I can see that, Galaxy Commander.”
“Do you? Excellent. Then you can see why I do not want one of my Wolves in his employ. A divided loyalty is never good.”
“No, ma’am,” said Murchison dryly, then wondered if he had gone too far. Anastasia Kerensky was not so unsubtle that she would fail to notice irony.
To his relief, she laughed. “You would know, Bondsman. So I ask you: Is this a task you can accept?”
“If I were a soldier,” he said slowly, thinking aloud, “I would have to say no. I would have oaths and responsibilities that took precedence. But I’m not a soldier. I’m a medic, and all the oaths I’ve ever sworn have had to do with that; and you aren’t asking me to break any of those.”
Anastasia Kerensky remained silent, letting him work it out, and he continued, “If you wanted me to find someone who was spying for Northwind, I’d have to say no; this is my homeworld and I have a duty to it, even if I am a medic and not a soldier. And then you really would have to kill me, so it’s just as well you aren’t asking me to do anything like that.”
“Just as well,” she agreed. She sounded more amused, he thought, than angry. “Go on, Bondsman.”
“But Jacob Bannson is no friend of Northwind’s that I ever heard of,” he said, “and I never swore any oaths to Bannson Universal Unlimited. I’ll hunt your spy for you, Galaxy Commander.”
13
Balfour-Douglas Petrochemicals Offshore Drilling Station #47
Oilfields Coast
Northwind
December 3133; dry season
When the Steel Wolves took over the offshore drilling rig, Anastasia Kerensky claimed as her own the living quarters of the station manager—who, being dead, made no objection. She disliked being separated from her DropShips, but the Wolves needed an operational headquarters nearer to the continent.
Her new quarters had other advantages as well. The manager had liked his luxury, or at least as much as he could get of it on an oil rig. The cabin had an extra-wide bed instead of a narrow ship’s bunk, and a private bath almost as big as the bed. Nobody had to worry about a shortage of bathing and drinking water here; the drilling rig had an entire ocean of salt water to distill it from. At the end of a long day—which this one had certainly been—she appreciated the chance to fill the enormous tub with hot water and bath soap, and lie there soaking until the all the tension ebbed away.
Anastasia relaxed in her bath, thinking of her agreement with Ian Murchison. She had not lied when she said that the medic would make an excellent Wolf; she approved of the way he refused to allow himself to be afraid. And good medics were always an asset to any force.