“She’s trying to gain power by causing more unrest,” Austin said. He watched the play of emotions on his father’s face and took a shot in the dark. “Hanna spoke to you the day before she died. I saw her name on your schedule. Was it about Lady Elora?”
“It was nothing,” Dale cut in. “Don’t worry over it, Austin.”
“He’s right. She and I had a good discussion about many matters.” Sergio seemed to close down, and Austin knew it wouldn’t do any good trying to learn more, especially since Dale so readily agreed.
“Let’s forget about Elora, for the moment,” Sergio went on. “I’ve decided to accelerate the transfer of the First Cossack Lancers to the Legate’s authority. Effective immediately.”
Austin was too startled to say a word. He stared at his father in disbelief.
“But, Papa, immediately? You don’t want Tortorelli using the forces he has. Why give him more? Please reconsider transferring the FCL,” said Dale.
“The orders have been issued. Captain Leclerc is readying the unit’s transfer to the Blood Hills Barracks. Both of you are now on my staff.”
“What will you do for a bodyguard?” asked Austin. “If you plan to go into the city, you’ll need guards. Even here in the Palace, you need guards, if only to keep sightseers from wandering in.” Austin worried that more than casual tourists would stalk the halls of the Palace. There were too many nooks and crannies in which an assassin could hide. The FCL patrolled constantly and conducted random sweeps to protect the Governor.
“The Legate has agreed to deploy a detachment of honor guard. That’s all I really need.”
Austin and Dale exchanged looks. Their father placed too much faith in words and not enough in steel when it came to dealing with frightened citizens—and outright scoundrels.
“Send in my protocol officer. We need to discuss the Envoy’s itinerary.” Sergio’s expression softened as he looked squarely at Dale. “Even if you intend to work until we go on our fishing trip, take today off, Dale. A loss such as yours isn’t lightly dismissed.”
“Yes, sir,” Dale said.
Austin and Dale left, but Austin shivered as they passed the two FCL at attention outside the door. They would be replaced soon. Austin wondered if it was true that Tortorelli considered such duty punishment and assigned his least competent soldiers to the task.
Dale spoke quietly to the Governor’s secretary, who summoned the protocol officer. Austin watched as Dale sagged, collapsing into himself, this tiny duty accomplished. The emotional toll was beginning to make itself felt.
“Over here,” Austin said, pointing to an empty office down the hall from their father’s. “The two of us need to figure out what to do.”
“I know what I’m going to do,” Dale said. He went into the empty office, dropped into a chair, and leaned back. Dale closed his eyes, looking years older.
“What are you up to?” Austin asked. He heard more in his brother’s words than the need to come to grips with grief over Hanna’s death.
Dale lifted his hands and stared at them, then dropped them.
“I had her blood all over me,” he said. Dale looked up at his brother. “It wasn’t an accident, Austin. She was murdered. And I would have died, too, except I got lucky.”
“Don’t be paranoid,” Austin said. “Witnesses said the car was going too fast and the driver lost control.”
“He signaled. The waiter signaled someone that we were at the table; then he ran just before the car careened up onto the sidewalk. Some assassins use bullets. This one used a car.”
“It’s hard to think Hanna’s death was only fate,” Austin said. “I know that it’d be easier for you to believe there was a reason for it. It makes her life more important if she died for some purpose. But it was a hit-and-run. An accident, Dale, only an accident.”
“‘Only an accident,’” Dale said bitterly. “I know what I saw. Hanna was murdered, and I intend to find who was responsible.”
“What did Hanna talk about with Father?” Austin got the same stonewall response as before.
Dale’s jaw set, and he got to his feet.
“Don’t interfere, little brother. Don’t.”
Dale stalked from the office before Austin could stop him. Austin settled down in the vacant chair and thought hard. Unfortunately, the more he tried to analyze the problems facing his brother, his father, and Mirach, the less certain he was there was an answer to any of them.
