The Ruins of Power

by Robert E. Vardeman

  “But we can’t prove it, and to say a word to the Baron might endanger us all.”

  “No! I have the forces to fight even refitted IndustrialMechs. It would be a fearsome battle, but they won’t seize power that way!”

  “You’re the commander to do it, Calvy. You have experience fighting against BattleMechs off-world. But the need may not arise. All my guesses might be wrong.” Elora’s mind raced. She had to eliminate her pet assassin, but perhaps not yet. Not until after one final job.

  “This will be difficult to keep quiet,” Tortorelli said. “Such a vast conspiracy. The Baron’s own son. The MBA. Who knows where else the threads of sedition stretch?”

  “Where, indeed?” Elora said.

  15

  HQ of the Legate

  Mirach

  26 April 3133

  “Emergency meeting,” barked a colonel. “Hurry up!”

  Manfred Leclerc turned and looked to the officer, thinking the order had been addressed to him. A half dozen senior officers walked quickly to the elevator at the end of the hall, flashed their passes to the guard, and were admitted in threes and fours. The rest waited impatiently for the express elevator to go to the Legate’s briefing room and then return for them. Manfred joined the small knot of officers waiting to be whisked forty stories up to hear what Tortorelli had to say.

  Another officer, an infantry major, turned and looked at Manfred, giving him the once over from boots to collar insignia. His gaze stopped there.

  “You’re not required to be at the meeting, Captain,” the major said.

  Manfred looked around, thinking the officer spoke to someone else. When he realized he was being addressed, he said, “I’m senior officer, First Cossack Lancers. Unless there’s some reason, I should be in on the briefing.”

  The major and three others showed their IDs to the guard sergeant. Manfred followed, only to have the guard thrust out a hand and gently push him back.

  “Sorry, sir, not you. Your clearance isn’t sufficient.”

  The infantry major flashed Manfred a nasty grin as the doors hissed shut and the elevator launched itself for the conference room.

  “Who’s supposed to attend? I just transferred in.”

  “I know, Captain Leclerc.” The guard was an immovable object.

  Manfred backed off. He didn’t like the noncom touching him the way he had, but the sergeant was only following orders. That didn’t make Manfred feel any better. The Mirach security force was small, considering the size of the population, and the addition of the FCL significantly augmented the military’s power.

  He knew better than to make a scene. Instead, he found a desk and settled down behind it as if he belonged there. Less than an hour later, the elevator doors opened and began disgorging the officers who had attended the Legate’s emergency conference.

  Manfred pretended to be hard at work on a stack of papers, but he never even read what they were. His full attention fixed on the loose-lipped officers. He kept from grinning when the infantry major stopped not a meter away to talk with a tank commander.

  “I tell you, Captain,” the major said to the woman. “You’ll have every last one of your Behemoths in the field before autumn.”

  “It didn’t sound that bad,” the captain replied. “A few malcontents, nothing more.”

  “You didn’t hear what the Legate said—try to understand what he meant.”

  “You mean about possible rebellion?” The tanker captain laughed and shook her head. “He’s being paranoid.”

  “Legate Tortorelli’s not paranoid,” snapped the major. “He might be overly cautious, but he’s not crazy. Watch what you say, Captain Mugabe. That might be taken as insubordination or even treason.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Mugabe mumbled. “I just don’t think we have to worry about the MBA, not the way the Legate is. They’re looking for profits, not insurrection.”

  “They’re converting those hunks of scrap for a reason,” the major said. “Be sure your unit is ready to move out at an instant’s notice. It’ll take quick response and heavy artillery to put down a rebellion led by the Governor’s own son.”

  Manfred perked up and almost spilled his pile of paperwork. He hastily bowed his head again to keep everyone from noticing how he eavesdropped as the major stalked off to speak with even more senior officers. Manfred looked up and started to say something to the tanker captain, then held his tongue. She was a commander of the Behemoth IIs that had been so thoroughly trounced by Austin Ortega during the war games. Bringing himself to Captain Mugabe’s notice would serve no one. If anything, his usefulness depended on him remaining invisible.

