The Ruins Of Power

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 pla

“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 begi

“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 Austin 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.”