The tanks sighed and lowered themselves the last finger’s breadth to the ground. The courtyard, clay and gravel compacted over generations to the density of stone, crunched as the plenum-chamber skirts settled visibly into it.
The man in the turret of the nearest tank ignored the Baron and his soldiers. Instead, the reflective faceshield of the tanker’s helmet turned and made a slow, arrogant survey of the barred windows and the women behind them. Maids tittered; but the Lady Miriam did not, and when the tanker’s face shield suddenly lifted, the mercenary’s eyes and broad smile were toward the Baron’s wife.
The tanks whispered and pinged as they came into balance with the surroundings which they dominated. Over those muted sounds, the man in the turret of the second tank to enter the courtyard called, “Baron Hetziman, I’m Lieutenant Kiley and this is my number two—Sergeant Commander Grant. Our tanks have been assigned to you as a Protective Reaction Force until the peace treaty’s signed.”
“You do us honor,” said the Baron curtly. “We trust your stay with us will be pleasant as well as short. A banquet—”
The Baron paused, and his head turned to find the object of the other tanker’s attention.
The lieutenant snapped something in a language that was not ours, but the name “Grant” was distinctive in the sharp phrase.
The man in the nearest turret lifted himself out gracefully by resting his palms on the hatch coaming and swinging up his long, powerful legs without pausing for footholds until he stood atop the iridium turret. The hatch slid shut between his booted feet. His crisp moustache was sandy blond, and the eyes which he finally turned on the Baron and the formal welcoming committee were blue. “Rudy Grant at your service, Baron,” he said, with even less respect in his tone than in his words.
They did not need to respect us. They were the tank lords.
“We will go down and greet our guests,” said the Lady Miriam, suiting her actions to her words. Even as she turned, I was off the chair, dragging it toward the inner wall of imported polychrome plastic.
“But, Lady . . .” said Sarah nervously. She let her voice trail off, either through lack of a firm objection or unwillingness to oppose a course on which her mistress was determined.
With coos and fluttering skirts, the women swept out the door from which the usual guard had been removed for the sake of the show in the courtyard. Lady Miriam’s voice carried back: “We were to meet them at the banquet tonight. We’ll just do so a little earlier.”
If I had followed the women, one of them would have ordered me to stay and watch the suite—though everyone, even the tenants who farmed the plots of the home estate here, was outside watching the arrival of the tanks. Instead, I waited for the sounds to die away down the stair tower—and I slipped out the window.
Because I was in a hurry, I lost one of the brass buttons from my jacket—my everyday livery of buff; I’d be wearing the black plush jacket when I waited in attendance at the banquet tonight, so the loss didn’t matter. The vertical bars were set close enough to prohibit most adults, and few of the children who could slip between them would have had enough strength to then climb the bracing strut of the roof antenna, the only safe path since the base of the West Wing was a thicket of spikes and razor ribbon.
I was on the roof coping in a matter of seconds, three quick hand-over-hand surges. The women were only beginning to file out through the doorway. Lady Miriam led them, and her hauteur and lifted chin showed she would brook no interference with her plans.
Most of the tankers had, like Grant, stepped out of their hatches, but they did not wander far. Lieutenant Kiley stood on the sloping bow of his vehicle, offering a hand which the Baron angrily refused as he mounted the steps recessed into the tank’s armor.
“Do you think I’m a child?” rumbled the Baron, but only his pride forced him to touch the tank when the mercenary made a hospitable offer. None of the Baron’s soldiers showed signs of wanting to look into the other vehicles. Even the Chamberlain, aloof if not afraid, stood at arm’s length from the huge tank which even now trembled enough to make the setting sun quiver across the iridium hull.