  Manfred saw the lieutenant whose desk he had appropriated coming from the elevator. Even junior officers had been summoned to the Legate’s emergency meeting. That cemented Manfred’s notion of what was happening. He might be a captain and in command of the First Cossack Lancers now, but that would change quickly. The FCL was being dismantled, one lance at a time, sent on detached duty, elements assigned to other units, until their cohesion was destroyed. Manfred had heard rumors that he was to be reassigned to a test group—a nonexistent test company with no mission. That meant he would do nothing but ride a desk and turn in reports about nothing that no one read.

  Manfred smiled a little at the notion of such an assignment. It would be perfect for what he had to do.

  It was all he had expected when Governor Ortega had ordered him to Tortorelli’s command. But he had not expected the Legate to mobilize against the populace, claiming Austin was leading a revolt. That was so absurd Manfred wondered why everyone wasn’t laughing the rumor into oblivion. He suspected Elora had something to do with it—more than something.

  He got up, started toward the elevator and then stopped at a major’s vacant desk. He activated the comm-unit, punched in a series of numbers, counted to three, then disconnected.

  Manfred wended his way through the office and down to the garage, where he found a cycle. He scribbled his name on the checkout sheet, climbed on, and roared off.

  Manfred loved the rush of air against his face. The sense of danger made his breath come a little faster, just as the scent of weeds growing along the road leading into Cingulum reminded him of his parents’ farm when he was growing up. All he did was cut weeds, or so it had seemed then.

  Manfred’s nose twitched just a little. He realized that times had not changed much. Then, the tenacious plants he had chopped down were ankle-high bindweed and the taller blue-gray grasses. Now he worked at weeds in the Governor’s garden.

  He took a curve in the road at high speed, skidded, and then stopped, watching the road behind. He was the only traffic on the beltway circling the city. A slow line of vehicles made their way inward toward the skyscraper complex he had just left, but no one followed him along this road. Manfred fumbled in his pocket and donned a pair of glasses. A few seconds’ adjustment let him scan the ruddy sky for any trace of airborne spy devices. The IR lenses caught heat reflections off a few metallic slivers, but Manfred decided they were high-flying airplanes. He had no sense that he was being followed or electronically monitored.

  He gunned the cycle back to a full-throated roar and raced off. Time worked against him, but he had to be certain no one saw whom he was meeting.

  Around Cingulum he ran, taking corners at breakneck speed, then slowing and speeding up at random intervals to throw off anyone trying to track him. He doubled back more than once, stopped, and then took a spoke road into a decrepit section of town where he watched from cross streets, and always, always, he used the IR detection goggles. In the field they were good for spotting enemy battle armor and motorized equipment. Here they warned him of aerial spies.

  Only when he was sure he wasn’t observed did Manfred Leclerc pull into a dingy, garbage-littered alley and lean the cycle against a wall. He dusted himself off, stepped into the street, and walked directly to a small bookstore sandwiched between larger businesses. He went inside, resisted the urge to ta
ke a final look out into the street to see if anyone noticed him, then went to the clerk behind a long counter running three-quarters the length of the store.

  “I’d like a history book,” he said.

  “History is a dusty subject,” came the answer. “Perhaps you’d like something else.” The clerk looked bored and never glanced up at him. He was reading a book of his own.

  “Then I’ll buy a cookbook.”

  The man lifted his chin, silently pointing out a staircase leading to a second floor, reached under the counter, and pressed a button. He went back to his reading without saying another word.

  Manfred hurried up the steps, aware of the intricate wiring and electronics along the way. He opened the door at the head of the stairs, slipped inside quickly, and shut it behind him with a profound sense of relief. He had made it without being seen.

  “You worry too much, Manfred,” Sergio Ortega said.

