Only a unit commendation rode in the same spot on Austin’s chest. This was the difference two years made, two years and Republic citizenship. In only a month Austin would also finish his service and qualify as a citizen. Then he could win promotion past lieutenant, JG, and endless scut work details.
They went to the entry where a pair of FCL guards stepped aside smartly and opened the double doors inward on silent hinges, revealing a room even more splendidly arrayed than the Armorer’s Chamber and Great Hall beyond. Multihued gemstones from across the planet glittered in the ceiling, sending down an ever-shifting spectrum that cleverly contrived to reunite into a steady white light that illuminated Sergio Ortega’s desk. Paneled with video screens, the desk displayed images spanning the entire world, revealing riots as well as the more intimate details of commerce on Mirach.
“Papa,” greeted Dale. “You’re looking good.”
Sergio motioned them into the room. The guards closed the doors behind them as the brothers stood in front of the imposing desk. Despite what Dale had said, their father did not look well. The faint halo of graying hair around Sergio’s bald spot betrayed how little brushing had been done of late. Dark circles under his eyes told of long hours working with little sleep. And the small tremor in his normally rock-steady hand as Sergio pointed to chairs convinced Austin of the strain he was under. His father was usually cheerful and upbeat. Now he was distant.
“Your training goes well,” Sergio said. It wasn’t a question.
“You’ve seen our latest fitness reports?” asked Dale, almost anxiously. Austin looked at his brother from the corner of his eye, wondering what he might have been up to that would reflect poorly on his service record.
Sergio cleared his throat.
“It’s time for you to move out of the FCL and delve into other areas. By the way, Austin, your citizenship has come through.”
“Ahead of schedule?” This surprised him. His father was not one to cut corners when it came to family members. Any show of favoritism might cause unwanted disputes.
“You’ve earned it, son. It comes at a good time, too. You’ll have to spend a few weeks learning the ropes around the office. Citizenship frees you of security concerns that might otherwise arise.”
It took Austin a second to realize what his father had said.
“Both of us, sir? I knew Dale was being assigned to your staff, but I want to stay with the FCL,” Austin protested.
“You surprise me, Austin. Dale enjoys prancing about, showing off his medals to the girls. I didn’t think you were the same,” Sergio said, dismissing the protest.
“Sir,” Austin said, fumbling for the right words to convince his father. “The unrest is growing and Legate Tortorelli seems unwilling to deal with it. You need trained soldiers in your personal guard to—” He cut off his words when he saw the irritation he engendered.
“There’s more to life than being able to kill,” Sergio said. “Fighting never solved any problem better than diplomacy could. That’s why I’ve ordered the police not to use force against demonstrators unless their lives are in jeopardy. I’ve also advised the Legate to tread carefully. I had hoped your stint in the FCL would give you some perspective as to the way the citizens think about authority.”
“They see us as a Sword of Damocles dangling above their heads,” Dale said. “That’s the purpose of the military.”
“It is not!” snapped Sergio. “The Legate’s duty is to protect, not intimidate. The Governor’s duty is to make certain that disputes are taken care of before the Legate’s power is called upon. We must always seek peaceful solutions. It is far too easy to take a life and ever so hard to build one into a lifetime.”
“What steps are you taking to stop the rioting, sir?” asked Austin.
“Calvilena wants to declare martial law in some sections of Cingulum, but I refuse to authorize it. My capital city is not going to be a battleground. I’m doing all I can to ease fears about the HPG net going down, but we’ve lost a lot of jobs because of it. With off-world contracts being canceled, there has to be a cutback among the miners. It’s taking longer than I expected to spur economic growth in other directions, that’s all.”
Austin didn’t doubt that Legate Calvilena Tortorelli wanted martial law for the immense power it would give him. There had always been a give-and-take between the Governor and Legate on Mirach, but Tortorelli had never shown much backbone for a real confrontation. He had excelled in combat when it counted the most for his career. More than one officer in the FCL had said that Tortorelli had been appointed Legate because Prefect Radick saw only the few, rare successes.
Sergio pushed away from the desk and came around it.
“Come along,” he said. He opened the office doors. The FCL guards snapped to attention as he left.
“The conference room is ready for you, my lord,” the secretary said as Sergio passed his desk.
“Thank you, Gordon.” Sergio exited the bustling office, took a private branching corridor, and slowed only enough to allow the FCL guards to open the conference door for him and his sons. A huge oval polished wood table, high-backed chairs around it, dominated the tapestried room. At one end a larger, padded chair waited for the Governor. He settled into it, glanced at monitors set for his viewing, then took a deep breath before pressing a button in the tabletop.
Doors at the side of the conference room opposite where the Baron and his sons had entered swung wide.
“Come in,” Sergio boomed heartily, sounding like his old self. “So good of you to come, Legate Tortorelli. And you, too, Minister.”
