The Ruins of Power

by Robert E. Vardeman

  He took a side corridor and quickly lost himself in the maze of the Palace. This had been home for all his life and now it felt as if he walked an alien landscape, terrain as odd and deadly as the plains outside the Blood Hills Barracks.

  Austin rounded a corner and came to an abrupt halt. In an alcove not five meters away Marta Kinsolving held a Span-net device to her ear and spoke rapidly into it. Austin caught only snippets but went cold inside when he caught the gist of her conversation.

  “Marta!” he called. She looked up, startled. She hastily clicked off the phone and shoved it into her pocket.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said, spinning away from him and walking as rapidly as she could without running. Austin was under no such polite rule. He caught up with her before she reached the door leading to the small snow-crusted park south of the Palace.

  “I heard what you said to Manfred,” he said. “You can’t do this.”

  She faced him squarely. Marta’s face hardened and she set her jaw.

  “Protect yourself, Austin. I know the orders Tortorelli just gave. He and Elora have finally made their move and we can’t let them succeed.” She pulled away and dashed into the mazelike hedges in the south park. Austin hesitated for a moment, then ran after her. If he didn’t convince her to call off the rebellion, the entire planet would be plunged into civil war.

  22

  Cingulum

  Mirach

  3 May 3133

  Austin Ortega sprinted and dived into Marta Kinsolving’s limousine as the door closed. The woman looked up in surprise at the unexpected intrusion.

  “Austin!” Marta scowled at him. “You shouldn’t meddle, Austin. What do you think you can do against the Legate?” she asked tartly. “Get out right now and go protect your father.”

  “Tortorelli won’t hurt my father,” he said. “He won’t even imprison him until he’s moved his forces and Elora has whipped up even more fear and made a transfer of power plausible. The majority of citizens still support the government,” Austin said. His heart hammered and his mouth had turned to cotton. He had listened to his father prattle on endlessly about “key moments” and “turning points in history.” He had never believed such phenomena existed and had thought even if they had he would have nothing to do with them. Austin realized how wrong he was. The destiny of his world hung in the balance now, this very instant. Even more worrisome, what he did mattered most.

  “You don’t know anything,” Marta said. She reached to signal the driver, but Austin caught her wrist.

  “Even a lance of refitted AgroMechs won’t stand against the Legate’s combined forces,” he said. Austin knew he had hit the target by the way Marta blanched.

  “Don’t try to stop us,” she said, recovering some of her poise. She yanked free of his grip but made no move to alert the driver again. “You, of all people, should see what’s going on. Mirach is facing a civil war that will destroy us. The riots are only a prelude to the troubles falling on our heads like a runaway DropShip.”

  “It’s Elora’s doing,” Austin said. “A blind man can see that Tortorelli’s her pawn. She plays on the lack of HPG communication. She’s responsible for fueling the street demonstrations with fear and paranoia, but the only way she can get rid of my father is through Tortorelli. She’s chosen a weak tool for that job.”

  “Not as weak as you think. He’s issued a full mobilization order, but he’s not doing the planning this time. It won’t be an easy victory like you had in the war games he tried to impress Parsons with.”

  “So you’re saying it’s Elora’s strategy?” Austin knew Tortorelli had expert field commanders. Given decent orders and unleashed, they were a match for any on-planet opposition.

  “The MBA is right in fielding ’Mechs to protect ourselves. Ultimately we’ll be protecting the people—and your father’s government.”

  “But think of the slaughter,” Austin said. He surprised himself. He was beginning to sound like his father, arguing against the refitted ’Mechs rallying against the Legate’s forces. “Your modified ’Mechs can do incredible damage to Tortorelli’s troops, but the collateral damage could be bad, especially if fighting takes place in the city.” He wanted to save Mirach, but not at the expense of the lives of the populace. “Even if Manfred’s worked with your pilots, they can’t have gained enough experience to prevent wholesale destruction when they engage troops in battle armor supported by tanks.”