  “Sorry to take so long, my lord. I had to be sure no one noticed I’d left.”

  “Unless I miss a guess, you are completely off the radar screen in the Legate’s headquarters. That makes it easier for you to get away often, as you will have to if we are to finish this scheme quickly.” Sergio sat in a comfortable chair, a book perched on the arm. Manfred sidled around to read the title. A book of essays on pacifism written by a Terran named Bertrand Russell.

  “I overheard a few officers talking after an emergency conference,” Manfred said with some bitterness.

  “To which you were not invited, I take it.” Sergio laughed. “Don’t feel left out, Manfred. I’d’ve worried if you had been included.”

  “I suppose you’re right, sir,” Manfred said. “An infantry major spoke with a tank commander about a call-up against civilians. The major bragged how battle armor could take out any rioter.”

  “Bravado, nothing more. I can’t believe Tortorelli would use battle-armored troops against demonstrators after I’ve warned him against such a move.”

  “He’s concerned that there is a rebellion brewing, Sergio, one powerful enough to overthrow the government.”

  “Insurrection? And the leader . . . ?” From the way Sergio sat a little straighter, Manfred saw he had the Governor’s complete attention.

  Manfred hesitated, then said, “Your son. With the backing of the MBA and their converted IndustrialMechs.”

  “Austin is going to overthrow me?” Sergio’s good humor slowly evaporated as he considered this. “He’s a hothead and we don’t agree on how to handle the demonstrations, but he’d never lead a revolt.”

  “I don’t think so, either, Baron,” said Manfred.

  “No, of course he wouldn’t. He’s a good boy. But he has a stubborn streak in him and he doesn’t believe I’m doing a particularly good job running the world at the moment. I want to keep him out of this ruckus as much as I can until he gets more experience, but that might not be possible if Tortorelli thinks he is leading a revolt.”

  Manfred said nothing as Sergio argued with himself, finally deciding that Austin would never sanction rebellion, even if he thought it strengthened The Republic’s grip on Mirach. That’s what Sergio ended up saying aloud.

  Manfred worried that the Governor didn’t sound as if he truly believed it. Deep down, they both knew Calvilena Tortorelli was capable of ordering troops against civilians, whether out of fear or cupidity did not matter, and that was something Austin would oppose with all his heart and soul.

  16

  Industrial Giants manufacturing plant, outskirts of Cingulum

  Mirach

  30 April 3133

  “The Governor’s not planning to cut his spending on other projects, is he?” asked Marta Kinsolving. She tried to sound nonchalant, but Austin Ortega felt the tension in her question. Her brown eyes fixed on him, making him a little uneasy about having to lie to her.

  “The budget is set for the coming fiscal year,” Austin said, carefully choosing his words. He wasn’t lying about that. He simply didn’t know what his father was going to do because he was not privy to the actual workings of the government or how his father came to his decisions. Two things were certain, though. Because of his pacifist leanings, Sergio Ortega was not inclined to spend more on military procurement, and Austin had wrangled a tour of another plant under false pretenses.

  Austin wasn’t sure if he wanted to see what military capability the MBA might be developing or if his purpose was to see Marta again. She was a benign splinter in his mind, always obvious, yet not doing anything to fester. Try as he might, Austin could not find evidence that Marta had arranged Dale’s death. The trail of guilt went to the technician loading the live rounds and abruptly stopped there. When the inventory had been delivered to the field, one crate had been mismarked; the tech actually thought she had given the tank commander dye-marker warheads. But how the crates had become confused—or switched and the labeling altered—was something Austin had failed to determine. There was one soldier in the supply chain he had been unable to identify, but pursuing the lead had proved difficult because his father had kept him so busy with small, time-consuming chores.

  The only chance he had of proving to his own satisfaction that Dale’s death was anything more than the officially reported accident was to dig around in Marta Kinsolving’s businesses to eliminate her and the MBA as suspects.