10
AllWorldComm Laboratory
Mirach
16 April 3133
“I’m so pleased you could fit me into your undoubtedly hectic schedule, Ms. Kinsolving,” Jerome Parsons said, smiling benignly. “It must be difficult for you, managing such a huge communications conglomerate and then dealing with me.”
“I understand your morning was filled with parades and military demonstrations, Excellency,” Marta Kinsolving said carefully. Parsons fished for a response from her, and she wasn’t sure what he wanted or why. He had left his entourage behind to be entertained by the AWC office staff. She had told her assistant to ply the junior diplomats with as much food and drink as possible and had left any more subtle interrogation in the capable hands of Inger Ryumin. By the look of Parsons’ rotundity, he appreciated gourmet edibles. His staff would likely also be enticed by food, giving her a chance to speak in private with the Envoy.
“Would you care for something to eat? Drink?” she asked.
“Not at all,” Parsons said brusquely. “Your R and D facility is quite impressive, Ms. Kinsolving. I see that AWC is a leader in communications theory as well as cutting-edge technology.”
“Since the fall of the HPG, we’ve worked diligently to find profitable ventures,” Marta said cautiously. Something about Parsons made her edgy. Lord Governor Sandoval would not send a dull man, and Marta saw great depths to this one, in spite of the overfed, indolent persona Parsons worked so hard to present to the unwary.
“I appreciate that problem. Other worlds endure similar problems.”
“We’re putting relays on all four moons. Arit, Kalb, and Batn have small units, and the master remote will be on Kuton. This should allow us to cut costs dramatically and increase message traffic tenfold. As odd as it sounds, we used to beam messages through the HPG to other worlds and then relay them back. That proved cheaper and faster than building, orbiting, and maintaining our own commsats. It also kept Mirach-based personnel at a minimum.”
“Now you find that sending a simple signal from one side of the planet to the other is difficult.” Parsons nodded. “In light of the effects of your sun’s proton storms on commsats, relays on your world’s moons are an innovative solution.”
Marta suspected that Parsons understood most of the advanced technology she had shown him in this underground laboratory. He was also a master of personal relations. The brief exchange at the landing field with her and Dr. Chin had finalized arrangements for this more protracted meeting in a few seconds.
Why? Marta wondered. Mirach technology must seem primitive to someone of Parsons’ stature in the Prefecture. She had to play out the charade until he revealed his reasons for coming to the AWC facilities.
“That’s right,” she said. “The advantage of putting our stations on the moons is that their bulk provides shielding against solar flares. We can use off-the-shelf equipment and don’t need to do extensive design work,” she said. “Would you like to see some of our bolder research projects?” She half turned and saw Parsons had not budged.
“No, Ms. Kinsolving, I don’t think so.”
“If you are overtired from the Legate’s military demonstrations this morning we can—”
“I’ve asked other leaders of the MBA to join us,” he said flatly, without the flowery language he normally used. “I trust I did not overstep my welcome.”
“No, I don’t mind. How much time have you allotted us? Are you on a tight schedule?” she asked.
“Very,” Parsons said. He pushed back the
billowy sleeve of his informal shirt and peered at his watch. “They ought to arrive about now. Will you see that they are escorted here? Or do they have standing clearances?”
“My security chief—” Marta started. She stopped in midsentence when she saw Ryumin ushering Chin and Nagursky into the lab.
“What’s this about?” demanded Benton Nagursky in his gruff voice. “I’m no errand boy to be ordered about.”
“Your Excellency,” said Dr. Chin, bowing slightly. “Please excuse our colleague. Mr. Nagursky deals with constant strife at his facilities and it shortens his temper.”
Parsons looked questioningly at Marta.
“No one can eavesdrop on us here,” she said, guessing his concern. “My best scientists and technicians certify it once a week and also at random intervals.”
“What’s your business with us?” Nagursky asked bluntly. He was a gruff, intemperate man who looked as if he labored alongside his miners, but he had the golden touch when it came to finances. Nagursky had built a banking empire, then abandoned it to begin what his advisers told him was financial suicide. His rare-earths mining concern had multiplied his fortune a hundred times over. No electronics device on Mirach—or a half dozen other worlds—could be made without the precious elements dug from the ground by the vertically integrated Nagursky Enterprises.
