“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.

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.

Manfred saw the lieutenant whose desk he had appropriated coming from the elevator. Even junior officers had been summoned to the Legate’s emergency meeting. That cemented Manfred’s notion of what was happening. He might be a captain and in command of the First Cossack Lancers now, but that would change quickly. The FCL was being dismantled, one lance at a time, sent on detached duty, elements assigned to other units, until their cohesion was destroyed. Manfred had heard rumors that he was to be reassigned to a test group—a nonexistent test company with no mission. That meant he would do nothing but ride a desk and turn in reports about nothing that no one read.

Manfred smiled a little at the notion of such an assignment. It would be perfect for what he had to do.

It was all he had expected when Governor Ortega had ordered him to Tortorelli’s command. But he had not expected the Legate to mobilize against the populace, claiming Austin was leading a revolt. That was so absurd Manfred wondered why everyone wasn’t laughing the rumor into oblivion. He suspected Elora had something to do with it—more than something.

He got up, started toward the elevator and then stopped at a major’s vacant desk. He activated the comm-unit, punched in a series of numbers, counted to three, then disconnected.

Manfred wended his way through the office and down to the garage, where he found a cycle. He scribbled his name on the checkout sheet, climbed on, and roared off.