  She and AWC had profited immeasurably by Dale’s death. The contract Sergio Ortega had announced helped offset the loss of revenue from the HPG net failure and gave All WorldComm a position that challenged the Ministry of Information for eventual influence over Mirach. The Span-net proposed by AWC would connect citizens directly, doing away with the need for scheduled newscasts vetted by Lady Elora. A single flip of the switch on a handheld unit would connect to any news provider, and the small cost for maintaining such a service would ensure that dozens of competing private companies would flock to set up their own direct-transmission news operations.

  The Ministry of Information might still control a significant portion of the data flow, but Elora’s stranglehold would slip when the citizens found other, more diverse sources for their information.

  Austin didn’t know if his father realized it, but Sergio had significantly reduced his own power by providing this new conduit of information. Although Lady Elora seldom followed the script as Austin would have written it, she paid some lip service to supporting the Governor and his policies.

  Not enough, not anymore, Austin thought, distracted from Marta. Would it be better for the Governor to seize the news services or to give wider access, as he was doing? Austin wasn’t sure how Marta, the MBA, and all the other factions on Mirach would use this direct pipeline to every citizen. He hoped Marta meant it when she said All WorldComm was interested only in supplying the equipment and that content could be someone else’s bread and butter.

  He wished his father confided in him more, rather than treating him like a minor functionary. Not for the first time Austin wondered what it would be like if he had remained with the First Cossack Lancers, even serving under Legate Tortorelli’s direct orders. He felt he had a flair for being a soldier. He certainly felt adrift working as an aide-de-camp for his father.

  He hoped poking around MBA-affiliated factories, such as this new IndustrialMech assembly plant, might prove useful. How, Austin wasn’t sure, unless it gave some clue about Dale’s death, but he needed to keep busy. And he had talked Marta Kinsolving into being his guide through the Mirach Industrial Giants factory.

  “I hope the project clears all the fiscal hurdles,” Marta said.

  “What project?” Austin asked before he thought about how such a question made him appear. He had to stay more alert and not let his thoughts wander.

  “The Span-net, of course,” Marta said. “We’ll have operational relays on all four moons within two weeks and cheap full-spectrum broadcast capacity for whomever your father approves.”

  The Span-net would help direct attention inward, to how well others on Mirach were do
ing rather than making comparisons, probably created out of sheer vacuum, with other planets.

  “Will only MBA companies be able to contract for transmission time?” he asked.

  “Since we are such an encompassing group, I’m sure many will. But the licensure won’t be limited strictly to members.”

  As long as “many” means more than the Ministry of Information, Austin thought. From Marta’s expression, he saw she meant what she said.

  They reached the entrance to the huge assembly building. Stretching a hundred meters inside were ranks of MiningMechs in various stages of assembly. The ones nearest were almost complete, standing six meters high with a rotary drill on one arm and a giant scoop weighing down the other. Such a machine could bore into a planet and clean out a stope with relentless efficiency.

  “Are these units going to Nagursky?” he asked. Austin studied the lines of the ’Mech nearest him. Squat and vaguely menacing, the ’Mech wouldn’t take much refitting to become a deadly fighting machine. It was nothing compared to a real BattleMech, but there weren’t any in the Mirach armed forces. He and Dale might have trained endlessly in the simulator, but it was only play.

  “I’ll see,” Marta said. She drew out a small handheld unit and spoke rapidly into it. She tucked it back into a pocket and said, “Ben Nagursky’s got eight on order.”

  “Eight!” This startled Austin. “Is he expanding his mining empire that much?” Austin knew enough about MiningMechs to know this many could ream out the interior of an entire mountain in a few weeks.

  Marta gave a small shrug. “I can’t say. We work together for the common good of Mirach industry, but plans for our individual companies are not shared, except in general terms. He might have a new strike waiting to be exploited. Nagursky wouldn’t make such a find public until ore began coming out of the ground and he had a market to announce.”