The company owned everything from the claims themselves to the rugged MiningMechs all the way through the smelters to the sales force responsible for getting the best price possible for the rare earths, both on Mirach and beyond.
Marta saw how amused Parsons was by Nagursky’s manner. Considering how his morning must have gone with the Legate, such crustiness might be refreshing. She hoped so. Everything about Parsons spoke of a mission—and not one devoted to woolgathering.
“The Lord Governor strives to learn the concerns of all citizens throughout the Prefecture,” Parsons said obliquely. He folded his hands on his paunch and smiled like a Buddha, but there was nothing serene in the man’s sharp, bright eyes.
“Marta, I’ve got no time for this kind of chatter. I got miner strikes in Ventrale threatening to spread back closer to home.” Nagursky eyed Envoy Parsons with distaste. Nagursky was everything Parsons was not. Dressed as roughly as any of his mining engineers piloting their ’Mechs underground, Nagursky obviously had little appreciation for the finely tailored clothing Jerome Parsons favored. Where Parsons was stout, Nagursky was heavily muscled. Parsons’ green eyes met Nagursky’s earth brown ones. Neither man blinked.
“You fear attack? From the crowds of the disaffected? Or some less tangible but still potent force?” asked Parsons.
“Since you let the net go down, we don’t know which end’s up,” Nagursky said with his characteristic lack of diplomacy. “Get to the point. I’ve got a business to run and so do Ms. Kinsolving and Dr. Chin.”
“My time is limited,” Parsons said, sounding more like Nagursky than a diplomat now. “My immediate mission is to listen.”
“Say again?” demanded Nagursky. “You want me to shout at you?”
“If you wish, if that’s the way you can best express your problems and how the Lord Governor might solve them,” Parsons said. He settled down in a chair at a large table and leaned back slightly, folding his hands on his belly. His eyelids drooped slightly, and it looked as if he might go to sleep. But Marta thought the reverse was about to occur. Parsons was going to remember every word, every nuance, and every single twitch anyone made in the room as if it had been digitally recorded.
“You want to hear what I got to say about the mining business?” Nagursky asked belligerently. Parsons nodded slightly.
Ben Nagursky launched into a detailed description of trade restrictions between Mirach and other worlds in the Prefecture, all engendered by fear. Other planets erected trade barriers because of the loss of communication. Increased JumpShips meant increased risk from invasion, so every planet restricted travel to the detriment of free trade. He went on to describe the economic woes of Mirach and how Sandoval could alleviate them.
Marta listened to Nagursky’s tirade with half an ear. She had heard it all before and agreed. She was more interested in studying Parsons. The man bobbed his head now and then, encouraging the MBA director to continue until he sat breathless. Then Parsons urged Dr. Chin to give an overview of food production on Mirach and the impact of the HPG failure on his research.
“So, Your Excellency,” Marta said when Boris Chin had said his piece, “how will the Lord Governor aid us? How will he aid Mirach?”
“I am pleased to hear that you do not consider them one and the same, Ms. Kinsolving,” Parsons said. “Too many business leaders think their world’s destiny is inextricable from their own. I am especially interested to see that you defend your own corporate interests—”
“Those of the MBA members, too,” cut in Nagursky. “We’re allied for a reason. One for all, all for one.”
“How noble,” Parsons said dryly. “I see you will defend your collective corporations but do not seem inclined to seize power from the Governor to further your fortunes.”
“Our security guards are no match for the Legate’s forces,” Nagursky said.
“Don’t think me a fool, sir,” Parsons said. “Each of your three corporations has an IndustrialMech being refitted. While you are correct that they might not prevail, even one modified ’Mech would wreak massive destruction. You know their capabilities. You’ve got three in your MBA arsenal.”
“Four,” Marta said, seeing no reason to lie and wondering how much more he knew.
