Dropping to sit with his feet swinging over the edge of the scaffold, Austin stared at the weld. Without a cutting torch or a laser, there was no way to open the BattleMech.
“A laser,” he muttered to himself, peering down at the BattleMech’s chest. The Centurion still had one forward-mounted Photec 806c Medium Laser. For reasons of space in the display, the rear-facing laser had been removed. In the right arm rested the Luxor autocannon, and the LRMs were torso-mounted. The missiles had long since been taken to a warehouse for fear of deterioration in either their warheads or their propellant, but the forward laser on the torso was intact and the autocannon had not been tampered with. He’d need ammunition for the D-series autocannon, but that wasn’t an insurmountable problem. Behind the museum were long rows of warehouses where the museum archives were stored. He remembered seeing case after case of armor-piercing ammo stored there.
Let’s see if I’m as smart as I think. Austin slid down the BattleMech’s upper arm, caught himself, and straddled the thick wrist with the cold metal between his legs. He leaned over toward the chest, opened a small technical access panel, and checked the leads running to the laser and saw they had been disconnected for the sake of safety. The ends shone from heavy red plastic insulation. While it rarely happened, sometimes a static charge could build and randomly trigger the terrible power of the laser. Mirach’s sun was known for its sporadic and violent ion storms that caused just such static buildup. Inside the museum’s walls, an accidental laser discharge would have been catastrophic.
Luck’s still with me, he decided. He didn’t have to waste time disconnecting the leads for what he had in mind. Wrestling the power leads around, he climbed back to the cockpit.
Austin stripped off a few centimeters of the red insulation from both leads and held one thick cable in each hand. He placed one bare wire against the spot-weld, then turned his face away as he shoved the other live lead down. The power intended to fire a laser discharged through the steel ring, melted the spot-weld, and chewed a deep hole into the cockpit hatch. The sudden flare and spattering of molten metal caused Austin to jerk away.
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 shinnied back to the BattleMech’s arm and the access panel. Austin had some training in weapons preparation, and it stood him in good stead now. He still wished he had some of the expert weapons technicians in the FCL to aid him, but reconnecting the bare leads proved easier than he had anticipated. Less than twenty minutes later, he had reattached the leads to the laser.
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.
Elo
ra checked her screens and saw a countdown running. She smiled broadly.
“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 annoying son of his.
“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.
Her quick, long, ring-burdened fingers clicked as she worked. Her eyes narrowed when she received her response.
Jerome Parsons refused to acknowledge any communication from her.
31
AWC DropShip launch pad
Mirach
7 May 3133
“Guidance locked in, Ms. Kinsolving,” came the excited call from the landing-field director. “You want me to query again, to be certain?”
“There’s no need,” Marta Kinsolving said. She was puzzled why Envoy Parsons had specifically refused to land at the Mirach DropShip Field and had vectored in on the much smaller AWC facility. It was a mystery, but Marta was more concerned that the debris from the destroyed cargo ’Ship was hauled out of the way before Jerome Parsons landed than she was about figuring out his motives.
Marta’s phone jangled. She almost shut it off to keep from being bothered but on impulse accepted the call. Sergio Ortega peered up at her from the small vidscreen.
“Marta, good to see you,” said Sergio Ortega. “It’s good to see anyone. I don’t have much time before the guards take me away.”
“They wouldn’t do that, Baron,” Marta said. “Elora might have whipped the populace into a froth over bogus HPG transmissions, but forcibly removing a Governor is more than she wants to tackle right now.”
“If it weren’t for Parsons returning, I’d have followed my own course by now. I’m tracking him to your field. Are you prepared to televise his arrival?”
“The Ministry of Information is blocking AWC frequencies,” Marta said.
Sergio snorted in disgust. “AllWorldComm built most of the Ministry’s equipment. You know how to circumvent it. Jam her signal. I give you official approval. It’s necessary you show everyone that the Lord Governor’s Envoy is avoiding Tortorelli and Elora.”
“I understand, Baron,” she said. “We’ll do everything we can to transmit what’s really happening here.”
“Keep this line open as long as possible,” Sergio asked. “I’d like to see firsthand what Parsons is up to.”
“What Lord Governor Sandoval is up to, you mean,” Marta said. “Parsons doesn’t exhale without explicit orders.”
“You underestimate him. Don’t. But on one point you’re right. Parsons is loyal to both Sandoval and The Republic.”
Marta hesitated to say anything more, distracted by alarms and lights flashing throughout the control bunker.
“Baron, I’m switching you to multiple images, on the field and at the reception area. Parsons’ DropShip has touched down.” Marta didn’t wait for acknowledgment. She shot from the chair and hurried to the heavy door, where she waited impatiently until poisonous vapors from the DropShip’s landing blew away.
Marta walked out onto the field, head high and wishing she had a couple of the MBA modified ’Mechs behind her as honor guard. Meeting Parsons without any idea why he had returned so soon after his last visit was troubling. She took the steps up to the observation platform two at a time and stepped forward to wait for the Envoy to emerge from the DropShip. The gusty winds died, but Marta experienced chills running up and down her back.
