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They arrived at the sprawling, glass-and-steel-fronted Museum of Modern Mirach after a twenty-minute drive, left the car in the parking lot, and walked up the broad concrete pathway to the high, polished steel doors. Just inside was the soaring main rotunda, with branching corridors leading deeper into the structure. Each wing was devoted to a distinct epoch of history on Mirach and in The Republic, but Austin stood before the ten-meter-tall Centurion BattleMech on display. He could not guess how many times he had stopped at this very spot and stared up at the ’Mech. Each time filled him with awe as new as the dawn.
“Never gets old, does it?” asked Dale. Austin heard the appreciation in his brother’s tone, although Dale tried to hide it under his air of nonchalance.
“Hasn’t yet,” Austin said. The museum rotunda was almost deserted today, save for three young women studying the exhibit plaque at the feet of the Centurion.
Austin saw how intently they were taking notes on the Centurion and he almost went to ask if he could fill them in on the ’Mech’s history. This wasn’t just any BattleMech. This was Sergeant Death, the one his father had piloted. Austin turned from the three students to keep himself from prattling on about it; nowhere in the history was it recorded that this ’Mech was so named. The ’Mech stood as it had for decades, with shining armor and grim autoca
“I can’t imagine what a battle was like in those days when ’Mechs clashed,” Austin said, his voice hushed in respect. “Tanks and battle armor just aren’t the same.” His heart beat a little faster. Nothing equaled a ready-for-combat BattleMech.
“Let’s go up,” Dale said. They went around the Centurion to the back of the rotunda and took an elevator to a walkway suspended four stories above the white marble museum floor. From this aerial vantage five meters over the ’Mech, they could circle Sergeant Death and study it from above. Austin did, but Dale chose to stare out the towering museum windows facing Cingulum.
Austin held down the hollowness threatening to consume him as he stared at the ’Mech. This was the only BattleMech remaining on Mirach, and his father’s increasing insistence on pacifist policies made it unlikely any others would be bought or built. The First Cossack Lancers relied on battle armor and armored vehicles. Even the Planetary Legate’s force was hardly more heavily armed, save for tank battalions and assorted motorized artillery pieces.
“All we do is play,” Austin said harshly, his blue eyes fixed on Sergeant Death.
“You mean like we did when we were kids? Yeah,” said Dale. “It was fun sneaking into that old pile of bolts and pretending.”
“I want to pilot it. For real, not in a computer simulator.”
“You think you can do better than Papa?” Dale laughed. “Pick a newer model, one with state-of-the-art armament, and don’t try to relive the past. Then all you have to do is find somebody who’ll recruit you off-world for a real fight. The Republic is always on the lookout for hotshot ’Mech pilots.” Austin saw Dale looking straight down at the women in the rotunda, then draw back, his attention returning to the distant city.
“Are you thinking about Ha
“She’s finishing her broadcast about now.”
“She’s really something,” Austin said. “But don’t tell me you didn’t notice that blonde down there.” He craned his neck as he looked back at the trio of students now taking pictures of Sergeant Death for whatever research paper their professor required of them.
“I hadn’t,” Dale said, and Austin believed him. “She’s all yours.”
Austin shrugged this off. He worked long hours at training. Being the most junior officer in an elite unit required him to take jobs more senior officers passed along, the so-called George jobs, in addition to his own duties.
“I talked with Papa about resigning my commission,” Dale said unexpectedly.
“What? You can’t! You’re the best in the unit, Dale. Father hasn’t convinced you that being an officer is immoral, has he?”
“I’m not the best. You are, Austin. At least, you have the most potential and will be the best when I resign. I’ve done as much as I can in the FCL.” Dale held up his hand to forestall Austin’s argument. “I enjoy being an officer but not as much as I thought a few years ago. Papa hasn’t talked me into anything. There are other jobs to learn, and he wants to give me a diplomatic post.”
“To step into the governorship?” asked Austin.
“Not for quite a few years, I hope,” Dale said. “I’m not a quick learner like you, little brother. It might take me until Papa’s ready to retire in a couple decades before I’d be half qualified to fill his shoes.”
“I’m not as good as you,” Austin said, surprised at the unexpected compliment.
“And you missed your chance with the blonde,” Dale said, looking back down. “She and her friends just left.”
Austin refused to let his brother distract him. He had always known Dale would move from the First Cossack Lancers into a civilian position eventually, but now? The elder son of a Baron needed a wide assortment of skills to rule an entire planet. But now?
“I hope you’ll reconsider, especially with so much unrest in the cities,” Austin said.
“This might be the best time to see how Papa works. He believes diplomacy always prevails over military settlements.”
“He’s been insulated from the worst of the rioting. That’d change fast if they leave the city and try to take over the Palace.”
“You worry too much, Austin,” Dale said. “Come on. I forgot to tell you that we’ve got an appointment with Papa at eleven.”
Austin started to protest. Dale should have told him earlier about resigning his commission. Then he settled down. Dale had told him, in his way.
Dale strutted off to the elevator, whistling. Austin followed more slowly, casting one final look at the Centurion before letting the elevator door whisper shut.
2
Palace of Facets, Cingulum
Mirach
3 April 3133
“How do I look?” asked Austin Ortega. He smoothed his uniform.
“What’s the difference? It’s only Papa we’re seeing. You don’t think he’d have important people in along with two minor officers in his personal guard, do you?” Dale sounded flip, but Austin saw his brother’s expression. A tiny frown marred his otherwise handsome features. Austin saw the begi
“I need to check in with the watch,” Dale said. They saluted the FCL guards at the south entrance to the Palace and turned directly into a large open archway to their left.
“Master Sergeant Borodin,” Dale called. The stout man behind the duty desk shot to his feet, at attention.
“Lieutenant Ortega,” Borodin barked. “Good to see you, sir. You, also, Lieutenant, JG.” Borodin stood rigidly but his dark eyes darted about, taking in every detail. The master sergeant prided himself on being the center of gossip for the FCL, and Austin had to admit that little got past the noncom by the time he posted the duty roster.