Marta led the way from the room, Parsons trailing behind like a large overdressed balloon. She walked quickly to stay ahead of him until she could drop an impassive mask that covered her turmoil after listening to the Envoy’s questions and comments. Parsons was a time bomb waiting to go off.

Whose bomb was he?

Sardanaplus Highlands, 1255 kilometers east of Cingulum

Mirach

17 April 3133

Lady Elora peered over her director’s shoulder. Barnaby, small, ratlike, and annoyed at the interference, muttered constantly to himself until she was forced to comment on his errant behavior.

“Should we cover the war games from some other location?” she asked, but got only a grumble for an answer. They were almost a kilometer from the command HQ, only one reporter and one camera operator allowed to interview the Legate and his staff.

She ran her hand over her slender hip sheathed in a shining metallic yellow skirt. The luminous, colored fabric contrasted with the severely cut, darker blue blouse and made her stand out among the camouflaged uniforms of the Legate’s staff bustling about around her. They wore composite helmets, while she had done up her rust-colored hair in a loose mist that floated restlessly on the breeze.

“Is Bethany ready for the remote?”

“She’s never ready,” Barnaby griped. “Too bad about Hanna.”

“Keep your mind on business. The Governor and Legate have entrusted the Ministry of Information with showing the full effectiveness of the armed forces.”

“That won’t stop the rioting,” Barnaby said, distracted. “Did you want to power Bethany’s mic so early?” he asked. Barnaby looked up at her. Elora started to rebuke him for his attitude, then realized she had been telling him how to do his job. That wouldn’t do. Baron Sergio might get the idea she was manipulating the news.

He was weak because he had not reined in her power sooner. Elora had been careful, slowly building a growing monopoly of news gathering and news broadcasting. Incrementalism was the key. Then it was too difficult to do anything about how she worked.

The Ministry of Information needed her, and the people of Mirach needed her even more now that the HPG had cut off their flow of news from other Republic worlds. She was all that stood between them and utter anarchy, thanks to Sergio Ortega’s lackluster leadership in matters both diplomatic and economic.

“Don’t worry,” Barnaby said. “I got a sound level check, since the wind’s picking up. Hear any whistle? Feedback? Think we might get dust out on the battleground? If Bethany’s hair is mussed, she’ll have a fit.”

“Battleground,” scoffed Elora, looking over Barnaby’s shoulder at their camera feed. “This is as stylized as a No play.” She glared at Legate Tortorelli and his advisers as they traced patterns on their computer graphics screen, more for Jerome Parsons’ benefit than to lay out a real combat scenario. It was all a sham designed to impress the Lord Governor’s Envoy, although it had been announced as a farewell exercise for the First Cossack Lancers, before they were swallowed whole by the Legate’s forces.

Lady Elora allowed herself a small smile. The purpose of this exercise would change soon enough.

She looked across the gently rolling wooded hills. Spring had brought fitful growth to the ground cover. She couldn’t call it grass. It was a strange combination of succulent and spiny vine that blanketed the terrain, giving it a gray-green appearance that played havoc with the color balance on her cameras. Elora picked up small electronic binoculars and scanned the area to find the opposing forces.

“Why are we here?” grumbled Barnaby. “Bread and circuses? You think this will keep all the demonstrators in check?”

“They might take a few minutes out from pillaging to see how effectively the Legate can end their protests, should he decide to do so.”

“You want that as the opening statement?” asked her director.

“No.” Elora panicked a little. “Bethany’s got her script. Let her begin when she’s ready.”

Elora had got so engrossed in studying the landscape, being certain her cameras were properly positioned to cover every detail of the exercise, that she had been thinking out loud.

“She’s on,” Barnaby said, switching to a remote camera feed of a svelte blond woman dressed in camouflage. “I hope Bethany can remember where the cameras are. She keeps getting the shot wrong.”

“The Governor and Envoy are arriving,” Elora said, her heart beating a trifle faster. “After her intro, have Bethany interview them,” she told Barnaby. From their expressions, she could tell that the Baron and Parsons were not exchanging pleasantries.

“Cutting to the remote,” Barnaby said.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the reporter said cheerfully. “What are your thoughts on today’s war games?”

Sergio Ortega stiffened. “I feel it’s a waste of time, money, and effort.”

Such bluntness from a politician startled Bethany.

“She’s going to blow it. She didn’t expect that from the Baron and doesn’t know how to follow up,” grumbled Barnaby. He worked to feed the reporter new information over her earphone.

“Is it true that today will be the last unit exercise for the First Cossack Lancers? That you are transferring them to Legate Tortorelli’s authority, Governor Ortega?”

“Yes,” he said, leaving the inexperienced reporter to fumble with another question.

“Envoy Parsons,” she said, turning quickly from Sergio, “whom do you expect to win today?”

“Muscles must be tested to be strengthened,” Parsons said. “I look forward to a contest where the best unit will prevail.”

“How are you betting, Envoy? On the regular forces or the First Cossack Lancers?”

“Ask me afterward,” Parsons said, smiling benignly.

Elora sent Barnaby the signal to cut the feed. He transferred the view to cameras darting about the training field, relieving Bethany of the need to pursue her questioning further.

“Are there cameras on the battlefield that can pick up the units commanded by the Baron’s sons?” asked Elora. Barnaby nodded, busy with the work of finding the proper angles and views for the audience.

Elora went to the end of the director’s console, dialed in an access code on a comm-unit, and hesitated, taking a minute to reflect on how this would change the balance of power on Mirach. Then she pressed theSEND button.

“What’re you doing?” asked Barnaby.

“Nothing to concern you,” Elora said lightly. “Just checking on preparedness.”

“I can get a cam out anywhere in a quarter-million-hectare field. You don’t have to position them yourself.”

Elora smiled. He thought she was stealing his thunder as director. Instead, she was delivering thunder. Soon.

“Barnaby, Barnaby,” she chided. “You are so conscientious. Don’t worry. The day will be yours. The action is out there, not here.” She glanced at the knot of politicians watching soldiers running computer simulations on their command computer screens. Elora knew it was better if she remained here, where her duties might be explained, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to be in the middle of the action.

“Get me a car. I want to watch the rest of the exercise with the Legate and his staff.”

Barnaby grunted, spent a few seconds relaying the request, then pointed as a camera truck rolled up.

“That’ll take you to the Legate’s command bunker.” His relief at getting rid of her was so obvious Elora had to laugh. She chuckled the entire way to Calvilena Tortorelli’s post. When things worked well, it meant her careful planning had paid off. The truck slewed to a halt a dozen meters from a guard point and Elora piled out.

Walking with just a small thrust to her hip, she showed her ID to the guard and hurried to the bunker in time to peer over the Legate’s shoulder as he moved 3-D computer-generated miniatures of the actual units across a glowing topographic map. Neither Sergio nor Parsons took notice of her. Elora stepped to one side to better watch the Baron.