The Ruins Of Power mda-3

by Robert E Varderman

  More than this, he couldn’t see Manfred doing anything but supporting The Republic. If the captain drove a ’Mech for the MBA, it had to be with the Governor’s full approval and for some reason other than overthrowing the government.

  Austin felt a small shiver when he realized other schisms were possible when Lady Elora and Calvilena Tortorelli were mixed into this brew of conspiracy. Austin was sure something Hanna had told his father about Lady Elora had brought about her death. Elora had made little secret of her contempt for the Governor, but how far would she go to oppose him? Would she be willing to kill him?

  How did he find the right threat to follow? Too many factions meant Mirach stood on the brink of a vicious civil war that could split it into several blocs, each fighting the other. It could take decades to pull such a politically sundered world back together.

  “Yes, sir, it’s possible the captain was out there on the test range when you tried out the MiningMech. The MBA gave orders for him to kill you.”

  Austin had to laugh. “Then that probably means Marta Kinsolving knew nothing about the attack. She saved me.”

  “She saved you by ramming the AgroMech, didn’t she? Now that’s a poser, unless there’s argument in the MBA ranks about how to seize power.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense, does it? Too many rumors and not enough facts is the real problem, Master Sergeant.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” the sergeant said, his forehead furrowing at the complicated situation. The problem with conspiracy theories was the myriad possibilities inherent in them. Anything could be proved—or disproved. Lack of evidence became proof.

  “I’m glad one rumor is put to rest.”

  “That doesn’t mean the MBA isn’t getting ready to field all those converted ’Mechs. Who’d be a better pilot to lead them than Manfred Leclerc, especially considering how he’s been treated?”

  “One man in a ’Mech, no matter how good, cannot stand forever against trained infantry and battle armor,” Austin said. “It would be a hard fight, but sheer numbers would eventually overwhelm a BattleMech.” Many of their unit maneuvers had been designed to prove this, not only to the soldiers of the FCL but also to Tortorelli. “Has the MBA been recruiting pilots for their refitted ’Mechs?”

  “Not really,” Borodin said. His tone didn’t convince Austin he was telling the truth.

  “Not that I’m interested, but where might the MBA approach a soldier about strapping down in the cockpit of a ’Mech? Think of the firepower compared to what we use! Autocannon, missiles, what a weapon that would make.” He saw the dreamy expression on Borodin’s face. Such a romantic vision appealed to the sergeant.

  “They wouldn’t find any recruits here,” Borodin assured him. Austin waited. Heavy silence fell until the sergeant grew uneasy. “Not that I know anything, mind you.”

  “You’re a topflight tech, Master Sergeant. Getting your hands on a refitted ’Mech would be a dream come true. Almost as big a dream come true as me piloting one.”

  “Might be, if you have a thirst, you might stop at the Borzoi after midnight some night.”

  “Some night,” Austin said slowly. “I’m usually busy.”

  “Might be a good time to go tomorrow night,” Borodin said. “For a nightcap. Nothing more.”

  “Nothing more,” Austin said. “Unless I chance upon an old friend so we can reminisce.”

  “You might do that, too,” Borodin said uneasily. He buried his nose back in the tech manual, then turned away so his back was to Austin. If he had written it across the wall in meter-high red letters, the sergeant couldn’t have signaled the end of their conversation any more clearly.

  Austin left the no longer garrulous Borodin, made a circuit of the adjacent rooms without finding any others from the FCL, then returned to his car and drove back to Cingulum. This time the drive was slower to give him time to think as three of the planet’s four moons snaked across the dark sky above.

  19

  Borzoi Tavern, Cingulum

  Mirach

  2 May 3133

  The Borzoi Tavern was decorated as a Russian hunting lodge, complete with stuffed animal heads on the wood-paneled walls and long oak tables stained with beer. On closer inspection, Austin Ortega saw that the stains were designs embedded permanently into a plastic surface and the animal heads were as artificial as the Russian motif. A bear of a man with a bushy beard worked behind the long bar, his dark eyes roaming endlessly as if they were radar dishes searching out enemies. He kept his hands below the level of the bar, making Austin worry a bit about what he might be holding.

