“The HPG going down has given a life to rumors no one would believe for an instant otherwise.” Dale looked into Hanna’s eyes and knew she believed what she was saying. He had never known her to jump to conclusions. She was too good a reporter for that. “So why would Radick want Elora to stir up such trouble here on Mirach? What would he gain?”

“What would she gain?” Hanna said intensely. “Ever since I got wind of this business, I’ve been doing some digging. Did you know that there’s Clan blood in her veins?”

This was a surprise to Dale.

“Go back to the year that Elora was born, and in the society pages you’ll find articles about her mother, a whirlwind romance, and an awfully fast marriage. In civil records—police records—I found something else: the report that Lady Galina Stepanova had been raped by a Clanner. Nine months and that same wedding later…”

“A baby girl named Elora, I’ll bet,” Dale finished for her. “If that’s true, why wouldn’t Elora hate the Clans?”

“Why should she? She was brought up noble here on Mirach. Between her noble heritage and her Clan paternity, she believes she is just as good as they are. Elora wants to bring down the Baron and then get Tortorelli to quash the rebels. That would leave the planet exposed for the Steel Wolves.”

“Take a deep breath,” Dale said. “You’re tiring me out with all this.” What Hanna said about Tortorelli gave him pause. He had seen how Elora swayed the Legate.

“It’s more than rumor, Dale. I know it. I can’t prove all of it, especially Elora trying to contact Radick, but it makes sense. You don’t know her like I do. She resents being a lowly Minister and has built up her status in her own mind—her Clan status.”

“They’d never accept her, even if she managed to give them an entire planet,” Dale said.

“We know that, but try telling her. She thinks the Wolf blood makes her better than the rest of us. She’s ambitious beyond all reason. She has no love for The Republic and figures that if she can prove her worth by delivering Mirach, she’ll get a better deal with Mirach under Radick’s control.”

This was too much for Dale.

“How can you prove she’s responsible for the riots? The people are vulnerable because we’re cut off from the HPG net and every little rumor of invasion or disaster takes on a life of its own, but to dump that at Elora’s door is a big step. Unless she’s ordered you to lie on the air.”

“She has a select few who will do anything to please her. Elora knows I can’t be trusted, not in that way, because of you.”

“Me?” scoffed Dale. “If this is true, it’s not because of me. She knows you’re too honest when it comes to reporting the truth.”

“I knew there was a reason I loved you,” Hanna said, kissing him lightly.

“Hmm, nice, but not the right time. Do you have concrete proof?”

“Not enough, but it all fits together. If I could present it to the Baron, it might create enough doubt in his mind that he would remove her.”

“Papa’s got a full schedule these days, but I’ll see what I can do. Too bad I haven’t transferred to his office staff yet.” Dale fell silent for a moment, then smiled and said, “Nobody’s around.”

“Dale!” Hanna cried. “You’re incorrigible. Please get me an appointment. Now, I’ve got to go. I’m on-air soon.”

“Work, work, work,” Dale said in mock horror.

Dale’s usual buoyant good humor faded as Hanna left. Profound changes were taking place because the HPG net had failed, and he didn’t understand them. He needed to talk with Austin.

“Lieutenant Ortega,” greeted Manfred Leclerc. “Just in time to help run calibration tests on the battle armor.” The FCL commander tossed Austin a test meter. Austin put it down and sat beside the captain. Manfred was about the same age as the Baron, but constant training kept him fit. If he ever felt any strain, in combat or out, Austin had never noticed. Manfred Leclerc had ice water running in his veins, from the tip of his toes to the sharp brain 190 centimeters away. Like the other FCL soldiers, Manfred wore his sandy hair cut short, but bushy eyebrows that wiggled like the ends of a snapping rope when he spoke made him seem hairier than he was. One thing Austin appreciated about Manfred was the captain’s prominent nose. It had been broken and so poorly set that Austin was less conscious of his own.

Manfred’s strong hands closed over the test meter.

“Worried about leaving the FCL?” the captain asked. “No, not entirely,” Manfred went on, answering his own question. “There’s something else.”

Austin had always felt Manfred could read his mind.

He looked around the equipment room and took a deep breath. The usual odors of leather, metal, and burning solder were overrun by a sharp ozone tang from a half dozen guardsmen laser-welding armor. Around the large blacktopped science table Austin saw real precision in their work. Many of the First Cossack Lancers had worked their way up through the ranks, technicians before reaching the prestigious position of protecting the Governor. With the Baron considering reassigning the FCL, it seemed as though all that work, all that loyalty, was about to be thrown away.

The stocky guard captain cracked his knuckles and motioned Austin aside. In a low voice so different from his loud command tone, he asked, “What do you hear about it?”

“The rioting?”

“You know what I mean,” Manfred said, impatient. His blue eyes locked with Austin’s. “The transfer. Is it for real?”

Austin hesitated. The guard captain wasn’t prone to believe scuttlebutt and was as securely grounded in fact as any officer Austin knew, but the rumor carried the ring of truth.

“I don’t know, Manfred,” he said uncomfortably. “Dale and I were there when my father said he would think about the Legate’s request, but he didn’t promise.” Even if the FCL came under Tortorelli’s command, Austin wanted to remain with the unit.

“Friends tell me money is already being shifted around, funds we were supposed to get for new battle armor and a lance of Hoverbikes. That means the Governor is going to send us to hell!”

“Maybe he has something else in mind,” said Austin, grasping at straws. Austin’s eyes widened at the resignation on Manfred’s face.

“What else can there be? Never mind. Putting us in the Legate’s command might be better for unit morale, since the Governor’s not doing enough to stop the rioting. Call it what it is, Austin: riots. None of this ‘civil unrest.’ That makes it sound too innocent. People are dying in the streets. Maybe if we were assigned to the Legate we could get out there and put an end to the violence.”

Austin started to speak, then clamped his mouth shut. He agreed with Manfred—up to a point. Sergio Ortega needed a bodyguard more than ever, but his father owed it to the people of Mirach and The Republic to restore order however he could, no matter what personal risks he took.

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” he said.

“We’re history,” Manfred said. “I feel it in my bones. We’re going to be under Tortorelli’s command, and you’re better off on your father’s staff. It’s been good serving with you.” Manfred unexpectedly thrust out his hand. Austin shook it automatically, then stared in wonder at the captain. This had the feeling of a conclusion about it, a parting neither wanted.

“Nothing’s definite yet,” he said. “Things might work out so the FCL continues to guard the Governor and I can stay as an officer and—”

“No,” Manfred Leclerc said firmly. “None of that will happen. It can’t."