The Ruins of Power

by Robert E. Vardeman

  Bright pink paint splatted all over the six Hoverbikes, signifying kills. Why Tortorelli’s commander had sent them out in a tight formation was beyond Austin’s imagining. The Hoverbikes were best used to report on enemy movement. These were worthless now to even radio back a warning about the quickstep advance of a battle-armored company.

  “Good shooting,” Austin congratulated. He cycled in another rack of SRMs as he hunted for new targets. All the while he pushed forward, one eye on the terrain and the other on his display. A constant flood of intel from scouts reached him, but Austin knew his company was supplying a good deal of it. They met less resistance than anticipated and pushed farther, faster, than the other companies. Even Beta Company following in his wake had a hard time keeping up, and all Lieutenant Newell had to do was to mop up as he came.

  “Sir, we’re gettin’ mighty close to the big tanks,” said Borodin.

  Austin did a quick range check and relayed it to TacCom.

  “All weapons ready,” Austin ordered. He couldn’t believe they were going to cripple the entire opposing force so easily. A simple, single knife thrust through the center and Tortorelli’s battle group would fold.

  “Heavy fighting on the perimeter,” came Dale’s calm voice. “Captain Leclerc’s been taken out by a lance of battle armor.”

  “Hardly any resistance in the belly,” Austin reported.

  “Rip ’er open,” Dale said, eagerness tingeing his words now.

  They might have lost their commander, but the battle would be theirs.

  “Scouts, check our six,” Austin ordered. “I don’t want to jet into a trap.” This was too easy. Far too easy. “Report!”

  “Picking up phantom returns on radar,” came the hindmost trooper’s report. “Might be a Condor going for the TacCom.”

  “Anything else?”

  Austin watched as his screen filled with indications of the Hauberk escorts on slower moving infantry clustered near APCs.

  “We’re in range in three, in two, in one—fire, fire, fire!”

  Austin hit the ground, braced himself, and revectored so he would sail higher into the air. He saw two Behemoth tanks ahead. His SRMs lashed out, spewing their harmless pink dye over heavy armor, cannon barrels, LRM launchers, and even incautious crews poking heads from turrets.

  “Got mine!” came the first report. “Mine, too,” came a second.

  Austin cut his Jumppack, landed at a run, got his balance, then launched again. The second Behemoth was less than a hundred meters off. Two rockets pounded it. Two more followed and his launcher ran dry of reloads.

  As he came down on the far side of the jump parabola, he twisted about and saw a Condor tank jacked into high gear coming back fast. Austin got off a single barrage and missed as he dropped down.

  “Condor on the way. Missed it. Someone else in position take it out? Lieutenant Newell?”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant,” said Borodin. “I think Newell’s entire company got caught. One of the Behemoths we didn’t target fired into Beta.”

  “Dale,” he called. “Feed me battle assessment update. We’re close.” He got a faint reply with a considerable amount of dropout.

  “We’re taking it to them, Austin,” he heard. Dale chuckled. “We sustained losses along our perimeters, but your attack crippled them good. After their first assault, even our perimeter’s holding, but most of Beta is gone, survivors trying to regroup. I’ll send a demand for surrender. We’ve lost a quarter of our force, most of them in Beta.”

  Austin’s company had taken out three of the enemy’s heavy tanks. As far as he could tell, the Behemoths had lobbed only a few rounds, but they had been devastating.

  “Dale, I’m still getting reports of a Condor bearing down on TacCom.”

  “I’m picking it up. Barkhausen’s Delta Company is sweeping across to intercept.” Dale’s voice faded for a moment and then Austin heard his brother yell, “Get this thing into gear and get us out of range! The tank’s going to fire! It—”

  Austin staggered as a tremendous explosion filled his earphones and then an instant later rocked the battlefield. Four more detonations followed in rapid succession, as if a tank barrage had gone off—shells with high-explosive warheads.

  12

  Sardanaplus Highlands, 1255 kilometers east of Cingulum

  Mirach

  17 April 3133

  Austin blinked, and for a moment he thought he saw his brother. Before he could force his lips to call out Dale’s name, the apparition spoke in an emotion-choked voice.