  “Good evening,” Austin said to the barman, who only nodded to him. The bartender kept his hands hidden from sight. “Stormy night, isn’t it?”

  A stunstick was one thing, but a large-caliber pistol was something else, if the huge man chose to fight. Austin could outrun a man intent on stunning him but had found dodging worked better than running when his opponent carried a firearm. And that was the way Austin felt inside the artificially cozy tavern—if not surrounded by enemies, then by suspicious people who were not in the least friendly.

  Or it might just have been that he was so keyed up that everyone looked suspicious. He tried to calm down, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Seen worse storms this time of year,” the bartender said. Austin decided conversation wasn’t too likely and went to the back of the long room to sit at an empty table. Both bartender and barmaid ignored him.

  He wasn’t here to drink. He was following the hint given him by Dmitri Borodin. He shrugged off his coat and draped it over his chair.

  He lounged back and found his mind drifting. He smiled as he remembered better times with Dale, when he had been a recruit standing before Manfred for the first time and, in his haste to dress, had forgotten to zip his fly. He recalled the terror and outright exhilaration he had felt in the MiningMech as he battled the AgroMech on the test range. Those memory fragments were peculiar ones he couldn’t quite fit together. Extreme fear and equally extreme gratification. He might have been killed at the ’Mech plant, but he had been doing what he had been trained to do. And he had been in a ’Mech, even if it had not been modified to carry weapons. Austin had felt complete piloting a real ’Mech.

  When the stroll down memory lane began to stumble into such odd paths, he grew restive. Austin forced himself not to look at his watch, but he was sure he had been in the Borzoi for at least fifteen minutes. Past midnight now.

  Nothing had happened. The bartender didn’t even shout at him to order or leave, not that the business was particularly good; the Borzoi was empty of anyone else but the staff. Still, what business likes loiterers? Not being forced to order or getting chased out told Austin he was on the right track. Then it hit him. He had to initiate contact, and he had been given the key.

  “Can I get a nightcap?” Austin called to the bartender. The man’s bushy eyebrows rose slightly. He leaned over the bar and talked in hushed tones with the barmaid.

  “You want anything else?” the bartender asked.

  “Just a nightcap.” Austin kicked himself for not speaking up sooner. Borodin had given him a code word and he had not recognized it as such. He should have realized, if these were Manfred’s friends, they would require recognition signals. They wouldn’t know otherwise that he wasn’t bringing the authorities with him.

  The barmaid went about her chores, disappeared into the back room, only to return with a tray of glasses a minute later. Another ten minutes passed and Austin half stood when a man bundled like a mummy against the night came in from the street, the gusty wind sneaking inside until the door slammed against the storm. The staff greeted him warmly, all gathering around to talk to him as if he were a long-lost relative, but Austin saw the barmaid cast a furtive glance over her shoulder in his direction. Whatever the newcomer said to her involved Austin.

  He wished now that he had come armed. For all that, he wished he had worn battle armor. Finally giving in to his nervousness, Au
stin checked his watch and saw he had been in the Borzoi for almost twenty minutes. It was time to go. He had hoped Manfred might show up, or someone who could help him get in touch with his friend. Borodin’s recognition code hadn’t amounted to anything. Austin hadn’t even got a drink out of it.

  As he came around the small table, the bartender barked, “We don’t close for another hour. Sit down, tovarich.” The man’s voice was gruff, but Austin heard no menace in it, so he sank down and put his hands on the table in front of him. Waiting became increasingly difficult.

  Suddenly his eyes went wide and he shot to his feet.

  “Manfred!”

  The customer at the bar pushed away a heavy scarf from his face.

  “Go on, advertise it to the world.” Manfred Leclerc laughed to take the sting out of his rebuke. “You need to learn restraint when it comes to espionage.”

  “Spying? Is that what this is all about?”

