“One easily handled by an experienced commander such as yourself,” Elora said soothingly. She considered how difficult it would be to remove all the witnesses, and decided eliminating one careless employee was better than creating questions over the death of half a squad in the Home Guard.
“I should tell the Baron. I had nothing to do with this, he needs to know, and that other son of his keeps asking questions.”
This signed the assassin’s death warrant. Elora didn’t know how it would be done, but it had to be done soon. And it would.
“Would Sergio be better off if you went to him? I think there might be more to the Baronet’s death than you think, Calvy. See what I’ve uncovered?”
She touched a spot on the surface of the desk. The small screen at the corner of her desk turned toward the Legate like a radar unit seeking its target. “This was recorded after the Baron’s news conference by accident and might shed light on whom the assassin works for. We were doing a feature on industries vital to Mirach. Of course, I had to do a significant portion on AllWorldComm.”
“Of course,” Tortorelli said, squinting at the screen, trying to figure out what he was seeing.
“Ms. Kinsolving and Austin Ortega earlier today were touring the AWC assembly area when this was recorded.”
Her Ministry’s best technicians had spent long hours putting this snippet together to garner the maximum effect.
“I’m no expert, mind you,” Elora said slowly, “but it sounds as if they are discussing the political stability of Mirach and that Ms. Kinsolving is disparaging your attempts to maintain order.”
“Why, I—” Tortorelli sputtered a bit. “It does sound that way. She’s almost advocating outright rebellion! And to the Governor’s own son!”
“Austin is a bit naive when it comes to sedition,” Elora said. “Or perhaps not. After all, who has benefited most from Dale Ortega’s death?”
“Baronet Austin is next in line of succession,” Tortorelli said, reaching the conclusion Elora wanted. “But that was his own brother!”
“Ambition knows no bounds,” Elora said. “He was on the battlefield and could have aided the assassin in getting to the LRMs. And he certainly knew where the TacCom was every instant of the exercise.”
“But his own brother!” exclaimed Tortorelli.
“This discussion might be innocent. As I said, this is only a tiny portion of their long conversation.”
“The Governor must be told of this immediately. Send a copy to—”
“Please, Calvy,” Elora said, motioning him to silence. She let him stew a few seconds before continuing. “I’m not sure alerting Baron Ortega is the proper thing to do. If his son hasn’t mentioned how the AWC and probably the MBA are conniving, or at least criticizing, behind his back, I’m not sure it is our place to do so. And we have no proof of anything more. Such as fratricide.”
Elora paused again, as if considering what more to say.
“What is it, Elora? There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“The MBA has refitted IndustrialMechs,” she said bluntly. “To protect their property, they say. Those infernal devices can be turned against the rioters—or legitimate military forces.”
“Then it might be rebellion?” Legate Tortorelli looked stunned. “It all makes sense. The MBA uses their ’Mechs against my forces to gain power. If the Baron resists, they kill him and install the Baronet.”
“But we can’t prove it, and to say a word to the Baron might endanger us all.”
“No! I have the forces to fight even refitted IndustrialMechs. It would be a fearsome battle, but they won’t seize power that way!”
“You’re the commander to do it, Calvy. You have experience fighting against BattleMechs off-world. But the need may not arise. All my guesses might be wrong.” Elora’s mind raced. She had to eliminate her pet assassin, but perhaps not yet. Not until after one final job.
“This will be difficult to keep quiet,” Tortorelli said. “Such a vast conspiracy. The Baron’s own son. The MBA. Who knows where else the threads of sedition stretch?”
“Where, indeed?” Elora said.
15
HQ of the Legate
Mirach
26 April 3133
“Emergency meeting,” barked a colonel. “Hurry up!”
Manfred Leclerc turned and looked to the officer, thinking the order had been addressed to him. A half dozen senior officers walked quickly to the elevator at the end of the hall, flashed their passes to the guard, and were admitted in threes and fours. The rest waited impatiently for the express elevator to go to the Legate’s briefing room and then return for them. Manfred joined the small knot of officers waiting to be whisked forty stories up to hear what Tortorelli had to say.
Another officer, an infantry major, turned and looked at Manfred, giving him the once over from boots to collar insignia. His gaze stopped there.
“You’re not required to be at the meeting, Captain,” the major said.
Manfred looked around, thinking the officer spoke to someone else. When he realized he was being addressed, he said, “I’m senior officer, First Cossack Lancers. Unless there’s some reason, I should be in on the briefing.”
The major and three others showed their IDs to the guard sergeant. Manfred followed, only to have the guard thrust out a hand and gently push him back.
“Sorry, sir, not you. Your clearance isn’t sufficient.”
The infantry major flashed Manfred a nasty grin as the doors hissed shut and the elevator launched itself for the conference room.
“Who’s supposed to attend? I just transferred in.”
“I know, Captain Leclerc.” The guard was an immovable object.
Manfred backed off. He didn’t like the noncom touching him the way he had, but the sergeant was only following orders. That didn’t make Manfred feel any better. The Mirach security force was small, considering the size of the population, and the addition of the FCL significantly augmented the military’s power.
He knew better than to make a scene. Instead, he found a desk and settled down behind it as if he belonged there. Less than an hour later, the elevator doors opened and began disgorging the officers who had attended the Legate’s emergency conference.
Manfred pretended to be hard at work on a stack of papers, but he never even read what they were. His full attention fixed on the loose-lipped officers. He kept from grinning when the infantry major stopped not a meter away to talk with a tank commander.
“I tell you, Captain,” the major said to the woman. “You’ll have every last one of your Behemoths in the field before autumn.”
“It didn’t sound that bad,” the captain replied. “A few malcontents, nothing more.”
“You didn’t hear what the Legate said—try to understand what he meant.”
“You mean about possible rebellion?” The tanker captain laughed and shook her head. “He’s being paranoid.”
“Legate Tortorelli’s not paranoid,” snapped the major. “He might be overly cautious, but he’s not crazy. Watch what you say, Captain Mugabe. That might be taken as insubordination or even treason.”
“Sorry, sir,” Mugabe mumbled. “I just don’t think we have to worry about the MBA, not the way the Legate is. They’re looking for profits, not insurrection.”
“They’re converting those hunks of scrap for a reason,” the major said. “Be sure your unit is ready to move out at an instant’s notice. It’ll take quick response and heavy artillery to put down a rebellion led by the Governor’s own son.”
Manfred perked up and almost spilled his pile of paperwork. He hastily bowed his head again to keep everyone from noticing how he eavesdropped as the major stalked off to speak with even more senior officers. Manfred looked up and started to say something to the tanker captain, then held his tongue. She was a commander of the Behemoth IIs that had been so thoroughly trounced by Austin Ortega during the war games. Bringing himself to Captain Mugabe’s notice would serve no one. If anything, his usefulness depended on him remaining invisible.