The Ruins of Power

by Robert E. Vardeman

  “Centurion to Atlas, come in Atlas. Do you read?” Austin tried several different channels, all offering no response. Before long, he gave up trying to contact Sandoval’s pilot. It took increasing attention on his part to step past displays on the museum grounds and not destroy everything as he stormed toward the kilometers-distant Palace.

  Austin worked on his ranging displays and sucked in his breath. The Legate might have most of his military might pitted against the Atlas, but enough moved in fast on the Palace to seize it. Or to destroy it and anyone inside.

  Austin had hoped his father had successfully escaped during the past few days, but seeing this much firepower coming to bear argued against it.

  The worst sort of war—civil war—blossomed like an evil weed all around him.

  The flash of laser cannon filtered through his optics from the direction of the Palace, followed closely by the gut-shaking thunder of a concussive blast from a Gauss rifle round. Tortorelli had dispatched a Behemoth tank to spearhead the attack.

  They want my father dead, he realized. Elora and Tortorelli weren’t going to capture him, put him on trial as a traitor, and have a public execution. They wanted him removed from power permanently. Now. Austin took some satisfaction from this. It meant the MBA and the Atlas were giving more resistance than he had expected. This also chilled him because it meant Elora and the Legate no longer worried what Jerome Parsons might report.

  Myomer muscles protesting from lack of movement over the years, Sergeant Death lumbered off, waveringly at first, then with growing stability. Austin settled in and found driving the venerable ’Mech easier than his training in the simulator. But that was as it should be. Problems were thrown fast and furious in the computerized version to test his mettle and train him for any problem that might crop up in actual combat.

  Feeling as tall as the ten-meter Sergeant Death and twice as invincible, Austin kicked into top speed and headed directly for the expansive grounds surrounding the Palace. The ranging and targeting computer swamped him with input.

  Sensory overload got worse when warning bells sounded an instant before a laser rocked him. Sheets of molten steel boiled up from his armored torso. He instinctively turned to keep the attack from concentrating on a single spot. Austin craned about and saw the source of the attack. A combined attack force had been driving hard to reach the southern Palace gates and had come across him instead. A VV1 Ranger Infantry Fighting Vehicle raced toward him, its machine guns chattering impotently as its four lasers raked him viciously.

  Austin was hardly aware of the mental process he went through before his right hand spat a deadly burst of autocannon rounds that raked along the ground and hammered hard into the Ranger. His left index finger curled back and ten LRMs lashed out.

  The Ranger shuddered under the impact of the salvo and then slumped to one side. Austin launched a second barrage that blew the vehicle apart. Without thinking, he immediately targeted two APCs behind the Ranger. Repeated fire from his autocannon took them out quickly.

  He swallowed hard. Those personnel carriers had been loaded with human beings. He might have known some of them—some might have been former members of the FCL. Then Austin found himself fighting for survival. A company of battle-armor-clad soldiers surged forward, intent on swarming around the Centurion’s legs and destroying his capacity to walk, using their lasers and LRM 5s.

  He kicked as if he had stepped in something sticky and sent a few of the soldiers flying, but Austin saw their unrelenting attack was succeeding. Heavy projectiles, explosives, even laser assault—all chewed away at his armor and eventually damaged some of his sensors. He had less to fear from loss of the StarGuard III armor than he did from loss of his controls. The soldiers expertly nipped like terriers at his most vulnerable spots.

  Austin fired the autocannon and mowed down a rank of battle armor and infantry moving toward him. He lifted the sights and locked on to a medium Condor tank. Another long burst blew it up. Then he swung about, only to stagger heavily.

  A Gauss rifle round from the Behemoth caught him squarely in the center of his armored chest. He stepped back and the step became a stagger. His head spun as he fought to hold the Centurion upright. As he struggled, he triggered the autocannon. He started to step forward, but a stream of shells hammered his right leg. He saw damage warnings flashing all around him, but the right leg was the most serious. Austin loosed another hailstorm of autocannon rounds and still he was under attack. The Hauberk-battle-armored soldiers fired their SRMs directly into his vulnerable leg. Salvos of fire ripped away armor, tore armor, blasted armor. He got a few of the soldiers but not enough.

