The Ruins of Power

by Robert E. Vardeman

  “Ms. Kinsolving, you might want to see this,” called a technician working at a bank of monitors. The screens flickered endlessly from one scene to the next. How anyone could decipher the visual morass was beyond Austin, but the man in the center of the screens homed in on one specific view. A few seconds of fiddling brought the same newscast up on all the monitors.

  “. . . our sources report that the Mirach Business Association has denounced The Republic and is currently negotiating an alliance with Jacob Bannson.”

  “That’s a lie!” raged Marta.

  “The other ’cast, the one on-air now, that’s what I wanted you to see, Ms. Kinsolving,” said the tech. “This was a recorded ’cast from a couple hours ago.” The screens flowed like oil on water and firmed on Lady Elora’s angular face. She looked as grim as Austin felt.

  “Citizens of Mirach,” Elora said solemnly, “what should have been a day for celebration has become one of peril. Less than an hour ago, the Ministry of Information received its first transmission from Prefect Kal Radick concerning the reestablishment of the HPG network.”

  The hush that fell on the room erupted a second later into pandemonium.

  “Quiet!” bellowed Marta. “Why wasn’t I told of an HPG comm?”

  “It never happened, that’s why,” Dr. Penrose said, hastily checking another bank of recording instrumentation. “We might have been up to our asses working to salvage that cargo DropShip but I’d never let anything as important as an HPG message from off-world slip by. It never happened, Ms. Kinsolving. I swear it.”

  “The lying bitch,” Marta growled.

  “I want to hear what she’s saying,” Austin said. He stepped closer to the screens, but Elora’s words were drowned out by the tumult in the command bunker. He cocked his head to one side and listened hard. There had to be a way to turn her lies against her, no matter how clever she was.

  “Prefect Radick has declared for the common citizen,” Elora went on, her voice aquiver with excitement now. “He will support a populist movement intended to depose tyranny. In this pursuit of maximum freedom, he urges every citizen to obey only Legate Tortorelli until the reins of government can be passed successfully to those more capable of leadership.”

  “Civil war, that’s what she’s declaring,” Austin said. “She’s trying to get the populace to back Tortorelli—and her—when the two of them move against my father.” Austin closed his eyes for a moment and knew what would happen as surely as if he watched it unfold.

  The military he had hoped to split into factions would be securely in Tortorelli’s command. Manfred was dead. Dale was dead. Sergio Ortega was being held incommunicado in the Palace. Lady Elora controlled the news.

  The only credible opposition to the coup would be mounted by the MBA’s converted IndustrialMechs. As potent a force as they would be, Austin knew the combined might of an entire planet would be flung against them.

  Austin saw nothing but disaster on the horizon. He lacked the experience of Manfred Leclerc or the charisma of his brother, but someone had to marshal the forces believing Mirach could survive and prosper under The Republic. His mind raced.

  The people of Mirach had been told the net was working again—and would believe anything Elora told them.

  “You look panicked,” Marta said.

  “I . . . no, not that. There’s so much swirling around that it’s hard to decide what I ought to do. I’ve got to go to the Palace and get my father away. If he can prevent even a few of the soldiers from following Tortorelli, he must do it.”

  “Your father has been mighty passive, so far. He might have other plans,” Marta said.

  Austin felt nothing but contempt for his father. The old man’s finest days were gone and he now faced nothing but disgrace. His elegant words would not stop the missiles and lasers arrayed against him by the Legate. This was a coup, not a debate. The loser died.

  “We’ve got to stop Elora and Tortorelli somehow,” Austin said. “Can you jam her newscasts? AWC probably built the equipment. Your technicians know it better than anyone else could.”

  “You don’t understand, Austin,” Marta said. “Elora’s already told the world that she received an HPG communiqué from Radick. She is the anointed, as far as they are concerned. The riots came from fear of isolation, of not knowing what is going on throughout the Prefecture. She has established herself as the oracle who can tell them not to worry.”