“Are you tracking, recording, and transmitting?” Marta asked, switching her phone connection to the control bunker. “What’s going on? I can’t quite make it out through the vapor over the field.”
“Ms. Kinsolving, the cargo bays are opening.”
The crunching and grating of one hundred tons of metal could not distract her from the sheer, overwhelming presence of the BattleMech emerging through the haze. She had watched the refitted IndustrialMechs practice their war games, and they were impressive.
The Atlas towering fifteen meters awed her.
“Greetings, Ms. Kinsolving,” boomed a voice she hardly recognized as Jerome Parsons’. It came from a speaker back on the DropShip. “Excuse the moment of drama but I find it is always useful to capture attention before speaking.”
“Y-you’ve got mine, Envoy,” Marta stammered, assuming he had a directional mic aimed toward her. She took a deep breath and checked that her comm-link was still transmitting, not that anyone could do anything if this Behemoth took a few more strides forward and squashed her.
“This is an Atlas BattleMech, equipped with a Gauss rifle, two Extended Range Large Lasers, one in each arm, and two torso-mounted SRM launchers.”
“Impressive, Envoy.” Marta knew Parsons would have a battle-trained MechWarrior in the cockpit, unlike the men and women who struggled to pilot the MBA’s modified ’Mechs.
The BattleMech stirred slightly, as if impatient to begin destruction. Ozone from electrical discharges in its ECM Suite made her nose wrinkle and eyes water, but nothing detracted from the overwhelming impression made by the mountain of stark power that was the BattleMech.
“Why do you bring this here?” she asked.
“For demonstration purposes, Ms. Kinsolving. Lord Governor Sandoval wishes everyone on this planet to know of the devotion to The Republic shown by the Mirach Business Association and your personal commitment to both Mirach and the rule of law.”
“Demonstration?”
“The ’Mech is yours to command, Ms. Kinsolving. For a while.”
Marta stood stock-still for a moment, then thumbed her phone to reconnect with Sergio Ortega. He still used his secure Span-net phone to monitor every instant of Parsons’ arrival.
“Baron,” she said softly into her phone, “what do you think?”
“You know what I’d do with the BattleMech,” came the Governor’s answer.
Marta cleared her throat and addressed Parsons in a clear voice. “I’d like the Atlas to restore civil order in Cingulum. No more rioting. No more looting. Keep violence to a minimum.”
“As you command.”
The BattleMech turned slowly, took inertial guidance bearings on the distant city, and then gathered speed until it was rushing along at its full sixty-five kilometers per hour. As the BattleMech vanished from sight, Marta checked her phone. Static. Lady Elora had finally jammed the signals from both the AWC DropShip launch pad and the Governor.
Marta shuddered when she realized this was the opening shot. Sergio Ortega would never condone the use of the BattleMech against Tortorelli’s troops due to his philosophical leanings, but nothing prevented Elora and
Tortorelli from pitting the Legate’s entire military might against the BattleMech. It didn’t matter to them if Cingulum was laid entirely to waste, if they came out the victors. Parsons and Lord Governor Sandoval had chosen sides, and the Legate and Minister were obviously in the wrong faction. The showdown had come sooner than anyone had thought.
In that, Marta knew, might lie the salvation of Mirach—or its destruction.
32
Palace of Facets, Cingulum
Mirach
9 May 3133
“We’ve got an important mission ahead of us, Master Sergeant,” Sergio said grimly to Dmitri Borodin. “How many of the old FCL are in the Palace?”
Borodin grinned from ear to ear.
“More’n you might think, Baron. Don’t know how it happened,” Borodin said with a wide grin, “but I just happened to be writing up the duty roster, and more than half of the best of the best are here instead of somewhere else.” Borodin laughed self-deprecatingly. “Then there’s me.”
“You’ve done so much already, Master Sergeant. Alerting me last week to the missing explosives helped more than you could imagine.” Sergio touched his Span-net phone but did not pick it up. “Have you found where Austin went?”
“He lit out and just vanished, Baron, after you told him the Envoy was coming back. Can’t blame him. Tortorelli’s guards were out for blood because he made them look so bad. I been huntin’ and askin’ around for the last couple days.” Borodin shook his head. “It’s like the ground opened up and swallowed him.”
“But there hasn’t been even a rumor that Tortorelli’s troops have caught him?”
“Not a whisper. If anything, just the reverse. Quakes been comin’ down from on high because of everyone’s failure to find the lieutenant. The Baronet, I mean, Governor.”
“That’s all right,” Sergio said, knowing the master sergeant thought of Austin first as an officer. He knew his son could take care of himself, but wished he were here now, just as he wanted Manfred Leclerc at his side. Sergio had long since learned, though, that he could not always get what he wanted.
The Ruins of Power Page 19