Moonsteed. Manda Benson

he take a hint? Didn’t he have work to do like everyone else on this base?

      “It’s Zeta, isn’t it?”

      The memory of what had happened outside flashed before Verity. How did this man know that? Who was he, and what was he doing here? Her hand gripped the hilt of her katana. “Don’t call me that!” The ears of every horse in the stable block turned back, hooves stamped and Verity’s horse let out a whinny. “No one calls me that! You understand?”

      “I–I’m sorry... I looked you up in the staff directory. I was told you were the person I needed to speak to... I understood that was your name.”

      “My name’s Sergeant Verity!” Verity’s hand still rested on her katana, but the slight pressure of her fingers brought back not the steady glide of steel in the sheath, but a sticky, viscous resistance. Too late she remembered the blood. “Shite!” She would have to deal with that later. Verity tried to control her temper, transmitting soothing thoughts to the horse, who snorted and moved uneasily as she lifted its foot to remove the shoe.

      The man flinched at the expletive. “I was told you were the best person to approach on the matter of the horses. My name’s Vladimir Bolokhovski.” It was only after speaking a longer sentence like this when Verity noticed his slight accent.

      “Look, I’ve told you I’m busy. If you’re a civilian, you’re not supposed to be in the stable block at any rate.” Verity wished he would go away. The bleed-back from her anger affected the horses, and he was making it worse. She unlocked the bolts securing the shoe to the bone implants and separated the inner cushion from the thick protective outer, its surface scalloped for grip and patterned with the holes of the retracted crampons. “You need to see Commodore Smith if you need access to the horses.”

      “I already did. He told me to speak to you.”

      Verity looked over her shoulder at him, narrowing her eyes as she stroked the powerful black neck of the horse. “What for? He knows I’m busy.” She ducked under the horse’s neck and went between it and the wall to take the shoes off the other side.

      Vladimir put his hands on his knees and craned his neck forward, trying to look under the horse at her. “I’m writing a thesis.”

      Verity grimaced. Was he trying to impress her? “What’s that make you, a not-properly-a-doctor?”

      “I’m working in the research group of Professor Eglin at Torrmede.”

      “Torrmede? Didn’t think they let foreigners into Torrmede.”

      “I’m not foreign. I’m half-British. And Torrmede aren’t racist. They’ll let in anyone with the grades.”

      “What did you study there? Spying, poisoning or nuclear weapons?”

      The horse’s vision showed Vladimir straighten and make a distasteful face. “Russia hasn’t been communist since the late twentieth century, and we’re starting to adopt meritocratic rule.”

      “Starting?”

      “We have public referenda on many political decisions. A democratically elected government still makes some of them, but we’re gradually moving toward meritocratic autonomy.”

      Verity scowled. “No country under the yoke of politicians can be called a meritocracy. If your country was worth the soil it was made of, its electorate would make all its decisions.”

      “Hmm, wise words,” said Vladimir quietly, “yet I’d say that wisdom was beyond your years, and I recall once reading something attributing a very similar comment to Jananin Blake.”

      Verity squeezed between the horse’s rump and the wall with the shoes in her hands. “Well, I think I can be forgiven for stealing Blake’s words. After all, she was Blake.”

      As the horse pawed the ground, enjoying the light weight of its feet and the sensation of the layer of warm sand on the floor, Verity put the shoes in the storage rack opposite and lifted the saddle. The metal edge on the outer part of one of the stirrups caught the light, sending a bright reflective rectangle flitting about the roof of the stalls. The stallion’s eyes rolled. His nostrils flared and he backed away from the stall door with a snort.

      Verity stared at the stallion. “He’s afraid. He’s not fearless?” She dumped the saddle on the rack.

      “You don’t mix testosterone with fearlessness.”

      Apparently satisfied that the threat posed by shiny things was gone, the stallion stretched his neck over the door of his stall to smell Vladimir. The man took a step out of the way. He didn’t look as if he’d seen very much in the way of either horses or testosterone.

      “What do you know about it?” Verity scowled at him.

      “That’s what my thesis is about.” He raised his voice at the end of the statement, making it sound like a question. “I’m doing a doctorate in genetic engineering. I engineered this horse.”

      “Oh,” said Verity after a pause in which things started to make sense. “Well, congratulations. He’s a nice animal. Apart from being frightened of tack.”

      “That’s why I need to talk to you. There’s supposed to be a breeding program commencing at this base.”

      Verity picked up her armor, closed the stall door and reached up to the implant on her forehead, cutting her connection to the horse. “You’re going to have to speak to me later. I have a meeting with the Commodore.”

      * * * *

      In Verity’s billet, she threw the armor on the bed and examined the katana, swearing at the blood smeared up the blade and inside the sheath. She rinsed out the sheath and dumped it in the bath before wiping the blade carefully and polishing it. She laid it down on the floor close to the wall before stripping off the rest of her armor and throwing that on the bed and pulling on the charcoal boiler suit that was standard indoor dress on the Callisto base.

      She exited her quarters and walked straight into the Commodore.

      “Ah, Sergeant Verity. I understand you want to speak to me?”

      “Yes, Commodore, Sir.” Verity stepped back from him in a hurry. “There’s been an incident involving Private Aaron. I think he might have absconded.”

      Verity had never seen Commodore Smith smile, but he raised his eyebrows and turned his dark-brown eyes to her. “I had a quick read through the ANT’s details on the matter. Let’s discuss this in my office.”

      In the Commodore’s office, Verity took a seat on the outside of the desk.

      “Well,” said Commodore Smith, sitting. “Can you go through what happened? I’m going to need your account for the report.”

      Verity hesitated. If she had made a bad decision, she could be court-martialed. She carefully explained the horse chase, how she had shouted twice for the spy to stop, how he’d reached for a weapon, and how she’d beheaded him, how Aaron had got hold of her katana–and at this point, she noticed the Commodore cast his eyes down to her belt to check she didn’t have it–and how she had overcome him but sent him back with the horse because of the necessity to return the spy’s head as quickly as possible.

      Smith frowned, fingering his upper lip. “Did he say anything when he attacked you?”

      “Uh,” said Verity. She didn’t have to tell him the exact circumstances of her birth. The Meritocracy made that information private from employers, so people with powerful relatives couldn’t exploit their connections. “He’d found out someone who was my ancestor had done something he didn’t agree with. He thought killing me would avenge a crime he thought had been committed against him.”

      The Commodore grimaced. “Sounds like he was psychologically disturbed. That should have showed up in his screening.”

      “Do you know where he might have gone, Sir?” Anxiety crept back into Verity’s