  “And what to do,” Austin finished bitterly. Marta was right. “Elora’s way ahead of us.”

  “No one will protest when the Home Guard is sent to seize our companies, because the people think Radick is backing Tortorelli to the hilt. The power of belief that the HPG is up again will drive them to destroy us, unless we use the ’Mechs.”

  Austin saw no way out. The MBA could negotiate now, hope that Elora was merciful, or they could send out their ultimate weapons in an attempt to break the Legate’s military power.

  Elora would never be lenient.

  Everyone lost. Everyone but Elora.

  Marta snapped orders and began marshaling her forces and those of the Mirach Business Association. As her attention focused on the immediate needs of protecting her plants and workers from the mobs that were undoubtedly on the way, Austin backed away, then slid the heavy bunker door aside and stepped into the new dawn.

  The ruddy sun lifted painfully above the horizon and promised rivers of spilled blood before it set at the end of the day. Austin commandeered the limo and roared off toward Cingulum and his father.

  28

  Palace of Facets, Cingulum

  Mirach

  4 May 3133

  “Halt!”

  For an instant, lost in thought as he was, Austin Ortega didn’t realize the guard meant him. He had lived in the Palace all his life until he moved to the FCL barracks for service with the unit. The situation had changed and Austin had foolishly ignored it in his haste to see his father.

  “Austin Ortega, aide to the Governor,” he said, reaching for his ID. Austin was shoved back against a wall and looked down the muzzles of two rifles.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them,” the guard said.

  “The Governor’s my father. Don’t you recognize me?”

  “Get the captain of the guard. We caught him,” the soldier immediately in front of Austin said.

  Austin looked around and saw gun emplacements where none had been before just inside the southern entrance to the Palace. Rifle barrels bristled from behind massive carved stone columns, and from the distance came the click-click of heels marching along the marble corridor.

  “What’s going on? I demand to see the Governor!” Austin knew his words fell on deaf ears. He only bought time to think. If the captain of the guard had been summoned, that meant he would be frogmarched to a cell away from the Palace. “I—my belly!” Austin screeched, doubling over and clutching his midsection.

  As he bent, he got his head away from the rifles for a split second. This gave him the chance to drive forward, burying his shoulder in the gut of the soldier in front of him. The other two tried to cover him, to shoot him. Austin didn’t give them the chance. He knocked one soldier into another, spoiling her aim. Kicking out like a mule, he caught the third guard on the kneecap. Bone crunched like stepped-on plastic and then triggered a loud scream of pain. The confusion of this shriek gave Austin the chance to keep moving, spinning, grabbing, hitting with short, quick punches that dazed and bewildered.

  By the time all three soldiers were sprawled on the floor, Austin had a rifle securely in hand. He fired the instant he saw an officer’s insignia rounding a column five meters off. The bullet ripped at the stone and sent sharp fragments flying like angry bees.

  The brief, fierce scuffle had drawn the attention of the soldiers in the gun emplacements. They swung their automatic weapons around and opened fire, but Austin was already dodging among the pillars, using the massive limestone columns to protect his back. Even so, the heavy rounds whined pas
t his head and kept him bent over until he reached a low railing. Without breaking stride, Austin vaulted the steel rail and fell almost four meters.

  The landing jarred him, but he recovered fast. He had to if he wanted to stay alive. Their insignia indicated that these were Legate Tortorelli’s personal troops, and Austin decided they were under orders from Lady Elora, whether they knew it or not. He cursed his own self-absorption at barging in as he had done. He knew his father wasn’t allowed to communicate with anyone outside the Palace; people trying to contact him would be stopped, too.

  The small passage took a right turn into darkness. Austin had come this way many times before, he and Dale having discovered the passage when they were youngsters.