Austin craned his neck about and saw the Legate strutting in, the Minister of Information beside him. Tortorelli was a shortish man gone to seed. His thick middle belied military training, although his uniform bobbed and danced with a dozen medals. Try as he might, Austin had never been able to identify more than three of them. He found it surprisingly easy to dismiss the Legate. While Tortorelli might be Prefect Radick’s appointee and able to speak with the full military backing of Prefecture IV, the fall of the HPG net had decreased that authority greatly, forcing Tortorelli to rely on his own meager abilities.
Despite Tortorelli’s presence, Austin’s eyes went immediately to the Minister of Information, Lady Elora Rimonova. She was not beautiful, and he wasn’t sure he would even call her attractive, but there was a quality about her that commanded attention. Whenever she walked into a crowded room, conversation died and all eyes followed her. She was tall, slender to the point of emaciation, with piercing emerald eyes in stark contrast to her bloodless alabaster skin and rust red hair. Elora always looked down her hawklike nose with an air of disdain, her razor-thin lips pulled back in a near sneer. But when she spoke, her voice rang with the power of the Lorelei.
Although he had been at conferences with her over the years, Austin wondered if he had ever really seen her before. Her imposing presence had always overwhelmed him, making him happy to scuttle away so she and his father could speak in private. This meeting struck him as different, as if his father wanted him to study her. An anomalous streak of white in Lady Elora’s hair just above her right ear seemed out of place, and the varied silver and gold rings on each of her long, bony fingers were even more at odds with the somewhat Spartan Mirach custom and culture. Fashion dictated no more than one or two rings, a practice dating back to the early days of Mirach, when precious metals were needed for more vital uses than personal adornment.
“Governor,” Lady Elora said in a voice both silken and seductive. “I am sorry to be so brusque, but if you want to issue a statement for the evening newscast, I must have it soon.”
“Yes, I know your schedule,” Sergio said, as if speaking to someone in another room, another dimension. “The newscast is more important than ever now that off-world information cannot reach us over the HPG.”
“Thank you for understanding. If it weren’t for your official promises, unrest would be far worse among the populace.” The small sneer g
rew into what Elora must have considered an ingratiating smile.
Austin listened to official Ministry of Information broadcasts and wondered at the thin veil of truth covering what struck him as a deeper sedition. Lady Elora was entrusted with presenting the Governor’s position and headed the government-controlled news agency, but the slant sometimes strayed from what Austin considered the loyalty due his father.
The Minister never came out and said anything directly if she could scurry in the shadows weaving a web of fine words with ambiguous meaning.
Without asking permission, Elora sat in the chair nearest the door where she and the Legate had entered. Tortorelli flopped down next to her.
“My lord, have you given my recommendation further thought? If you have, we can make an official announcement and let Lady Elora advise the people this evening.” Tortorelli puffed up with importance as he spoke.
Austin and Dale exchanged glances. Calvilena Tortorelli’s fatuous grin suggested he believed his recommendation was something that would enhance the Legate’s power. Austin felt his stomach turning into a knot.
“There are elements of the idea I like,” Sergio said, tenting his fingers and resting his chin on the steeple. “It would allow me to cut back on military appropriations and divert the money saved into social programs that might ease the tensions.”
“An excellent lead for the news, my lord,” Lady Elora said. “Legate Tortorelli is a capable military commander. The First Cossack Lancers will fit in nicely with an already established force.”
“What?” Austin shot out of his chair. “Father, you’re not going to give up your bodyguard? You can’t let the Legate control the First Cossack Lancers!”
“Quiet, Austin.” Sergio frowned at the outburst.
“Yes, Baronet, you are only a lieutenant, junior grade. Remember your place,” Tortorelli said, looking at him with disdain. The Legate started to say something more, but a look from Elora silenced him.
“From a financial standpoint, as well as a practical one, my lord,” Lady Elora said, “such a transfer of power makes sense.” She half turned toward Austin. “There would be no added risk to the Governor. If anything, the additional training available to the FCL will enhance an already capable unit.”
“Good points, yes, Lady Elora,” said Sergio. “I shall certainly consider it. The tax money freed up can be used to qualify for a matching grant from Jacob Bannson.” Austin sighed inwardly. His father hadn’t believed Bannson had backed the Ventrale incursion. Now, desperate to grow markets on Mirach, the offer that Bannson had relayed via personal courier several weeks earlier still stuck in Sergio’s mind. He had discussed it briefly with Austin, but Austin hadn’t really believed Sergio would accept it; it would mean too much dependence upon—and give too much power to—a complete outsider. “Bannson?” Lady Elora was taken aback.
“He wants to establish a major trading port on Mirach but is unwilling to do so without significant local financing. With the HPG not working, increased trade to Mirach will benefit us all with new job opportunities.”
“Yes, of course,” Lady Elora said carefully. “Bannson’s trading vessels would bring more off-world news, also. That might soothe the populace, knowing we weren’t so completely cut off from the daily workings of other Republic worlds.”
Her words sounded sincere, but Austin saw the set to her bony shoulders and the way her hands curled into fists, only to relax immediately. His father’s words had taken her by surprise, almost as much as the notion of transferring the First Cossack Lancers to the Legate’s command had unsettled him. That pleased Austin. These days, it was a rare circumstance when Elora didn’t have information before the Governor did.
