The Ruins Of Power mda-3

by Robert E Varderman

  “You can do the studying, little brother,” Dale said airily. “I’ll concentrate on the fun.”

  “Was it more fun when I got first blood?” Austin felt a small glow of triumph at this. He usually played it too conservatively, even in the simulator, and took the first hit.

  “You’re learning from me,” Dale said. His face lit up, gray eyes sparkling and even teeth showing through his broad, cheerful grin. A well-trimmed black mustache twitched just a little. It was impossible for Austin to grow a mustache that looked half as dashing. He had tried. But then, his brother was the one with the good looks and bright, open manner that drew attention.

  Both of them had broken their noses in hand-to-hand training a year ago. Dale’s had mended perfectly straight while Austin’s had kept a small lump to remind him of the encounter. It had always been that way between him and his older brother.

  “I wish the sim wouldn’t give me so many equipment failures, even before battle. My forward laser went out.” Austin regretted the words the instant they left his mouth. He sounded as if he were whining. The simulation computer randomly chose which equipment to damage and fail, just as it sometimes altered the terrain. It only seemed that Dale came out ahead on this score each time. Austin reluctantly admitted to himself Dale won more often because he had better combat instincts.

  “Don’t pick such a clunker next time,” Dale said. “All my armament worked fine, though the computer tried to give me an intermittent power surge. I fiddled with it and got the fusion plant settling down into the black. Easy as …taking you down!” Dale’s pale gray eyes glowed with amusement, taunting Austin. Austin refused to rise to the fight. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got places to go and things to do.”

  With an agile twist, Dale ducked out the hatch at the rear of the simulator and went to stow his gear in a bank of lockers.

  Austin powered down the simulator equipment and stretched his long legs. He stood 180 centimeters but was still 15 centimeters shorter than his older brother. Both had close-cropped black hair, but Dale’s was thicker, hinting that Austin would eventually end up balding like their father. He left the sim and put his gear into his storage locker.

  He and Dale faced off in computer simulators at least once a week, sometimes more, in spite of their father’s scorn for such practice. Baron Sergio Ortega was Governor of Mirach and had been since the days of Devlin Stone. Sergio had fought for Stone and had been one of the best MechWarriors in the field. Although he played down his role, Sergio had been granted both his title and the governorship of Mirach because of valor in combat.

  Austin wished his father wouldn’t dismiss that aspect of his life so much. These days, Sergio concentrated on his philosophical side.

  “I want to see it again,” Austin said suddenly. He didn’t have to tell his brother what he meant. Dale knew.

  “Why? It hasn’t moved,” Dale replied. Then he grinned condescendingly. “Sure, why not? You deserve a reward for a draw.”

  “Draw!” cried Austin. “I beat you.”

  “Double kill is a draw. Those are the sim rules.”

  Arguing, the brothers threaded their way through the training structure and across the broad lawn outside to a parking lot. In their simulation it had been twilight and the ruddy sun had cast a faint, deceptive glow. In reality, the huge red disk was rising in the east and growing warmer, hinting at a hotter-than-usual spring morning. Two of Mirach’s four moons, the smaller Arit and Batn, transited its face.

  Austin swung into the car and started the engine. Dale joined him on the passenger side. The sim training facility was at the far north of Governor’s Park, the thousand-hectare expanse holding most of what Austin held dearest. Their destination required a drive.

  Both he and Dale were officers in the First Cossack Lancers, an elite Republic Militia unit that had been placed under the Baron’s command to honor his service with Devlin Stone. Their barracks shone in the morning sun a kilometer away from the training center at the northernmost boundary of the park, but Austin headed elsewhere now. Surging upward through the wooded areas in the center of the park were major governmental office buildings and the Governor’s office and residence, the Palace of Facets. Before joining the First Cossack Lancers as a lieutenant, junior grade, Austin had lived there. But his father had usually been occupied with planetary governance, and all too often, Austin had not been included in his older brother’s plans.

  Austin had come to prefer exploring the vast, well-maintained museum, located at the southwestern corner of the park, near the major roads leading to Mirach’s capital city, Cingulum, ten kilometers away. Austin turned onto the road leading around the perimeter of the park while Dale rattled on and on about the fight, claiming moral victory if not computer-granted triumph. The manicured meadows and carefully cultivated forests rushed past unnoticed, as did traffic on the road. Austin was focused on reaching the museum.

  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 autocannon, yellow stripes on the legs and red hash marks on the arms, lasers and LRMs just like the simulated ’Mech he piloted during simulator training. Because of the distinctive markings on the old ’Mech, Austin had nicknamed it “Sergeant Death,” much to Dale’s amusement. He had never told his father this, and never would, giving Dale blackmail material since childhood.

  “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 wit
h 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 Hanna?” Austin asked. He saw the slight twitch at the corner of his brother’s lips as he tried to keep from smiling. Over the years Dale had acquired quite a reputation, but since he had met Hanna Leong, he hardly noticed other women.

  “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 beginning of worry lines at the corners of Dale’s eyes and wondered what Dale wasn’t telling him.

  “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.

  “Anything to report, Master Sergeant?” asked Dale.

  “Have you seen the new orders, sir?”

