“We’re in range in three, in two, in one—fire, fire, fire!”
Austin hit the ground, braced himself, and revectored so he would sail higher into the air. He saw two Behemoth tanks ahead. His SRMs lashed out, spewing their harmless pink dye over heavy armor, cannon barrels, LRM launchers, and even incautious crews poking heads from turrets.
“Got mine!” came the first report. “Mine, too,” came a second.
Austin cut his Jumppack, landed at a run, got his balance, then launched again. The second Behemoth was less than a hundred meters off. Two rockets pounded it. Two more followed and his launcher ran dry of reloads.
As he came down on the far side of the jump parabola, he twisted about and saw a Condor tank jacked into high gear coming back fast. Austin got off a single barrage and missed as he dropped down.
“Condor on the way. Missed it. Someone else in position take it out? Lieutenant Newell?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” said Borodin. “I think Newell’s entire company got caught. One of the Behemoths we didn’t target fired into Beta.”
“Dale,” he called. “Feed me battle assessment update. We’re close.” He got a faint reply with a considerable amount of dropout.
“We’re taking it to them, Austin,” he heard. Dale chuckled. “We sustained losses along our perimeters, but your attack crippled them good. After their first assault, even our perimeter’s holding, but most of Beta is gone, survivors trying to regroup. I’ll send a demand for surrender. We’ve lost a quarter of our force, most of them in Beta.”
Austin’s company had taken out three of the enemy’s heavy tanks. As far as he could tell, the Behemoths had lobbed only a few rounds, but they had been devastating.
“Dale, I’m still getting reports of a Condor bearing down on TacCom.”
“I’m picking it up. Barkhausen’s Delta Company is sweeping across to intercept.” Dale’s voice faded for a moment and then Austin heard his brother yell, “Get this thing into gear and get us out of range! The tank’s going to fire! It—”
Austin staggered as a tremendous explosion filled his earphones and then an instant later rocked the battlefield. Four more detonations followed in rapid succession, as if a tank barrage had gone off—shells with high-explosive warheads.
12
Sardanaplus Highlands, 1255 kilometers east of Cingulum
Mirach
17 April 3133
Austin blinked, and for a moment he thought he saw his brother. Before he could force his lips to call out Dale’s name, the apparition spoke in an emotion-choked voice.
“Austin, you’re all right!”
“Father!” To Austin’s ears his cry came out a dull, distant croak, but it was enough for the Governor to understand him.
“Don’t exert yourself,” Sergio Ortega said.
Austin forced himself to reconstruct what had occurred. He had been leading his company to a quick victory. The enemy HQ was exposed, open after they had taken out the defending Behemoth tanks. He remembered the report of a Condor tank racing for the TacCom where Dale had been. Then an explosion. Austin blinked.
The explosion still rang in his ears. The next thing he remembered was racing back to find the TacCom a smoking ruin. Dale was dead.
The Condor had fired three salvos from Arbalest LRM 15s. The last had been composed of live rounds.
“He’s dead, Father. Dale was blown up. They weren’t supposed to use live rounds!”
“The instant it was reported, Tortorelli stopped the games,” Sergio said, “and I came out in a command car with him.” The baron looked even older than he had before. “He’s gone, Austin. Dale’s dead. There’s no question.” Sergio turned from him to hide tears.
“Lieutenant,” Austin’s technician said, “you’re still in armor.”
Austin let Jurgen help him from his battle armor. He felt a numbness more of mind than of body even after he popped free and stood in his bodysuit beside his father.
“I should never have agreed to this,” Sergio said dully, looking toward the plume of smoke from the wreckage. “There has to be some other method for solving our problems if even a simple exercise can go so badly wrong. I lost my son to a game!”
“Governor, you have my deepest sympathy. I don’t know what could have happened. But it’s a training misadventure, a terrible mishap. No one’s to blame.” Legate Tortorelli puffed himself up and tried to look in control. He didn’t succeed.
“An accident, Legate, a sad, tragic accident that robbed us of a young officer with a bright future,” chimed in Lady Elora. “Lieutenant Ortega will be sorely missed. With your permission, Governor Ortega, the Ministry of Information will produce and air a full hour special in tribute to your gallant son.”
Austin moved from them and went to the edge of a cliff. The battlefield was full of such tactical challenges, all the better for training and preparation. Now the challenge had turned deadly. The TacCom had been blown over the edge. If the broadside strike of all fifteen missiles hadn’t killed everyone in the TacCom instantly, the fall down the fifteen-meter drop would have. Dizziness hit him like a hammer; then, after a moment, he got his bearings again. People moved around him, but he stood in a bubble. Austin felt as if he had stepped into a graveyard. Everyone stood stock-still, silent, staring at him like a bug under a microscope until Lady Elora spoke.
“How does it feel to see your brother killed in such a tragic fashion, Lieutenant Ortega?” She stepped closer and bent slightly. He caught a hint of her gardenia-scented perfume and it caused a new wave of dizziness. How dare she ask such a question? Austin wanted to reach out and throttle her, but with her cameras and microphones trained on him, he simply stared at her, willing her away from him.
“We will interview you later for the tribute,” Elora said. Austin walked back to his father’s side.
“As of this instant, Legate,” Sergio said, “the First Cossack Lancers is assigned your command. The sooner all trace of it is gone from my life, the better.”
“Governor Ortega,” Tortorelli was saying, bowing slightly. His eyes gleamed with the newfound power. “Rest assured, this unit will hold a place of honor among the others and will always be at your service, whenever you need it.”
“I won’t need it,” Sergio said flatly.
Austin’s first thought was that his father needed protection now more than ever, but knew that such an argument would never fly. He tried a different approach.
“Father, Dale wouldn’t have wanted the FCL to be transferred,” he said. “Keep it in his memory, his honor.” Austin saw the set to his father’s jaw and knew the answer. There had been little chance before the exercise that he was going to relent. There was none now.
“The sight of their uniforms would remind me of Dale,” Sergio said. “I want to return to the Palace. Will you join me, Austin?”
“Soon, Father,” he said. “Let me say good-bye.” He let his gaze drift in the direction of the wreckage.
“Very well,” Sergio said, walking off stiffly.
Austin skirted the area Elora had marked off for her own use. She had pushed aside her newscaster and was doing the report herself. Austin couldn’t bear to listen.
With the words “tragic” and “misadventure” ringing in his ears, Austin stumbled away and found the Shandra Manfred Leclerc had ridden during the war games. He quickly swung into the seat, keyed the machine to life, and roared off in the direction of the Condor tank that had destroyed Dale, the TacCom, and its other seven occupants.
The warm air rushing past his face drove away some of the fog of shock and left Austin more determined by the minute. The dull disk of the distant sun caressed him with lukewarm ruby rays and stole away the aches and pains he had accumulated during the exercise. But nothing took away the pain of losing his brother.