  “Austin, you’re all right!”

  “Father!” To Austin’s ears his cry came out a dull, distant croak, but it was enough for the Governor to understand him.

  “Don’t exert yourself,” Sergio Ortega said.

  Austin forced himself to reconstruct what had occurred. He had been leading his company to a quick victory. The enemy HQ was exposed, open after they had taken out the defending Behemoth tanks. He remembered the report of a Condor tank racing for the TacCom where Dale had been. Then an explosion. Austin blinked.

  The explosion still rang in his ears. The next thing he remembered was racing back to find the TacCom a smoking ruin. Dale was dead.

  The Condor had fired three salvos from Arbalest LRM 15s. The last had been composed of live rounds.

  “He’s dead, Father. Dale was blown up. They weren’t supposed to use live rounds!”

  “The instant it was reported, Tortorelli stopped the games,” Sergio said, “and I came out in a command car with him.” The baron looked even older than he had before. “He’s gone, Austin. Dale’s dead. There’s no question.” Sergio turned from him to hide tears.

  “Lieutenant,” Austin’s technician said, “you’re still in armor.”

  Austin let Jurgen help him from his battle armor. He felt a numbness more of mind than of body even after he popped free and stood in his bodysuit beside his father.

  “I should never have agreed to this,” Sergio said dully, looking toward the plume of smoke from the wreckage. “There has to be some other method for solving our problems if even a simple exercise can go so badly wrong. I lost my son to a game!”

  “Governor, you have my deepest sympathy. I don’t know what could have happened. But it’s a training misadventure, a terrible mishap. No one’s to blame.” Legate Tortorelli puffed himself up and tried to look in control. He didn’t succeed.

  “An accident, Legate, a sad, tragic accident that robbed us of a young officer with a bright future,” chimed in Lady Elora. “Lieutenant Ortega will be sorely missed. With your permission, Governor Ortega, the Ministry of Information will produce and air a full hour special in tribute to your gallant son.”

  Austin moved from them and went to the edge of a cliff. The battlefield was full of such tactical challenges, all the better for training and preparation. Now the challenge had turned deadly. The TacCom had been blown over the edge. If the broadside strike of all fifteen missiles hadn’t killed everyone in the TacCom instantly, the fall down the fifteen-meter drop would have. Dizziness hit him like a hammer; then, after a moment, he got his bearings again. People moved around him, but he stood in a bubble. Austin felt as if he had stepped into a graveyard. Everyone stood stock-still, silent, staring at him like a bug under a microscope until Lady Elora spoke.

  “How does it feel to see your brother killed in such a tragic fashion, Lieutenant Ortega?” She stepped closer and bent slightly. He caught a hint of her gardenia-scented perfume and it caused a new wave of dizziness. How dare she ask such a question? Austin wanted to reach out and throttle her, but with her cameras and microphones trained on him, he simply stared at her, willing her away from him.

  “We will interview you later for the tribute,” Elora said. Austin walked back to his father’s side.

  “As of this instant, Legate,” Sergio said, “the First Cossack Lancers is assigned your command. The sooner all trace of it is gone from my life, the better.”

  “Governor Ortega,
” Tortorelli was saying, bowing slightly. His eyes gleamed with the newfound power. “Rest assured, this unit will hold a place of honor among the others and will always be at your service, whenever you need it.”

  “I won’t need it,” Sergio said flatly.

  Austin’s first thought was that his father needed protection now more than ever, but knew that such an argument would never fly. He tried a different approach.

  “Father, Dale wouldn’t have wanted the FCL to be transferred,” he said. “Keep it in his memory, his honor.” Austin saw the set to his father’s jaw and knew the answer. There had been little chance before the exercise that he was going to relent. There was none now.

  “The sight of their uniforms would remind me of Dale,” Sergio said. “I want to return to the Palace. Will you join me, Austin?”

  “Soon, Father,” he said. “Let me say good-bye.” He let his gaze drift in the direction of the wreckage.