  His Centurion had taken too much damage to the right leg. He toppled to the ground with a bone-jarring crash as it gave out under him.

  Stunned for a moment, Austin finally blinked his vision back to focus on his targeting screens. Soldiers in Hauberk battle armor rushed forward, intent on destroying him with laser and missile.

  He flopped about onto his back, lifted his right arm with the autocannon, and . . . nothing. Austin cried in frustration and jerked back hard on the trigger that should have sent deadly kilos of depleted-uranium shells ripping through the ground troops.

  Nothing. The autoloader had jammed.

  Digging in his heels and kicking up a huge dirt cloud, he tried to swing about on his back and use his torso-mounted laser on the soldiers before they reached him. He would not be Gulliver to their lilliputian might.

  And Legate Tortorelli’s troops wouldn’t simply tie him down. They would kill his Centurion; they would kill him.

  Austin fired his laser and ionized a wide corridor through the dust cloud. He fired his laser again and again.

  Then nothing happened for a third blast that would have taken out a squad of soldiers.

  “Damn, no! Don’t do this to me!” he raged. The charging unit on the Photec laser indicated a short. He could get the weapon on-line again but had no idea how long it would take for even a partial charge.

  He changed tactics, concentrating on getting to his feet rather than fighting.

  He sat up and almost got his feet under him when Sergeant Death was rocked by another missile barrage. He crashed back flat on the ground, seeing nothing but the sky above. Austin refused to give up and die. His father needed him. The Republic needed him. He couldn’t let Elora triumph.

  With a sweep of his arm, he knocked away two infantry soldiers and rolled onto his side. From this view he saw death staring him in the face. A Condor lowered its cannon and began the firing cycle that would send a torrent of shells into the middle of the Centurion cockpit.

  35

  Palace of Facets, Cingulum

  Mirach

  9 May 3133

  The distant thunder of detonating missiles brought back unpleasant memories for Sergio Ortega. The entire Palace shuddered down to its foundations as Condor tanks sighted in, trying to penetrate the defenses Master Sergeant Borodin had established, but Sergio knew even the cleverest, toughest defense gave way eventually under severe enough punishment.

  He had thought his days of being a warrior were past.

  “To murder thousands takes a specious name, / War’s glorious art, and gives immortal fame.” Those ancient words echoed in his head. And it would be Elora whose fame was sung. He had been a fool to think she would hesitate to attack once Envoy Parsons arrived with the BattleMech and placed it in Marta Kinsolving’s command—for “demonstration purposes.” He had not considered a cornered rat and its similarity to his Minister of Information.

  The Atlas had precipitated the fight for control of Mirach, not discouraged it. Elora had felt the jaws of a steel trap clamping down on her ambitions and had to act or be imprisoned. Sergio saw that now and wished he could replay some of the events that led to her subverting Legate Tortorelli and believing she could seize power.

  Sergio closed his eyes for a moment and felt the distant tremors come up through the floor and shake him anew. Sergio was alone in th
e vast halls now echoing only with memories and autocannon fire. Borodin and the others still loyal to him and the ideals of The Republic were on the battle lines, fighting and undoubtedly dying.

  He glanced at the screens and saw the rapid approach of three tanks, one Behemoth and two Condors, then recoiled when his field of vision filled with a monster metallic foot coming down to block the advance.

  “The Centurion!” he cried. Sergio’s colorless eyes widened. Only one person could pilot the BattleMech—his old ’Mech—so competently. “Austin, no, don’t fight. Don’t risk your life,” he cried in exasperation.

  Sergio worked frantically with the comm equipment. He knew the frequency used by the Centurion as well as he did his own face in a mirror. For almost four years he had lived in the cockpit, fighting for The Republic. Never since the day the BattleMech was placed in the museum did he think he would use these settings again.

  He found the proper frequency to contact Austin, but time had run out. Sergio watched in dread as the Centurion toppled over and the tanks closed in for the kill. The Centurion’s autocannon had jammed and the sole remaining laser shot sparks, betraying some fatal internal short circuit.