  Running his hand along the cool stone, he found it harder than he expected to find the depression he sought; then he remembered he had been only fourteen the last time he had used this secret route. Austin hunted lower on the wall, found the spot, and pressed hard until the wall slid back silently. Austin slipped inside as a hail of automatic fire rattled along the tight passage. He shouldered the door shut and leaned against it, breathing hard. He heard angry cries in the narrow passageway as the guards wondered how they could have missed him, quickly blaming one another for what had to be a mistake.

  Austin felt his way through the darkness. He and Dale had left flashlights here years before, but Austin didn’t take the time to hunt for something whose batteries were probably dead. Depending on old memories, he worked steadily beneath the Palace through the maze of tunnels once designed for servants and other service personnel.

  A small, lighted rectangle above told him he was close to the exit he wanted. Austin took the stone steps three at a time until he pressed his eye against the panel and looked out into the corridor leading from the conference room to his father’s office. If there had been a secret way into the Governor’s presence, he would have taken it, but he and Dale had never found such a path when there had been all the time in the world to explore. Now Austin felt time crushing him.

  A squad of Tortorelli’s soldiers marched past, perfect parade ground troopers all. Clutching the rifle, he made sure a round was chambered, then forced open the ancient latch and stepped into the corridor.

  Ten quick steps brought him to the Armorer’s Chamber. He turned grim when he saw all the weapons on display had been ripped from the walls. The office staff was gone. Although it was early, a few should have been on duty.

  As elegant as the Palace of Facets was, the Baron was still being held in solitary confinement. Austin worried for a moment that he’d have to break his father out of some prison cell that Tortorelli—Lady Elora—had consigned him to, but the instant he reached the inner office door, he knew Elora had held off making her final move against the Governor.

  The Baron looked up as Austin came in and closed the door.

  “You shouldn’t have come, Austin. I told you to stand down.”

  “I’m here to get you out, Father.”

  “You’re armed,” Sergio said. “Put that down. It’s not going to help.”

  “You’ve got to get out of here and establish a government-in-exile. You need to appeal to as many of the Legate’s soldiers’ loyalty to The Republic as possible, split his force, regain some control.”

  “Not with force!” This brought Sergio up. His eyes shot sparks as determination was reborn. “You have to learn, Austin. Violence does not accomplish anything.”

  “Thinking like that’s got you bottled up and unable to do your job. How can you protect the citizens of Mirach when Elora controls the communications in and out of your office? How can you govern if Tortorelli won’t let you step into the corridor without being surrounded five-deep by his soldiers?”

  “You don’t understand,” Sergio said. “I still wield considerable power. I need to be here where I can use it.”

  “Use it, then!” cried Austin. “Stop the rioting. They killed Manfred, you know.”

  Austin blinked when he saw that his father didn’t react as he had expected. Such news ought to have shocked him into action, into the realization that Tortorelli and Elora were playing for keeps and would destroy friends and family to seize power.

  “The DropShip launch,” Sergio said, his colorless, fathomless eyes fixed on his son. “You were out there, weren’t you? You and Marta Kinsolving?”

  Austin hardly trusted himself to speak. But he finally got out, “Manfred was my friend. There weren’t enough pieces left by Tortorelli’s sabotage to give a decent burial.”

  “An eye for an eye? Is that the only way to prevail? I don’t think so,” Sergio said.

  Austin held back his angry retort as a thought struck him.

  “Why haven’t they deposed you by now?” Austin began pacing like a caged animal in the Central Zoo as he rolled the notion over and over in his mind. “What do you still control that they can’t take from you?”

  “Moral authority, my position as Governor of Mirach,” Sergio said. “And one other thing.”

  He beckoned Austin closer and held out a Span-net phone. Sergio punched up a news report that had not gone through the Ministry of Information. Austin’s eyes widened when he heard the news.

  “Jerome Parsons has returned,” Sergio confirmed.

  “The Lord Governor’s Envoy?” Austin was not sure if this was a help or hindrance.

  “He’ll land in sixty hours. Elora and Tortorelli dare not seize power because of his cargo.”

  “What’s he have?” asked Austin, curious now.