“When you have the details, Governor, I’ll prepare the news release for your approval.” Elora lifted her chin, not quite so haughtily as when she’d first arrived.
“It won’t be long before this matter is resolved and ready for your expert touches,” Sergio said.
Elora hesitated, then stood and left the conference room. Tortorelli trailed after her as if held by an invisible leash.
“You can’t do this, Father!” Austin protested the instant the doors closed behind the Legate and Minister and they were alone in the room.
“He’s right, you know, Papa,” said Dale. “You need a dedicated bodyguard. You shouldn’t have to go through Tortorelli’s chain of command. There’s no telling who or what he would send—or when. You’d be at the Legate’s mercy when you need loyalty the most.”
“I told the Legate I’d think about it. I need a final meeting with Leclerc before making a decision.”
Captain Manfred Leclerc had commanded the FCL since the unit had been detached from The Republic Militia, and Austin trusted him completely. Arguing with his father wouldn’t get him anywhere, but Captain Leclerc would convince the Governor to reject any transfer.
“Let’s return to my office. I have your FCL resignation papers ready, effective at the end of the month. It’s time for you both to move on.” Sergio stood, his colorless eyes daring either Austin or Dale to argue. They didn’t.
3
All WorldComm industrial park, south of Cingulum
Mirach
5 April 3133
“The crowd is getting unruly,” Marta Kinsolving said. Her lips thinned to a line and she brushed back a vagrant strand of auburn hair when she bent forward to study the bank of monitors. Eight cameras showed the main gates to AllWorldComm’s main assembly plant. Three screens were filled with chanting, shouting, angry mobs of people who had lost their jobs due to cutbacks. With mining down, a ripple effect had passed through all Mirach’s businesses, and AWC had been hit worse than many others. Fully a quarter of AWC workers had been laid off over the past few months, and Marta saw more reductions looming.
“Don’t worry so,” her security chief said. Inger Ryumin reached past the AllWorldComm CEO and stabbed a finger down onto a red button. “That’ll take care of it.”
“Public relations,” Marta reminded her. “We need to keep some customers.”
“This is the way to do it,” Ryumin said, an edge in her voice. “I might be out of line, but I think you worry too much about the wrong things. Running the corporation ought to be your primary concern. Security for AWC property is mine. Nobody’ll get hurt unless they touch the electrified wires in the fence and gate.”
Marta usually kept her sometimes-volatile anger in check but not now.
“You’re right about one thing, Chief Ryumin,” she flared. “I am CEO and you work for me.”
“Then get the civil authorities to come out,” Ryumin said. “Have them keep our plants from being destroyed and workers beat up. You cut my security force, you didn’t approve additional equipment, and I’m not sure I can depend on the funding for the special project you and the other CEOs have cooked up.”
Marta appreciated Ryumin’s reluctance to mention how the alliance of businesses, the Mirach Business Association, had slowly come together in a pact to refit IndustrialMechs for use in what amounted to a private military force. But funding was scant and the project under wraps. Only if necessary would the ’Mechs be refitted and used, since that would be a slap in the face of both the Governor and the Legate.
“I’m doing what I can to keep AWC solvent. Since the net went down, all our revenue comes from low-margin local communications. The new moon relays take up most of our R and D budget. You know about the labor trouble with the tantalum mines over in Ventrale, the—”
“Marta,” Ryumin cut in, “I apologize. I’m just trying to do the best I can with what little I have. Tell me how you want those rioters dealt with and I’ll do it.”
“You’re doing fine, Inger,” Marta said, her tone softening a little. They were all under pressure to keep the business running smoothly. The fall of the HPG net made that an almost impossible chore for AllWorldComm, however. Marta fought constantly with her board of directors about the bottom line, and the time she spent performing her dut
ies as president of the Mirach Business Association put her at odds with the directors’ wishes. “Keep them out of our assembly plant. Our guards cannot hold them back indefinitely and the fences might be breached.”
“Including—?” Ryumin pointed to another monitor.
Marta’s brown eyes misted over for a moment. It had come to this. Inger Ryumin had ordered an IndustrialMech positioned inside an assembly building out of sight of the demonstrators. The hulking ’Mech’s right arm held a razor-edged, meter-long diamond drill bit. Its left hand sported a twenty-kilogram sledgehammer. If it advanced into the crowd, it could smash and cut unimpeded. The carnage would be terrible. And the MBA spoke of converting even this fearsome mechanism, equipping it with autocannon and rockets.
Marta jumped when alarms sounded and a red light began flashing.
“A hundred or more have broken down the gate,” Ryumin said, consulting a data display. “The fence shorted out without stopping them.”
“Use the ’Mech,” Marta said. She turned to stone inside. She owed it to her employees to keep them safe. Those in the crowd might once have worked here, but they should have accepted their layoffs and not resorted to force against former coworkers. “And get me a secure conference link to Nagursky and Chin.”
The Ruins Of Power mda-3 Page 3