Parsons hesitated, then reached into a pocket. His eyebrows rose slightly as he studied a small paging device. He tucked it back into his pocket.
Marta’s heart leaped into her throat. No signal should have penetrated to this Faraday-caged, comm-protected underground room.
“The Legate has invited me to a war game tomorrow, an exercise pitting his best unit against the Governor’s First Cossack Lancers. All in good fun, I am sure,” Parsons said in his ironically understated manner. “I will be in a better position to make recommendations after I view this military drill.”
Jerome Parsons rose, bowed in turn to Chin, Nagursky, and Marta, then asked her, “Would you be so kind as to escort me to where your security chief pummels my staff with questions?”
“Who’re you making your recommendations to?” blurted Nagursky.
Parsons faced him, smiled slightly, then said, “To those in the best position to aid you. Good day, sir.”
Marta led the way from the room, Parsons trailing behind like a large overdressed balloon. She walked quickly to stay ahead of him until she could drop an impassive mask that covered her turmoil after listening to the Envoy’s questions and comments. Parsons was a time bomb waiting to go off.
Whose bomb was he?
11
Sardanaplus Highlands, 1255 kilometers east of Cingulum
Mirach
17 April 3133
Lady Elora peered over her director’s shoulder. Barnaby, small, ratlike, and annoyed at the interference, muttered constantly to himself until she was forced to comment on his errant behavior.
“Should we cover the war games from some other location?” she asked, but got only a grumble for an answer. They were almost a kilometer from the command HQ, only one reporter and one camera operator allowed to interview the Legate and his staff.
She ran her hand over her slender hip sheathed in a shining metallic yellow skirt. The luminous, colored fabric contrasted with the severely cut, darker blue blouse and made her stand out among the camouflaged uniforms of the Legate’s staff bustling about around her. They wore composite helmets, while she had done up her rust-colored hair in a loose mist that floated restlessly on the breeze.
“Is Bethany ready for the remote?”
“She’s never ready,” Barnaby griped. “Too bad about Hanna.”
“Keep your mind on business. The Governor and Legate have entrusted the Ministry of I
nformation with showing the full effectiveness of the armed forces.”
“That won’t stop the rioting,” Barnaby said, distracted. “Did you want to power Bethany’s mic so early?” he asked. Barnaby looked up at her. Elora started to rebuke him for his attitude, then realized she had been telling him how to do his job. That wouldn’t do. Baron Sergio might get the idea she was manipulating the news.
He was weak because he had not reined in her power sooner. Elora had been careful, slowly building a growing monopoly of news gathering and news broadcasting. Incrementalism was the key. Then it was too difficult to do anything about how she worked.
The Ministry of Information needed her, and the people of Mirach needed her even more now that the HPG had cut off their flow of news from other Republic worlds. She was all that stood between them and utter anarchy, thanks to Sergio Ortega’s lackluster leadership in matters both diplomatic and economic.
“Don’t worry,” Barnaby said. “I got a sound level check, since the wind’s picking up. Hear any whistle? Feedback? Think we might get dust out on the battleground? If Bethany’s hair is mussed, she’ll have a fit.”
“Battleground,” scoffed Elora, looking over Barnaby’s shoulder at their camera feed. “This is as stylized as a No play.” She glared at Legate Tortorelli and his advisers as they traced patterns on their computer graphics screen, more for Jerome Parsons’ benefit than to lay out a real combat scenario. It was all a sham designed to impress the Lord Governor’s Envoy, although it had been announced as a farewell exercise for the First Cossack Lancers, before they were swallowed whole by the Legate’s forces.
Lady Elora allowed herself a small smile. The purpose of this exercise would change soon enough.
She looked across the gently rolling wooded hills. Spring had brought fitful growth to the ground cover. She couldn’t call it grass. It was a strange combination of succulent and spiny vine that blanketed the terrain, giving it a gray-green appearance that played havoc with the color balance on her cameras. Elora picked up small electronic binoculars and scanned the area to find the opposing forces.
The Ruins Of Power mda-3 Page 7