  “Very well,” Sergio said, walking off stiffly.

  Austin skirted the area Elora had marked off for her own use. She had pushed aside her newscaster and was doing the report herself. Austin couldn’t bear to listen.

  With the words “tragic” and “misadventure” ringing in his ears, Austin stumbled away and found the Shandra Manfred Leclerc had ridden during the war games. He quickly swung into the seat, keyed the machine to life, and roared off in the direction of the Condor tank that had destroyed Dale, the TacCom, and its other seven occupants.

  The warm air rushing past his face drove away some of the fog of shock and left Austin more determined by the minute. The dull disk of the distant sun caressed him with lukewarm ruby rays and stole away the aches and pains he had accumulated during the exercise. But nothing took away the pain of losing his brother.

  Dale was no longer here. Dale’s strength, his good humor, his carefree outlook, were all gone. Forever and ever gone.

  Shock drained from him, replaced by poison that burned at his brain and gut. Hanna had been killed. So had Dale. Austin had to find out why. The faster he drove the scout vehicle, the more determined he became. He had been too intent on taking out the tanks during the battle to know what was really going on all around him. This curious tunnel vision, this intensity of purpose, now focused itself on finding the driver who had fired on Dale and killed him.

  Austin found it easy to locate the Condor tank. It was parked less than a hundred meters from where the TacCom had crashed. Infantry soldiers milled around the Condor, standing near a woman who had flung away her helmet and shook her head, as if denying the world existed.

  “You, you were the tank commander!” he shouted. Austin braked, throwing up a curtain of dirt from the twenty-five-ton vehicle’s wheels, and dived from the Shandra. His fists balled and he was ready to hit the woman until she looked up and he saw her haggard, tortured face. He stopped and stared. He had not thought anyone could be more disturbed by Dale’s death than he was. Austin slowly relaxed his fists.

  The woman—a sergeant from her insignia—was pale and her hands shook as she wiped dirt from her face. Tears welled but did not run down her cheeks. Austin had seen others in this condition. The tanker was in shock.

  As he had been.

  “You fired the LRMs?”

  “I didn’t know I had live rounds loaded.”

  “They said an entire barrage was tipped with high-explosive warheads,” Austin said. He stepped closer. She recoiled, then stiffened, standing her ground.

  “I didn’t know!” She tried to speak in a level voice but strain caused it to break. “I fired what was loaded. I thought they were marker rounds. Believe me. Please, Lieutenant!”

  “What happened? Who loaded your tank?”

  The sergeant’s shoulders hunched over and she began shaking in reaction. “I don’t know. Crew back at the depot. Somebody. There was a last-minute check before the exercise, and a rack was replaced. That’s all I know.”

  “Leave her alone,” said an infantry corporal. He interposed himself between the sergeant and Austin.

  “Do you know who loaded the live rounds?”

  “It was a mistake. A bad one, but there’s nothing anyone can do about it now. Go on. Get out of here. Sir.”

  Austin felt a hot flush rising to his cheeks. He had lost his brother. He wouldn’t be ordered about, not by an infantry noncom. Then he saw the sergeant and knew none of them had purposely caused Dale’s death. It had been exactly as they said.

  A tragic accident.

  Austin thought it was more.

  13

  Palace of Facets, Cingulum

  Mirach

  25 April 3133

  Austin Ortega stood stiffly in the doorway of his father’s office, feeling out of place. The past week had gone by in unreal jerks and starts, stretched like it had been a million years long and, confusingly, blinked by in only a few fleeting hours. Dale’s full state funeral had been more of a public spectacle than a tribute, but Austin knew it had been necessary. Dale had been heir apparent.

  The funeral had been about Dale’s status and something more. In a split second Austin was in line to become Baron. Only when he was much younger had he considered stepping up to become Baron one day, but with Dale filling his world that had never been more than a childhood game. Now it was likely.