  “Austin, come in. Austin!” Sergio decided communication with the BattleMech was not in the cards and tried to find another frequency. It took what seemed an eternity to lock in the carrier signal. The short IFF beep-click-beep told him he had located his son’s only chance for salvation.

  “Home in on my signal,” he said in a choked voice. “Hurry. Please, hurry.” Sergio Ortega sank back in his chair, eyes on the monitors, following the battle on the Palace grounds intently, all else forgotten.

  36

  Ministry of Information, Cingulum

  Mirach

  9 May 3133

  “It’s all going according to plan,” Lady Elora said, her lips pulled back in such an extreme smile that she looked like a death’s-head with red hair. “Parsons’ BattleMech is trapped in the center of the city where we can nibble it to death.”

  “Ah, yes, unable to move because of their silly rules of engagement,” Calvilena Tortorelli said as if dismissing the notion out of hand. “They try to preserve life when the sole purpose of the BattleMech is to destroy it. Foolish. Ever so foolish.”

  “My, that is, your tanks have circled it. No matter which way the ’Mech turns, it is being hit hard. If it retreats, the tanks will pursue.” She stared at the video feeds pouring in from a dozen different angles. Huge gouts of molten metal exploded from the surface of the Atlas, blown off by barrages from half a dozen tanks.

  “Is it Envoy Parsons who decreed that the BattleMech wasn’t to use its weapons where civilians might be lost, or was it Marta Kinsolving?” Tortorelli stroked his chin as he pondered this point. “I find it difficult to believe she, as leader of the MBA, cares if we slaughtered everyone in the city, but the structural damage, now, that might bother her. If AllWorldComm doesn’t own a considerable amount of property in downtown Cingulum, I am sure other MBA members do.”

  Elora hardly listened to him arguing with himself. What difference did it make if Parsons or Kinsolving had given the foolish order for the BattleMech to only defend rather than to attack? The result was the same. The full might of Mirach’s military fell like a sledgehammer on the ’Mech. No matter that it was still functional. They had trapped it, forcing it to play a defensive role while the Legate’s best tank commander drove to remove Sergio Ortega at the Palace of Facets.

  Soon it will be his tomb, Elora gloated.

  Elora chuckled as she authorized transmission of pictures of the Atlas being hammered by Legate Tortorelli’s forces along with hearty congratulations for the soldiers. Offers of vast rewards to infantry and battle-armored troops if they brought down the BattleMech were made public, giving yet another way of gaining honor.

  But no individual would claim the reward. The heavy tanks would eventually blow off enough armor to expose the MechWarrior to the killing blast.

  No quarter asked, no quarter given, she thought as she stared at the bank of monitors popped up all over her desktop.

  “Yes, yes, definitely. The battle is going well,” Tortorelli said, as if he had won an argument. “I planned carefully. There ought to be another medal in this for me. Yes, there should.”

  He began strutting around her office, posturing and practicing his speeches. She wasn’t sure when he had slipped away from reality, and it hardly mattered. She had needed his authority to put the entire military of Mirach into motion against the Lord Governor’s Envoy—and against Governor Ortega.

  She partially turned in her chair to face other monitors gleaming atop her desk. She panned around the vast bucolic grounds of Governor’s Park and saw two light tanks moving in ahead of the ground troops, all supported by the heavy Behemoth II. It would be a combined-forces assault on the Palace because Sergio had turned it into a fortress using defenses put into place by the Legate.

  Elora’s elation mounted again when she saw how the field commander deployed her force, the main battle tank at point with the lighter Condors in an echelon formation. Sergio might as well have drawn a bull’s-eye on his back. The battle would be over in minutes. No defensive tactic could work against such an onslaught.

  “What’s that?” Elora jumped to her feet and leaned forward, supporting herself on the desk with clenched hands. “That’s another BattleMech!”

  “Where did it come from? I do say, that Jerome Parsons might be sneakier than I credited him with being. He must have hidden it until this moment,” Tortorelli said.

