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Not perfect, but it’ll do, he thought, squinting at the glowing ring surrounding the cockpit hatch. The crude cutting torch had melted away almost fifty centimeters of the hatch and its seal. This was a small price to pay for access. Austin kicked the hatch open and peered into the cockpit he knew so well. His heart beat a little faster as the musty, stale air escaped and the smell he remembered so well came back. Before, he and Dale had pretended. His brother had always chided him for picking this model Centurion for simulator training. Now his training had to pay off.
Careful of the live power leads, he shi
With the fusion plant hot, he had laser capability.
Austin returned to the cockpit, entered the hatchway, and slid around to sit in the command chair. It was smaller and tighter than he remembered, but he had been eight the last time he had been here. Only a single indicator light burned a baleful red, showing the power plant was on standby. Not bothering to strap himself down, Austin began working across the control panel, waiting for lights to flicker on to green and meters to indicate power levels.
Laser at full charge!
Power flowed into the systems and myomer muscles hidden under tons of armor began contracting, bringing the Centurion to arthritic life after so many years. He was feeling good about his progress when he was thrown back into the padded chair as Sergeant Death lurched slightly. He knew the problem and its cure. He reached around and drew out the neurohelmet, carefully putting it on, securing it with a chin strap. The usual tingle on his scalp and deep inside his brain did not come.
The neurohelmet had lost its programming over the years.
Austin reached down, turned on the proper systems, juggled power levels, and then leaned back, letting the BattleMech’s automatic systems align themselves with his brain waves. Programming the neurohelmet required for maintaining balance and aiding movement would take hours, perhaps days, especially without a trained technician to help.
Austin stretched out and made himself as comfortable as possible. He wasn’t going anywhere as long as the Legate’s soldiers hunted for him. What better way to pass the time than to program a BattleMech to respond to his commands?
30
Ministry of Information, Cingulum
Mirach
7 May 3133
“Those fools have looked everywhere,” Calvilena Tortorelli said with some irritation. He stood with his back to Lady Elora, staring at the clever deception of the projected city skyline.
She shook her head in amazement. Although he knew he stared at only an image of Cingulum, that didn’t sap his enthusiasm for all that went on above in the sky or down in the streets. Elora had chosen recordings from the fall more than thirteen years earlier when she had finally moved into this office as Minister.
“Calvy, darling, you need to assign more troops to finding him.”
“More?” The Legate flared uncharacteristically. He spun, fire in his eyes. “Austin Ortega danced into the Palace past my personal guard—supposedly the best I have, my bodyguards!—and spoke to the Governor for more than ten minutes before disappearing again. Just like that!” He snapped his pudgy fingers. “He vanished under the nose of my best unit.”
“He’s lived in the Palace all his life. He knows all the hiding places, Calvy. He’s hiding like a cockroach in the walls. The Baronet isn’t our biggest problem.” On the list of impediments to claiming the world for the glory of Kal Radick, Austin Ortega was only third or fourth. She had mistakenly thought the Governor was passively obeying. More than the quick rendezvous with his son, he also maintained secure communications from the Palace. Try as she might, she had been unable to stop him. At first she had tried to find his agents by trying to tap his lines. That hadn’t worked and now the damnable Jerome Parsons was returning. Her opportunity to put Sergio into solitary confinement was lost. How would she ever explain the situation to Parsons if Sergio wasn’t on hand to greet him again?
Dead? Parsons was no fool. He would want to know the circumstances. Only if Sergio cooperated could they endure another visit by the Envoy. And she had to find out why Parsons brought a BattleMech to Mirach. The best reason she could think of was that Parsons brought it as a gift. Let Sergio make a fine speech—and then let Tortorelli accept the powerful fighting machine for his Home Guard.
Then it no longer mattered what Sergio said or who he contacted.
Sergio Ortega was toothless, thanks to his foolish acquiescence in transferring command of the FCL. His once capable guard had been dismantled and scattered all over Mirach. Elora couldn’t help smiling as she thought of the fate of their captain. Manfred Leclerc had been blasted into ions with the destruction of the DropShip. That simple act of sabotage alone had advanced her cause dramatically.
But Sergio Ortega kept his secret comm lines, no matter how closely she spied. She would have ordered him to a prison cell if it hadn’t been for Parsons’ return. Mirach needed more than a Governor. It needed the same Governor the Envoy had spoken to on his prior visit.
“What of the MBA?” Tortorelli asked unexpectedly. The change in subject forced Elora to refocus.
“They have Mining-, Agro– and other IndustrialMechs all refitted. I’ve sent reporters out to gather better intel on their armament and disposition, but they are stonewalling me. Agitating the populace against the MBA isn’t enough now. If you can get the BattleMech Parsons is presenting to you into the field quickly enough, it can destroy the MBA modifieds in short order.”
“When does Parsons land?” Tortorelli asked.
Elora checked her screens and saw a countdown ru
“Within the hour,” she said. “We will greet him as he lands and find how he wishes to transfer control of the BattleMech. If he insists that the Governor be present, I’m sure we can find some way to convince Sergio.”
“Drugs? For all his prattling about being a pacifist, he is still quite a fighter,” said Tortorelli. “Threats of physical violence would not work.”
Elora listened with half an ear. Sergio’s cooperation could be coerced. She plotted his fate after Parsons left Mirach. It might take a few more spurious messages on the supposedly resurrected HPG net to settle the citizens, but after they came to believe all had returned to easy, quick communication between the worlds of the Prefecture, then Sergio Ortega would be discovered to have sabotaged the net again.
Or perhaps she would blame that a
“Should I call out my guard? A few companies of battle armor? As a tribute, of course.”
“To meet Envoy Parsons?” She shook her head. A strand of fiery red hair drooped down; she brushed it away impatiently. “That won’t be necessary. The crowds will behave because I’ve told them he is here to celebrate the reestablishment of the HPG.”
“Why’s he back so soon? He hardly left.”
The question startled Elora. She had been so occupied with Sergio, his son, and positioning the MBA where she wanted them that she had not considered this. It was certainly worth finding out.
“The size of the reception at Mirach DropShip Field should be molded to fit the occasion, Calvy,” she said, wondering if a few companies might not be necessary to keep a man bringing a BattleMech away from the truth.