  It seemed especially likely to occur soon when he looked at the Baron. Sergio Ortega had aged a dozen years in the past week and looked a shadow of his former self. Austin’s father had worked through his shock and had done what rituals were necessary at the funeral at great cost to his physical well-being. Austin didn’t know if it was better having Envoy Parsons delay his departure until after the funeral or not. What report about Mirach would he take back to the Lord Governor? In spite of the chance it was entirely negative, Austin found it hard to work up much curiosity about it. Jerome Parsons had come and gone, his mission cloaked in mystery. How it affected Mirach mattered less to Austin than finding who had substituted live rounds during the exercise.

  Austin’s mind turned over the shards of what he knew. Up and down the line it looked like a mistake. A tragic mistake. But he had assured Dale that Hanna’s death was only “a tragic accident.” Austin understood why his brother had been so reluctant to believe that. There was logic and there was a gut feeling that refused to yield to mere facts.

  Dale’s death had to be more. That meant Hanna’s was, also.

  Austin had tried to get his father to tell him what Hanna Leong had spoken about during their meeting, but the Baron had built a wall around himself and often went off alone. With the FCL under Tortorelli’s command now, Austin found himself cut off from yet another source of information. Before, he could have asked the Baron’s bodyguard where Sergio went, who he saw, what he did. Such information was always confidential, but he could have eased it out of the guards, being a fellow member of the FCL, as well as Baronet.

  Heir apparent. Alone.

  It bothered him how Manfred Leclerc had paid his respects at Dale’s funeral and then not been seen since. All alone.

  The Governor’s secretary motioned to him from the Armorer’s Chamber.

  “They’re ready for you, Father,” Austin said.

  “It’s too bad you can’t conduct the news conference for me,” Sergio said, heaving himself to his feet, “but that wouldn’t do. I’m Governor.” The way he spoke made Austin feel as though the weight of a world crushing his father down might cause him to relinquish that duty soon.

  “I would if I could,” Austin said, “but they want you to speak to them. Lady Elora has the public more upset than they had been.”

  “More rioting. I need to speak to the labor leaders. And that Kinsolving woman. You can do that, Austin.” Sergio preceded his son from the office and moved like he was pulled by a string to the conference room where the Ministry of Information and other, lesser news companies had set up cameras for the first formal interview since the funeral.

  Sergio stepped forward, cleared his throat, an
d began, assuming the reporters were ready—or perhaps not caring.

  “After the sad events of the past week, it is time to forge ahead with solutions to the economic problems facing Mirach. Envoy Parsons has given us hope of aid from The Republic, but it is our responsibility to begin the road to recovery without external assistance.”

  Austin wasn’t sure if he felt at ease with Marta Kinsolving and other members of the Mirach Business Association joining his father in the press conference. After his father’s brief introduction, Elora gave Marta and the others far more coverage—Austin could tell by looking past Lady Elora to where her seedy director sat at a console. Small vidscreens monitored each camera in the room before relaying a combined multiphase signal to the broadcast studio at the Ministry of Information. For every minute on-air Elora accorded the Governor, she gave three to the MBA officials, as if they were of equal rank and had more important things to say.

  If Sergio said something, Elora cut to Benton Nagursky for a reaction shot. If Marta took the center stage, Elora did not cut away. Austin found himself wishing he could speak with his father’s advisers and somehow edge Elora out of her coverage. Her position as Minister made this difficult, but Austin wanted to try. He had suggested her removal to his father and had hit a stone wall, as if nothing could be changed now. But it had.

  Heir apparent to the governorship of Mirach, Baronet Austin Ortega. He took a deep breath and knew he had to develop his own staff and governing style.

  “As a result of the transfer of my personal guard to Legate Tortorelli’s command,” Sergio Ortega said, catching Austin’s eye and bringing his attention back to the crowded office and the reason for the conference, “money in the Governor’s budget has been freed. With Ms. Kinsolving and the cooperation of the Mirach Business Association, we have devised a bold plan to use Mirach’s four moons as communications relay points. This will link every point on-planet with any other within seconds. The HPG net might have gone down between planets in The Republic, but we will not be denied rapid, dependable communications.