Tortorelli looked at her strangely. Elora realized her voice had risen to a screech, and she was acting erratically.
“We are so close, Calvy. You are such a brilliant tactician.”
“Strategist,” he said absently. “The overall battle plan is strategy. How it’s accomplished is tactics.”
Lady Elora ignored him. Her mind raced ahead to the eventual success over the BattleMech. Should she try Parsons as a traitor and execute him, or would it be better to send him packing back to Aaron Sandoval? Definitely the latter. The message would be clearer that way. Mirach, under the guidance of Kal Radick, had destroyed a BattleMech. The planet was off-limits from now on to Republic forces if they didn’t want to face the same punishment.
Possibly the battle itself would make the decision for her. Jerome Parsons might be killed, either in combat or by Marta Kinsolving’s sycophants.
A new river of intrigue flowed around Elora as she considered the benefits of announcing how Kinsolving and the MBA had murdered Sandoval’s Envoy. She had already broadcast how Sergio Ortega had again destroyed Mirach’s HPG station. It hardly mattered if many believed the wild claim, as long as some did. All this might be enough to wrest control of Mirach’s industrial sector from the triumvirate that now ran it. Elora could control not only the military and civil authority, but the mining, manufacturing, and agricultural might of the planet.
Authority, power, and wealth!
“You don’t want to do that,” said Tortorelli.
“Why not?” Elora’s fierce green eyes fixed on him.
How did he know what I was thinking?
“You’ll box in the tanks. They’d either have to waste ammunition blowing their way through Havoc or swing far around and fritter away valuable time doing an end run. If they did that, the BattleMech could get free and establish a defensive position at the Palace.”
“The Atlas could fight there without fear of destroying any of the populace,” she said slowly, considering the merits of what the Legate said. Elora relaxed when she realized Tortorelli had been commenting on the skirmish raging in the city and not on her political engineering.
“It could certainly defend the Governor until battle armor could be brought in, should that be Parsons’ intent.” Tortorelli paused, then continued. “Ask him to surrender.”
“Parsons?”
“No, no, my dear. Ask Sergio to surrender. He would do it to prevent more bloodshed. You know how squeamish he gets. I do think he really believes all that pacifistic nonsense he spouts. Tell him to hand over the government immediately or there will be even more bloodshed.”
“Only he can stop it,” Elora said, keying in exactly to what Tortorelli meant. This was the Governor’s Achilles’ heel. He might have been a fierce fighter in the days of Devlin Stone, but he had lost the will to fight and he believed anything could be negotiated.
She would show him how politics really worked. Words were fine, but a barrage of missiles or a laser blast produced more dependable results.
“No, wait—he won’t surrender,” Tortorelli said, as if this was a major revelation for him. “He will see his own martyrdom as a stronger statement that will unite the people against us. The Baron might be right; yes, he just might be right. But I don’t think so.”
He reached past Elora and got a command line to his battalion commander.
“Captain Mugabe, full attack. Hit the Palace with all you have.”
“Sir!” came the reply. “Repeat your order, please.”
“Destroy the Palace of Facets,” Tortorelli said decisively. “Take no prisoners.”
“Understood, sir,” came the reluctant reply. But Tortorelli saw Mugabe obeyed. She was his top tank commander. She moved into position rapidly and her Behemoth fired a Gauss round that crashed into the Palace’s facade with horrific results.
“He won’t surrender,” Tortorelli repeated. “Did I do right, Elora? Should I have ordered the Palace and everyone in it reduced to rubble?”
“I can announce that he has already surrendered,” Elora said, more to herself than to the Legate. This appealed to her. When she moved in with her cameras, any fight on the Governor’s part would then appear to be violation of a truce.
“Yes, that is splendid. There isn’t much time left for him, so do make it sound sincere,” Tortorelli said. Elora fixed him with her cold stare. Was he being sarcastic? She couldn’t tell because he turned and went to the screen so he could watch the destruction moving like a tsunami across Cingulum. Tanks sniped at the Atlas, and battle-armored soldiers continued their persistent attack, in spite of increasingly heavy losses from the BattleMech’s crushing feet and sweeping arms as it tried to escape.
But nothing matched Elora’s feeling of accomplishment when fifteen minutes later, her news anchor interrupted the live-action fighting to read the report of Governor Sergio Ortega’s unconditional surrender.
The stage was now set for victory. If the Baron fought, he would be seen as treacherous. If he didn’t, he died.
34
Governor’s Park, Cingulum
Mirach
9 May 3133
Here goes nothing, Austin Ortega thought. He had worked steadily for five days and had programmed the neurohelmet to respond to his brain waves, then had set access codes to permit him to fully power up the BattleMech. He had brought ammo from a warehouse and, using a small, motorized carrier, had struggled to load LRMs stored in an underground bunker. Several technicians would have done such work, but Austin had relied on his own training and a considerable amount of innate talent.
And he had invested more physical exertion than he cared to think about, every muscle in his body aching. It had been a hectic, strenuous five days.
Sergeant Death had gone from an inert tower of metal to a reborn fighting machine in less than a week under his careful ministrations.
It just goes to show what a sturdy ’Mech the Centurion is, he thought with a sense of accomplishment. Then a moment of grief washed over him. Dale had been wrong about the old BattleMech.
“This is for you, big brother,” Austin declared. He fastened his neurohelmet, strapped himself in, and gripped the joysticks. His feet pressed into the pedals and Sergeant Death came alive. A heavy metal foot moved forward and crushed down, destroying the marble floor in the rotunda. As the BattleMech swung about, an electrical junction box at floor level exploded amid a shower of sparks and loud whistles and electronic screeches. Austin piloted the Centurion forward, crashing through the western wall of the museum without breaking stride. Lath and bricks fell all around, creating small clicking sounds against the metal hull.
Visual observation vanished amid the dust cloud he created. Austin switched to instrumentation. He was pleased to see that the targeting and ranging equipment was operational. When he powered up the Corean Transband-J9, he was disappointed to hear only static. Austin had hoped to contact the Atlas, coordinate an attack, and establish an unbreakable defense around the Palace.
Adjusting the targeting radar, he saw that the Atlas was more than twenty klicks away in the city. Small flares around the other BattleMech showed how furiously Tortorelli’s medium tanks engaged it. The Atlas MechWarrior depended on surgical shots at the Condors and ignored what Austin saw as the real goaclass="underline" the Governor.
“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.