“What are you suggesting?”

“Jacob Bannson.”

“That’s a strong accusation,” Levin said. “Particularly if there’s no proof.”

“Given how smooth an operator the man is, I’d say that the very lack of proof is significant.”

“I don’t like that logic,” Levin said. “But there isn’t much that can be done about Bannson until he becomes active again. The Clans, though… you’ve been on Northwind recently, and so have they. What’s the situation there?”

“The Steel Wolves hold the planet,” Crow said. “When I left, the Highlanders had been defeated and their Countess was in the process of negotiating their surrender.”

Levin frowned slightly. “But you came to Terra instead of staying to put some spine into them—if spine is what was needed.”

“I became separated from the main Northwind force during the fighting in the capital,” he said. “When I saw that there was still a civilian DropShip remaining on the field, I realized that somebody had to get away and warn Terra that Northwind was no longer reliable and that the Wolves were on the move.”

“I see your point,” Levin said. “What do you suppose are the Wolves’ long-term intentions?”

Crow shrugged. “With the Clans, who can ever tell? But Terra has come under threat from that quarter in the past—and if the Steel Wolves are as in love with their own history as some of the other breakaway factions operating in The Republic are, it would be foolish to think that such a threat will never come again.”

Bannson Headquarters

Tybalt

Prefecture II

March 3134; local autumn

One-Eyed Jack Farrell lounged at his ease in the upper-level waiting room at Jacob Bannson’s Tybalt headquarters, his long legs stretched out before him and his head leaning against the back of the leather couch. Anyone looking at him would have assumed that he was half asleep, rather than working hard—and succeeding—at not appearing impressed. Luckily for Farrell, his usual method still worked: imagining what his surroundings would look like when they were broken up for plunder, and pricing the result in his head.

Is that tabletop solid jade, or just a high-grade synthetic? This is Bannson we’re dealing with. Call it real. Add in the gold-leaf trim on the cabinetwork… hell, the solid gold trim on the cabinetwork… and that brings the total up to…

The game worked as well for him in Bannson’s office as it did anywhere else. The only difficulty was adding up numbers that big without a data pad.

It kept Farrell from getting bored while he waited, though, which was the important thing. Like most self-made men, Jacob Bannson was all about keeping the hired help cooling their heels and building up a nervous sweat. Farrell might take Bannson’s money, but he’d be damned if he was going to give him or anyone else the pleasure of seeing him twitch. A man who’d taken a Jupiter BattleMech and made it his own didn’t have to stand in awe of anyone.

Bannson’s administrative assistant—a weedy man who looked like his palms sweated at the thought of driving an electric runabout in light traffic—finally showed up. He looked down his pointed nose at the mercenary leader. “Mr. Bannson will see you now.”

Farrell yawned and slouched easily to his feet. Standing, he was a full head taller than Bannson’s assistant. “High time.”

“This way, please.”

Farrell allowed Weedy to lead the way into the inner office. He knew enough to understand at once that this wasn’t Bannson’s real center of power, only a room for conferring with mercs and other unsavory types—as with the outer waiting room, everything in it was designed to scream, I have more money than you ever will, so don’t even think about selling me out. Stick with me and stay honest, and you’ll make more than enough money to buy anything you ever wanted.

Money talked, and Jacob Bannson spoke its language fluently. So, as it happened, did One-Eyed Jack Farrell.

“You can go now,” Bannson said to Weedy. “Mr. Farrell and I have business to discuss.”

Weedy departed, looking miffed. By the time the door closed again, his employer had to all appearances already forgotten him.

“Have a seat,” Bannson said to Farrell, and gestured at a side table. “Brandy? Cigar?”

“Thanks for the offer,” Farrell said. “But not while I’m working.” He took the offered chair. “I’ve still got my report to make.”

Bannson sat also. “I read the written version this morning.”

“Thought you might have.” Farrell considered his employer. Bannson wasn’t the type to offer a man a drink and a smoke before giving him his walking papers. “Good enough for you?”

“More than good enough, Mr. Farrell.” Bannson poured himself a brandy and raised the glass to Farrell in a toast. “You’ve put the screws on Ezekiel Crow, you’ve helped to weaken Northwind enough that it won’t get in the way of my expansion into Prefecture III, and you’ve managed to put both Anastasia Kerensky and the Countess of Northwind in your debt. And you accomplished all of that with minimal loss of equipment and personnel—which may not impress the polished-buttons-and-military-medals set, but it sure as hell impresses me. War is a business, and I like a man who understands business.”

“I’m honored.”

“You’re getting paid a good bonus,” Bannson said, “which is better.”

“Damn straight,” agreed Farrell. “You want the verbal report now?”

“Go ahead.”

“All right. Crow you know about already—holier-than-thou son-of-a-bitch and proud as Lucifer. Brains and guts, though. And if I had to make a bet on it, I’d say that he’s already managed to convince himself he did the right thing by cutting and running on Northwind.”

“He’s that type,” Bannson said. “Go on.”

“Tara Campbell. Still a bit green, but getting over it fast. Good fighter, and not too proud to take help when it’s offered. Knows how to pick her subordinates.” Farrell paused, considering. “Maybe a bit too trusting, at least until our friend Ezekiel showed her the error of her ways. I don’t believe she’s going to thank him for the lesson, though.”

“You’re probably right.” Bannson contemplated his brandy for a moment. “What are the odds of her going the Katana Tormark route?”

“Setting herself up as a faction leader and saying the hell with the memory of Devlin Stone?” Farrell shook his head. “No way. She really is as loyal as all the posters and magazine articles make her out to be. And where the Countess goes, all of Northwind follows.”

“Moral authority’s a wonderful thing,” said Bannson. “Stupid, but wonderful.”

He swallowed a healthy slug of his brandy. Not the sip-and-savor type, after all, Farrell thought, recognizing the betraying mark of a man who’d learned to drink on rough spirits. He goes right for the burn.

“How about the leader of the Steel Wolves?” Bannson asked.

“Anastasia Kerensky”—Farrell spoke slowly, choosing his words with care—“is crazy. Vicious fighter, not afraid of anything, sees what she wants and takes it without asking. None of it matters, though, because it’s the kind of crazy that makes all the Clan Warrior types want to follow her around with their tongues hanging out.”

“How good is she?”

“Almost as good as she thinks she is. Growing better all the time, if she doesn’t get herself killed first. She and the Countess of Northwind are quite a pair. Probably hate each other’s guts by now.” Farrell chuckled, thinking about it. “Now that’s a ’Mech fight you could sell tickets to and clean up on the simulation rights afterward.”

Bannson looked at him over the rim of his brandy. “Would you like a chance at a front-row seat?”

Farrell straightened, coming alert like a warhorse hearing the distant sound of bugles. “You have another job for me and my people, then?”