  “What do you suggest?” she asked, leaning back. Marta wasn’t at ease but was willing to listen. Austin counted that as progress.

  “You need a wedge driven through the middle of Tortorelli’s force. Psychological warfare, and not military action, is your only chance. I’ve spoken with a few noncoms and know their loyalties are divided.” Austin didn’t itemize exactly how divided that loyalty was nor that he had talked to only one noncom. Master Sergeant Borodin sounded like an island of fealty in an ocean of confused allegiances. Out of that confusion, Austin had to build a new loyalty for the Baron, but Elora had to be countered forcefully. With Sergio Ortega bottled up, he could not be the rallying figure.

  “Are you that wedge?” she asked bluntly.

  “No,” Austin said. “Dale would have been, but he’s dead. I’m liked but not as respected as Manfred Leclerc among the FCL. We need to find him and reestablish his role as leader.”

  “Easier said than done,” Marta muttered. “Elora has turned him into a criminal. Having him in command of the FCL again won’t be enough, especially if it becomes a rebel unit in the midst of the Home Guard.”

  Austin hoped that Tortorelli had not had enough time to fully deploy the FCL soldiers yet. A strong leader like Manfred at the head of a strong unit like the FCL might sway some of the soldiers in the Home Guard. Austin slumped a little, knowing he was grasping at straws. But the alternative to weakening Tortorelli’s forces was unleashing the MBA ’Mechs. He didn’t think Marta understood the potential for extreme destruction by the mechanical juggernauts.

  “We need to talk, you, me, Manfred,” Austin said. “Call him and—”

  “I can’t reach him,” Marta said. “He calls me.”

  “I know how to contact him, but I don’t have the resources to help him when I do.”

  “What do you have to do to get in touch with him?” she asked.

  Austin felt the swirl of intrigue all around. He wasn’t sure he trusted Marta fully, but he had no choice with his father under Tortorelli’s thumb, the FCL being dismantled, and Manfred on the run. Manfred would know what to do once they talked this through.

  “North side of the Czar Alexander Fountain,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Marta came out of her own deep thought. “Oh. How you contact Manfred.” She instructed the driver to change destination. The massive limo swayed slightly as it took a corner at high speed. Otherwise, Austin had no sensation of movement as they raced through the increasingly war-torn capital.

  “He’s lucky to have a friend like you,” Marta said suddenly.

  “And a patron like you. How did you get him to train your refitted IndustrialMech pilots?”

  Marta shrugged, her brown eyes drifting away from Austin for a moment. Then they came back to fix on his.

  “Manfred is quite an impressive man. In many ways.” A small smile came to her lips.

  Austin understood then how the captain of the FCL and the president of the Mirach Business Association had come to trust one another. He had overlooked the simple notion that there was more to the world than politics.

  A red light flashed on the padded console arm beside Marta.

  “Czar Alexander Fountain,” she said. She changed the polarization on the window next to Austin so he could look out. The huge white limo drove several times around the fountain with its towering twenty-meter-high sprays and intricate, lacy veils of tumbling water before Austin spotted the message.

  Anyone passing by on the sidewalk circling the fountain might think it was only graffiti, but Aus
tin recognized the scrawl immediately as a locator code used by the FCL during maneuvers. He deciphered the relative position and passed along instructions to the driver. The section of town where they headed looked as if the war had already been fought, leaving behind only destroyed buildings and fearful inhabitants.

  Austin drummed his fingers nervously, worrying that Manfred might be dead amid this rubble. The limousine braked to a smooth stop.

  “This is it, exactly four kilometers from the fountain,” the driver said on the intercom.

  “Here,” Marta said to Austin, opening a small panel in the door, revealing a 10-mm pistol. He took it, jacked a round into the chamber, and held the weapon for a moment to savor the feel and balance. He didn’t recognize its make, but the operation was obvious enough.