  Dale went to scan the sheaf of papers Borodin held out. Austin glanced up at the small parabolic mirror mounted high in the archway that permitted Borodin to see everyone entering the Palace. Austin’s reflected image was distorted and at this angle reflected him only from the waist up. Short-cropped dark hair covered his head. His broad face with its high cheekbones was handsome, he knew, but not as much as his brother’s. He touched the lump where his nose had been broken, then guiltily stepped away to change the reflection in the mirror. Austin liked this view of himself better. Wide shoulders, barrel-like chest, muscled arms showing the results of strenuous physical training required of all FCL soldiers—Austin felt some pride at how he had bulked up since his swearing in six months earlier. Before the FCL—and with the exception of his practice time in the ’Mech simulator—he had spent a lot of time studying and not enough time doing.

  “Keep up the good work, Master Sergeant,” Dale said. “Come on, Austin. We’ve got to hoof it if we don’t want to be late.”

  “Let’s take the shortcut,” Austin suggested. Dale nodded absently, lost in thought. He didn’t share what he had learned and Austin didn’t ask.

  They made their way through the maze of passageways in the Governor’s residence, an expanded replica of the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg on Terra, and finally reached the Great Hall of Saint George leading directly to the Governor’s offices. Gold filigree arches opened to expose walls of stained glass showing various scenes of history from both Terra and The Republic. Austin knew where to look to see the spots where entire windows had been replaced, showing the political shift from the Federated Suns to The Republic, but few walking along this splendid corridor would ever take note of such small discrepancies.

  Three-meter-tall triptychs served as doors for some corridors leading away to other parts of the Palace, but the exotic inlaid wood, the painted murals, the fine tapestries on the walls, and even the cunningly wrought tables spun from crystalline glass were easily overlooked because of the floor. Every step Austin took caused the wood to compress slightly. The resulting squeak sounded like a bird chirping in protest.

  Austin had lived in the Palace of Facets all his life and saw nothing unusual about the expensive furnishings. He and Dale had played in the west wing, amid priceless works of art, tapestries, and furniture ancient two hundred years ago. A favorite pastime had been stacking the antique furniture as high as possible in an attempt to reach the cleverly designed ceilings. Not once had the young carousers fallen nor had they ever reached their lofty goal.

  When their games of hide-and-seek turned to more serious military ones, they had haunted the vast libraries, Austin researching battles and equipment and Dale waiting for his younger, more studious brother to give him a précis of what he had unearthed.

  In spite of having spent so much time in the Palace, Austin still got a chill when he came down this particular hall, the one giving the name to the entire structure: the Palace of Facets. Overhead, mounted in the ceiling, were hundreds of kilos of precious gems sliced microtome thin. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, peridots, diamonds, each lending its own peculiar transmitted light to the Great Hall. As he walked, Austin felt he passed through rainbows, multiple colors whirling about him in a vortex of brilliance. And this was only a single hall. He knew of half a hundred other corridors and rooms where the light filt
ering through the jewels was even more exquisite.

  He swallowed hard, remembering the time he had sneaked into his parents’ bedchamber. That room had always been off-limits to everyone, staff and family alike, and this had made it all the more magnetic an attraction for him. One afternoon he had sneaked in and stood bathed in the syrupy light cascading down from the ceiling. The aurora surrounding him had been dazzling, hypnotic, almost narcotic. He had barely hidden when his parents had entered unexpectedly. Austin remembered catching a glimpse of his mother bathed in this radiance before he slipped away unnoticed. It had been the last time he had seen her alive before the air transport crash took her life.

  Austin walked a little faster, and Dale’s stride lengthened as he strained to keep up with his brother. Their steps chirped and echoed down the Great Hall like migrating birds until they came to the tall, carved wooden doors standing open to the antechamber to the Governor’s office. The Armorer’s Chamber housed not only a full office staff but actual arms on display from worlds throughout The Republic. This was as special and complete an exhibit as any at the museum, even if his father threatened to remove it to some distant part of the Palace. Austin had told his father that anyone not remembering the past was doomed to repeat it. He hoped his argument would make some impression on his father and his increasing distaste for violence and the weapons of warfare. Somehow, he doubted it. He would miss the displays.

  “The Baron will see you now,” a secretary said, glancing up from his desk when Austin and Dale stopped in front of it. “Go right in.”

  “Thanks,” Dale said mechanically.

  Austin glanced at Dale, who appeared more relaxed now, but he had a feeling it was only an act. An image of his brother winding up like a spring flashed through Austin’s mind. Dale moved like a jungle cat, sleek and slender and fit. If Austin had bulked up under FCL PT, Dale had gained a long-distance runner’s physique. He cut quite a picture, his jet-black uniform impeccable, silver lieutenant’s insignia shining in the parti-color light dancing down from above. Two small striped ribbons on his chest showed that Dale had engaged in combat against both the copper miners last year and the attempted invasion of Mirach’s other continent, Ventrale, by a company of mercenaries possibly in Jacob Bannson’s employ. Bannson was the ambitious head of a huge corporate conglomerate with business interests in two Prefectures. The Republic had put a limit on his activities once accusations of monopoly were leveled at him, and so Bannson had backed off. Now, with the collapse of the HPG net, rumors abounded that Bannson had been employing less businesslike tactics to expand his influence. The Bannson connection to the Ventrale affair had never been proved, although everyone had their own opinion as to who had backed the ill-fated expedition.