  Manfred seated himself beside Austin and leaned closer so he could speak in an almost inaudible whisper.

  “I’m not a spy and I didn’t try to kill you, but you know that. Your father told you as much. The way you came tonight shows you probably ignored him when he told you not to get any more involved.”

  “You’re my friend, Manfred. It looks like you need help—almost as much as I need answers.”

  “I’m your friend forever, Austin, for all time,” Manfred said, reaching out. He pressed his hand into Austin’s arm. “I’m glad you didn’t swallow that line Elora put out about me trying to kill you.”

  “There wouldn’t be any reason,” Austin said. “What happened? I’ve reached the point of believing even Borodin might have ulterior motives.”

  “Dmitri?” Manfred laughed. “That’s rich. Dmitri is about the most transparent man I’ve ever seen. Everything is wide-open with him. He serves faithfully and well. Don’t ever mistrust him.”

  “Who tried to kill me? And have you learned anything about Dale’s death?”

  “Slow down,” Manfred said. He glanced back at the barmaid. She shook her head. “We’ve only got a few minutes before they find us.”

  “Who?” Austin was genuinely perplexed.

  “Someone with great power who might have forged an alliance off-world that we need to fight,” Manfred said.

  “Elora?”

  “Of course Elora,” Manfred said. “I thought you understood more of this. You’d better stand clear and let your father’s plans unwind.”

  “I want to help. Did she kill Dale? Hanna? Are you saying she framed you? How?”

  “That ’Mech was mine, but someone hijacked it,” Manfred said. “That’s why my fingerprints were all over it. I’d spent hours going over it with the techs.” He stared at Austin. “I wouldn’t have had the time away from observation if the FCL hadn’t been transferred and Tortorelli so intent on disbanding us. I was given pointless assignments and no one checked up on me.”

  “That’s why my father was so intent on getting rid of the FCL? To give you access to the MBA ’Mechs?”

  Manfred nodded. “If the man who hijacked the ’Mech was careful piloting it after replacing the access code cards, he might have only smudged my prints from a training mission I ran earlier that morning.”

  “Whoever piloted it was experienced.”

  “I’m not sure who the driver is, but I think I can identify him. Besides whipping the ’Mechs into shape, I’ve been busy nosing around. Getting evidence against him is something else, since he seems to change his name more often than he does his underwear. A real shadowy character. One of Elora’s henchmen is my guess.”

  “But he knew how to pilot a ’Mech,” Austin protested.

  “He might be a cashiered BattleMech pilot from off-world. One thing is for sure: he has no trouble killing.”

  “What about Marta Kinsolving?” Austin asked. “How does she fit in?”

  “You can trust her,” Manfred said. “We’ve come to work close together.” Austin’s expression prompted Manfred to continue. “I’m training the MBA’s pilots, and yes, your father knows. He doesn’t approve of such dangerous equipment being built, but I’m keeping its use in check. I assure you, Austin, we’re all trying to keep Mirach from boiling over into civil war.”

  Austin thought about what Manfred had said. He knew he should obey his father’s wishes—and take Manfred’s advice—but he feared that what he thought was so important might be ignored.

  “Dale?” Austin asked, afraid of the answer. “Did Elora have him killed?”

  “I don’t know,” Manfred said, “but I’ll wager at any odds you want to give that she ordered a henchman to drive the car through the sidewalk café and kill Hanna. The car might have been aiming for Dale, too. When it missed, he was killed during the training exercise. If I’m right about Elora’s henchman being militarily trained off-world, that could explain how he blended in so easily to replace the marker missiles with live rounds.”

  “What did Hanna tell my father that got her killed?” Austin asked. “She must have told Dale, and that got him killed. Elora probably thinks I know it, too. She’ll keep sending her goons after me and I don’t really know a thing.”

  “You deserve to know,” Manfred said, “but I promised your father to keep you out of the loop. It’s for your own good. Borodin should never have given you the code word to reach me, either.”

  “He’s a good man,” Austin said. “And he knows I won’t quit. You do, too.”