  “Envoy Parsons is bringing a BattleMech.”

  29

  Museum of Modern Mirach

  Mirach

  4 May 3133

  Austin Ortega hunkered down as a squad of green-clad infantry double-timed it through the museum rotunda as they hunted for him. He had left his father’s office almost an hour ago, Sergio following. When a dozen soldiers had approached from down the Great Hall, his father had created a diversion, keeping the guards away and giving Austin the chance to escape. Austin had been reluctant to leave his father behind but thought he was safe enough for the time being in light of Jerome Parsons’ unexpected return. Austin knew that tenuous safety could vanish at a whim. He had to work out a plan to rescue Sergio from Tortorelli’s soldiers.

  The only place he could think of to hide until such a plan came to him was the museum on the Governor’s Park grounds. And once in the museum, he had gone directly to the walkway looking down on the BattleMech.

  He let out his pent-up breath when the squad leader finally herded the soldiers away from the Centurion and into another wing of the museum. The echoes from their boots faded down distant hallways, then grew louder again as they returned.

  Austin waited as the officer down on the rotunda floor snapped orders.

  “Close the museum. Lock it down. No visitors. Do you understand your orders?” The officer pushed his face close to his sergeant’s.

  “Yes, sir,” the noncom said. “The museum’s empty. We’ll lock it up right away.”

  “See to it; then return with your squad to the east wing of the Palace. We won’t stop hunting until we find the fugitive.”

  The sergeant stood at attention until the officer stalked off, then hustled his squad outside. Austin heard the large outer doors lock. He was alone in the vast museum, thanks to a sloppy search by the soldiers.

  He stepped back into the bright lights, went to the railing, and looked at his father’s old BattleMech.

  Austin still felt a quiver of excitement seeing Sergeant Death.

  “A ’Mech,” he said aloud.

  He stared at it and knew he was daydreaming if he thought he could turn the Centurion into a true weapon against Tortorelli’s forces. Sergeant Death had been mothballed and on display for years—for longer than Austin had been alive.

  Why not? he asked himself, scrambling over the railing and going to the rear of the fifty-ton BattleMech. He had nothing to lose. With it, he had a chance to chase off Tortorel
li’s troops and rescue his father. If the BattleMech couldn’t be resurrected, he was no worse off for the attempt than he was now.

  Austin remembered how he and Dale had sneaked down here when they were youngsters and climbed into the cockpit, pretending they were mighty warriors like their father.

  He also remembered how their father had ordered the cockpit sealed to keep them and other would-be MechWarriors like them out. In spite of this, the fusion power plant had been kept hot at the museum curator’s request. The curator had wanted to keep the Centurion in a condition as close as possible to its original state: a metal dreadnought that had fought for Devlin Stone and The Republic. For this tribute Austin was now very glad.

  How long before Elora decides to kill Father? Austin wondered. He had no idea why Jerome Parsons brought a BattleMech to Mirach, but such a fighting juggernaut had to disturb the balance of power. If he put it into Tortorelli’s hands, everything was lost. If Parsons gave the BattleMech to Sergio, the Governor might be loath to use it properly, but it would show the people the extent to which Lord Governor Sandoval supported Sergio Ortega, no matter which government Sandoval was loyal to. That might be enough to sway both the people and the military forces Tortorelli—and Elora—counted on.

  Austin couldn’t come up with any personal motivation for Parsons to use the BattleMech for his own ends. The Envoy would throw his considerable support to either Elora or the Baron. If Parsons backed Elora, Austin needed the Centurion to oppose them.

  Austin gripped the supporting scaffold, more decorative than functional, and scaled it quickly, reaching the platform behind the cockpit. He sucked in a deep breath and held it when he saw the problem facing him. The 200 Nissan fusion power plant might be intact and ready to drive the Centurion out of the museum, but the cockpit hatch had been welded shut. A small spot-weld opposite the hinges held it more securely than any lock ever could.