to keep Galaxy Commander Radick waiting,” she explained as she collected her duffel and headed for the showers. When she reemerged a few minutes later, scrubbed clean and freshly dress-uniformed, Tassa Kay was gone completely and the Star Colonel was ascendant.
Public transport took her to the Headquarters building where Kal Radick had his quarters—no living off base for him.
“Star Colonel Kerensky to see Galaxy Commander Radick,” she said to the guard at the front entrance. “I am expected.”
The guard consulted his data pad. “You will find his quarters on the top floor, Star Colonel. Take the elevator up and follow the signs for Twenty-Five A through F.”
She was not surprised, when she reached her destination, to find Kal Radick’s rooms austere almost to point of bareness: stark metal-and-crystal furniture, with the walls and carpet and curtains done in shades of brown and gray and bone ivory. The Clan aesthetic sense ran to the purely functional in matters of design, even when the materials themselves, as here, were the best available. Anastasia Kerensky, trueborn of the iron wombs on Arc-Royal, approved, but the voice of Tassa Kay whispered impudently in the back of her mind that some people might consider that the Galaxy Commander was trying a bit too hard.
Radick himself was a lean man, on the tall side for a MechWarrior, with dark hair and a complexion either deep tanned or naturally olive. He came forward to greet her at the door.
“Star Colonel Kerensky,” he said.
He sounded genuinely pleased by her arrival, and Anastasia had to remind herself that the Galaxy Commander was younger than he looked. His true age didn’t show in his appearance or in his general bearing, but she had delved into the history behind his meteoric rise to the rank of Prefect. Mixed in with the triumphs—his gaining of the Radick Bloodname, his successful challenge for the position of Galaxy Commander for the Clan Clusters in Prefecture IV—she had seen other, more disquieting things.
His dealings with the new Prefect of Prefecture III, for example. Kal Radick clearly had no idea how much he had offended the Countess of Northwind by his suggestion that The Republic of the Sphere might eventually be replaced by a renascent Star League. The Campbell woman was passionately loyal to Devlin Stone’s Republic. Anastasia, for her part, found such passion for a jerry-built political experiment more amusing than anything else—and had reacted to Kal Radick’s offhand comment as though he had spoken deliberate treason.
If the Countess of Northwind had been Clan, Anastasia thought, we would have had a Trial of Grievance by now, and the whole Inner Sphere would have learned which side had the stronger argument.
All this passed through her mind as she weighed the proper response to Kal Radick’s greeting. The tone of the evening was social, rather than official—their meeting was in private quarters rather than in public space, and food and drink were on offer—but not too social, since Radick wore a plain working uniform rather than civilian clothing.
Anastasia settled for making eye contact and giving Radick a nod in reply. “Galaxy Commander Radick.”
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Breakfast this morning only,” she said. “I have been occupied with settling in.”
Radick gestured toward the table she had glimpsed earlier. It stood in a window nook overlooking the DropPort. Night was falling outside, but the silhouettes of Lupus and its mates were still visible on the landing field. “Join me, then.”
“Happily, Galaxy Commander.”
The meal that waited for them turned out to be much like the room it was served in: everything of the best quality, but all of it plain to the point of simplicity. Not ostentatiously so—the Galaxy Commander did not dine at home on field rations, or on anything badly cooked or otherwise inedible—but bland and unsophisticated nonetheless. She wondered if the near
Public transport took her to the Headquarters building where Kal Radick had his quarters—no living off base for him.
“Star Colonel Kerensky to see Galaxy Commander Radick,” she said to the guard at the front entrance. “I am expected.”
The guard consulted his data pad. “You will find his quarters on the top floor, Star Colonel. Take the elevator up and follow the signs for Twenty-Five A through F.”
She was not surprised, when she reached her destination, to find Kal Radick’s rooms austere almost to point of bareness: stark metal-and-crystal furniture, with the walls and carpet and curtains done in shades of brown and gray and bone ivory. The Clan aesthetic sense ran to the purely functional in matters of design, even when the materials themselves, as here, were the best available. Anastasia Kerensky, trueborn of the iron wombs on Arc-Royal, approved, but the voice of Tassa Kay whispered impudently in the back of her mind that some people might consider that the Galaxy Commander was trying a bit too hard.
Radick himself was a lean man, on the tall side for a MechWarrior, with dark hair and a complexion either deep tanned or naturally olive. He came forward to greet her at the door.
“Star Colonel Kerensky,” he said.
He sounded genuinely pleased by her arrival, and Anastasia had to remind herself that the Galaxy Commander was younger than he looked. His true age didn’t show in his appearance or in his general bearing, but she had delved into the history behind his meteoric rise to the rank of Prefect. Mixed in with the triumphs—his gaining of the Radick Bloodname, his successful challenge for the position of Galaxy Commander for the Clan Clusters in Prefecture IV—she had seen other, more disquieting things.
His dealings with the new Prefect of Prefecture III, for example. Kal Radick clearly had no idea how much he had offended the Countess of Northwind by his suggestion that The Republic of the Sphere might eventually be replaced by a renascent Star League. The Campbell woman was passionately loyal to Devlin Stone’s Republic. Anastasia, for her part, found such passion for a jerry-built political experiment more amusing than anything else—and had reacted to Kal Radick’s offhand comment as though he had spoken deliberate treason.
If the Countess of Northwind had been Clan, Anastasia thought, we would have had a Trial of Grievance by now, and the whole Inner Sphere would have learned which side had the stronger argument.
All this passed through her mind as she weighed the proper response to Kal Radick’s greeting. The tone of the evening was social, rather than official—their meeting was in private quarters rather than in public space, and food and drink were on offer—but not too social, since Radick wore a plain working uniform rather than civilian clothing.
Anastasia settled for making eye contact and giving Radick a nod in reply. “Galaxy Commander Radick.”
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Breakfast this morning only,” she said. “I have been occupied with settling in.”
Radick gestured toward the table she had glimpsed earlier. It stood in a window nook overlooking the DropPort. Night was falling outside, but the silhouettes of Lupus and its mates were still visible on the landing field. “Join me, then.”
“Happily, Galaxy Commander.”
The meal that waited for them turned out to be much like the room it was served in: everything of the best quality, but all of it plain to the point of simplicity. Not ostentatiously so—the Galaxy Commander did not dine at home on field rations, or on anything badly cooked or otherwise inedible—but bland and unsophisticated nonetheless. She wondered if the near
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