  “I’ve got to speak to your father. Can you arrange it? I tried reaching him through our usual channels but found that Elora was tapping them. She’s becoming more aggressive in her spying.”

  “Usual channels?” asked Austin. “I don’t understand.”

  Before Manfred could answer, the barmaid reached for a pitcher of beer, let out a yelp, and then spun about, the beer arcing away from her body and spewing into the face of two men entering the Borzoi Tavern.

  “MPs! They must have followed you,” rasped Manfred. “Get out the back way. They might be after you, too.”

  “We need to stay in touch,” Austin said. The barmaid continued her wild spin and smashed the glass pitcher into the head of the leading military policeman. He staggered into the second MP, but both were shoved out of the way as three more pushed their way inside. No matter how the barmaid tried to slow the newcomers, they evaded her and went directly for the rear of the tavern.

  “North side of the Czar Alexander Fountain,” Manfred said. Then he kicked his chair spinning across the room, forcing the MPs to vault over it. He took the opportunity to run for the storeroom, duck inside, and slam the door. Austin heard a lock secure the heavy wood door.

  He had no idea what Manfred meant, but he could figure it out later. Austin stood and started to call to the MPs, to slow them down. The one nearest him, a woman with a savage scar running the length of her left cheek, locked eyes with him. He knew in that instant Manfred had been right. They came not only for the renegade guard captain but for him, too.

  The MP fumbled to draw the stunstick thrust through her broad webbed belt. Austin’s brain kicked into high gear. He saw that all the MP needed to do was activate the electric prod and fall toward him. He’d have no chance of avoiding the rod, and the lightest touch would paralyze him for several seconds.

  He caught the edge of the table, straightened his legs, and heaved. The wood table upended and crashed into the woman, causing her to drop the stunstick. Austin considered fighting the MP for it, then knew he didn’t stand a chance in hand-to-hand with her.

  Grabbing another chair, he flung it into the tangle of military police, then darted for the rest rooms. The MPs weren’t fools. They had to know dangerous fugitives might try to escape through windows or out back doors. Austin hoped Manfred had found some secure hidey-hole or a secret way out.

  The small windows in the rest rooms opened into an alley where other MPs undoubtedly awaited a foolish exit. Austin jumped to the washbasin, caught an air vent grating i
n the ceiling, and used his weight to yank it down. He pulled himself up and wiggled into the tight space as the MPs burst in after him.

  He had only seconds—less!—before they would notice he had chosen an aerial getaway route. Twisting like a snake, he reached a branch in the filthy ductwork and saw a way out. A fan spun sluggishly above him, pulling out stale air and sending it into the stormy night. Austin knocked away the frame on the fan and tumbled onto the roof.

  Luck was with him. The flat roof was deserted. He scrambled to his feet, slipped, went to the edge, and saw his chance. He retreated a few paces, then ran for all he was worth. At the edge of the roof he launched himself outward over the street to land on the top of a truck just pulling away from the roadblock the MPs had set up. From the cab came angry shouts and the driver pulled over.

  Before the driver could exit to see what had crashed down on the top of his truck, Austin slid across and jumped off the far side, using the truck to shield him from the MPs. He caught his breath, then walked quickly down an alley away from the truck. The driver shouted and heavy booted feet echoed down the street, telling him he had only a few seconds before they spotted him.

  Austin ducked down behind a stack of crates as a light beam cut through the night, seeking him out. He heard the MPs arguing; then the beam vanished. Straining to hear, Austin waited for sounds that would tell him they were coming down the alley after him. After an eternity, he peered around the crate. The truck had driven off and no one was in sight patrolling the street. He brushed himself off and hurried away.

  He had escaped. But now what?

  20

  Ministry of Information, Cingulum

  Mirach

  3 May 3133

  “What went wrong?” Lady Elora asked. She fought to keep her voice level, but the man irritated her. He stood in front of her desk, smug and self-satisfied, and he had failed.

  No one failed her. Twice.