  “The clip has a mix of bullets,” Marta said. “Every third round is an explosive round. The others are armor piercing.”

  “Couldn’t cut through too much,” Austin said, staring at the compact weapon. Then he reconsidered. Marta wasn’t the sort to make idle boasts.

  “At close range, a full clip of those will severely wound a soldier in light battle armor.”

  “I doubt it will come to that right now.” Austin slid from the limo and found himself in a strange world unlike the regal elegance of the Palace of Facets or the starkly utilitarian FCL barracks. Scents of rotting garbage and death assaulted him as much as the sight of burned-out buildings and bodies partially buried in the rubble, no one even trying to dig them free.

  Austin leveled the pistol and set off, looking for the next set of instructions from Manfred—if the captain was still alive.

  23

  Ministry of Information, Cingulum

  Mirach

  3 May 3133

  “What do you mean, you lost contact?” Lady Elora’s green eyes turned colder than jade as she glared at Calvilena Tortorelli. “Aren’t the devices I loaned you adequate, or were the operators inept?”

  “Please, Elora, don’t be like this,” Tortorelli said, moving about the Minister’s office. He picked up knickknacks and replaced them after only cursory examination, making Elora angrier by the instant.

  “How should I be, Calvy?” she asked with venom dripping from every word.

  “They’ll turn up again. Where could they have gone? After all, Kinsolving has a large communications company to run and those dreary MBA meetings to attend. And who cares about Ortega’s worthless son? The Baronet does nothing but run hither and yon. He’s completely lost in the world of political infighting that you and I are so adept in. It was a fine idea I had separating him from the FCL, although I suspect he is hardly a soldier, either.”

  “You forget who spearheaded the FCL attack during your so-called military exercise,” Elora said. She wished she didn’t need him to command the Home Guard. The civil unrest could be subdued quickly when he unleashed his forces, but it would come at a huge and bloody cost. Elora smiled faintly. She would be sure to assign the blame later where it belonged, after she was sure Mirach would be another shining jewel in the Clan’s sword hilt and her true worth was recognized.

  She rocked back in the chair behind her vast desk. Her eyes swept across the flat expanse. Newly embedded in the surface, angled by clever lenses to follow her as she swiveled about, were a half dozen different projected images monitoring not only what was on-air but also the faces of her directors and producers as they worked. She reached forward, the ring on a bony finger clicking slightly as it touched the desktop, and brushed across a slight depression. The array of monitors changed, giving her a view on the world outside the Ministry of Information.

  Tortorelli prattled on, citing how quickly the Baron had been isolated from all support, and taking credit for clever ploys she had suggested. Let him think he was in charge and not being groomed to be the eventual scapegoat. Elora was more intent on watching the renewed wave of rioting in the streets. Cingulum was torn apart by a dozen disturbances. Stripping police, support from Governor Ortega had been difficult because she had done it slowly, incrementally, so no one really noticed, least of all Sergio Ortega. He knew he was a toothless tiger now but could do nothing to retrieve control because he had lost the means of enforcing his orders.

  The police had become looters and rioters themselves when Elora had planted rumors of manpower cutbacks, punishments, and huge salary cuts due to declining planetary revenues. Mirach’s economy had not weakened appreciably, but without the HPG to furnish second-to-second comparisons with other worlds in The Republic, gullible people would believe anything she told them because the news spoke to them directly every day, every night. She controlled the news and would the Minister of Information ever lie?

  Elora almost laughed at how she had reported fighting on Achernar and set off another round of riots in Cingulum. She had heard only rumors from DropShip crews, but it sounded better—and served her purposes more—to report huge loss of life as if it were literal truth. Let the whispering spread.

  “Can you be certain Kinsolving and the Baronet are not going to be problems?” she asked. “What of that renegade captain of yours?”