  “No, he didn’t. That’s Sergio Ortega’s old BattleMech.”

  “The one with the hideous paint job rusting away in the museum?” Tortorelli frowned as he studied the screen in front of Elora. Angrily, she switched the feed so the entire wall, where Cingulum’s skyline had been a few seconds earlier, came alive with the details of the BattleMech.

  “Captain Mugabe,” Elora said, her voice barely controlled, “attack the BattleMech. Don’t let it reach a point where it can defend the Palace!”

  “That’s my job, Elora. I should be the one giving orders,” Tortorelli said, almost pouting.

  “I gave the orders in your name, Calvy. Sit down; watch what your forces can do against a BattleMech,” she soothed.

  She saw the Centurion taking huge strides toward the Palace, intent on safeguarding Sergio Ortega. But the field commander was the head of Tortorelli’s elite force and had practiced in simulators in the event of such a tank-versus-’Mech battle. Captain Mugabe sent her Condors out on either flank and then attacked fiercely with both infantry and Hauberk-battle-armored fighters. When the individual soldiers were driven away, the tanks opened up to good effect.

  “That’s the way,” Elora muttered, seeing a particularly devastating Gauss rifle attack rip away part of the Centurion’s chest armor. After sustained attack focusing on the right leg, the BattleMech staggered and fell backward, crashing to the ground so hard it caused her camera to wobble from the shock wave.

  “Get him, get him,” she said. Her vengeance would be even sweeter now. “That has to be Austin Ortega in the Centurion. Who else could it be?”

  The tanks drove in to deliver the coup de grâce. She silently cheered them on. Austin Ortega brought his autocannon to bear—the cannon jammed. This time she did cheer.

  The cheer turned to strangled rage when she saw the new combatants.

  37

  Grounds of the Palace of Facets, Cingulum

  Mirach

  9 May 3133

  Austin Ortega struggled to save himself and saw nothing but death staring him in the face. His laser refused to fire. The autocannon had jammed, leaving deadly rounds in the breach where they might explode at any instant. From his position on the ground, he couldn’t get back to his feet and use what power remained in the ancient Centurion to fight back.

  The alarms in his cockpit went crazy as the Condor lowered its main autocannon and pointed it directly at him.
Austin could not scramble away. Sergeant Death was going to become a metal coffin in seconds.

  Austin refused to give up. Working frantically, he got the Centurion flopped over and rising on hands and knees. A myomer bundle snapped, dropping him to one side. In this position he stared directly down the tank barrel.

  Then he flinched and tried to shield his eyes from the sudden fountain of sparks that exploded into the air. In disbelief he watched as a diamond-edged cutting wheel rose again and came back down on the tank. The first pass had severed the barrel of the heavy gun. The diamond cutting wheel spun so fast it was only a blur until it hit the top of the tank and cut away half the turret.

  “Who’s there?” Austin asked, trying to find a frequency where he could contact his savior. He got no answer and gave up. His comm was faulty. Austin heard the heavy rattle of an autocannon firing, and then an explosion lifted him and rolled him a few meters.

  His reactions were superb. Austin used the impetus from the blast to get the Centurion to its knees and then erect. His eyes flashed about the controls. Most were dead but what he saw showed him he had enough power to continue. In spite of the damage to his right leg, he could still move. The Palace would not fall, not while Austin Ortega had trusty old Sergeant Death for a ride.

  From his loftier view ten meters above the ground he saw a modified IndustrialMech making short work of another medium tank. The cutting wheel on its left arm that had carved up the tank hung at a crazy angle. Teeth had broken off and the drive unit gushed heavy black, oily smoke. Another cutting wheel mounted on the upper left shoulder still spun in a deadly arc, but the real damage was wrought by the hammering autocannon in its right arm.

  Austin started stamping to keep the light infantry away. The heavier battle-armor-clad soldiers worked toward him, only to find themselves at the mercy of the IndustrialMech’s autocannon. The pilot of that ’Mech was a maestro with his weapons. Austin doubted it was true, but it looked as if every single 50-mm round found a target and dispatched one of the attacking soldiers.