  “Leclerc?” Tortorelli finished his circuit around the room, fingering all the small statues and objets d’art, then stopped in front of the huge faux window looking out across the city. Elora reached out a bejeweled hand to change the view to gauge Tortorelli’s reaction, then stopped. He didn’t care that he stared at a cleverly contrived monitor.

  “You didn’t arrest him at the Borzoi. Your military police have been equally incapable of tracking him since his escape.”

  “The Borzoi?” Tortorelli frowned, trying to recollect the name.

  “The tavern where the MPs failed to kill him and young Ortega.”

  “Was that the name?” Tortorelli shook his head. “Some officer I didn’t authorize was in charge. I am sure he was disciplined for his incompetence. It’s in the report my staff filed.”

  Elora laughed and the Legate had no idea why. Tortorelli stood on the spot where the bogus MP officer’s blood had been spilled by a single shot from her pistol. She had arranged for his body to be dumped at the edge of a riot and no one had noticed or cared. One day the Legate would suffer the same fate. But not today. She still needed his authority.

  Elora considered all the possible replacements for Tortorelli after the Governor was deposed. Prefect Radick would undoubtedly follow her guidance in the matter, since it would leave him in control of Mirach.

  “Are you any closer to capturing Leclerc, Calvy?” She lowered her voice to a husky whisper to erase any hint of criticism. She had always been told she could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, though her need for an insect like Tortorelli was strictly circumstantial. He was already caught and when his usefulness evaporated, he could be quickly swatted.

  “My best officers are working on finding him. He might be hiding in Havoc.”

  “They’ll never find him there unless you move in adequate military power to level what buildings are still standing.” Havoc was the name her own newscasters-—in private—had given to a particularly ugly section of the city. Nothing but burned-out buildings and dangerous refugees filled the ten-square-block area.

  “That might not be a bad idea. Thank you for suggesting it to me, Elora,” the Legate said.

  Elora had just set into motion the next step in her plan to marginalize Governor Ortega further and paint Legate Tortorelli as a bloody-handed butcher. She had to fight against overconfidence, but the time was almost at hand to contact Prefect Kal Radick and invite him to this fine world.

  24

  Havoc, Cingulum

  Mirach

  3 May 3133

  Austin jumped at every small sound. Most were caused by rats and other scavengers feeding off the carcasses littering the streets—or what was left of the streets. Entire buildings had collapsed. He could picture in his mind’s eye how the fronts would crumble and fall onto demonstrators, unable to escape because of their numbers. T
hen the remainder of the building, weakened to its foundations by fires, would slowly follow in a stately, almost majestic orgy of demolition.

  His nose twitched at the scent of death and decay and dust, but he kept moving cautiously through the destruction. Austin clutched the small pistol Marta had given him so hard his hand turned sweaty. He kept thinking that the first two shells in the magazine were armor piercers, the third an explosive round. He concentrated so hard on that, he didn’t hear the man creeping up from behind.

  Austin jerked around when a tiny pop! sounded and a brilliant white star illuminated the area from a height of almost ten meters. His eyes swept around and up to the burning spot on a third-story window ledge, then dropped back to the silently stalking dark form. His pistol lifted.

  “Halt or I’ll fire!” he called. When the man hunting him did not stop, Austin fired. Once, twice. Both rounds hit squarely in the center of the man’s torso. Austin saw flesh and blood sail away from the impacts, but the man only hesitated. He looked at his chest, touched the two small round wounds, then grinned.

  Austin started. The man confronting him was missing all but two teeth, but most frightening were the sunken eyes, mad and manic. No shred of sanity remained.

  Austin fired a third time. This time the round detonated and sent blood and body parts into the air like water from the Czar Alexander Fountain. He recoiled, dropped to one knee, and used his free arm to cover his head as the grisly rain cascaded down. When Austin looked up, he fought to hold down his rising gorge. Hot blood had splattered in lumpy puddles as it fell on the street around him.

  “Killing isn’t quite as sanitary as it is in a trainer, is it?” came the calm question.