Manfred loved the rush of air against his face. The sense of danger made his breath come a little faster, just as the scent of weeds growing along the road leading into Cingulum reminded him of his parents’ farm when he was growing up. All he did was cut weeds, or so it had seemed then.

Manfred’s nose twitched just a little. He realized that times had not changed much. Then, the tenacious plants he had chopped down were ankle-high bindweed and the taller blue-gray grasses. Now he worked at weeds in the Governor’s garden.

He took a curve in the road at high speed, skidded, and then stopped, watching the road behind. He was the only traffic on the beltway circling the city. A slow line of vehicles made their way inward toward the skyscraper complex he had just left, but no one followed him along this road. Manfred fumbled in his pocket and donned a pair of glasses. A few seconds’ adjustment let him scan the ruddy sky for any trace of airborne spy devices. The IR lenses caught heat reflections off a few metallic slivers, but Manfred decided they were high-flying airplanes. He had no sense that he was being followed or electronically monitored.

He gunned the cycle back to a full-throated roar and raced off. Time worked against him, but he had to be certain no one saw whom he was meeting.

Around Cingulum he ran, taking corners at breakneck speed, then slowing and speeding up at random intervals to throw off anyone trying to track him. He doubled back more than once, stopped, and then took a spoke road into a decrepit section of town where he watched from cross streets, and always, always, he used the IR detection goggles. In the field they were good for spotting enemy battle armor and motorized equipment. Here they warned him of aerial spies.

Only when he was sure he wasn’t observed did Manfred Leclerc pull into a dingy, garbage-littered alley and lean the cycle against a wall. He dusted himself off, stepped into the street, and walked directly to a small bookstore sandwiched between larger businesses. He went inside, resisted the urge to take a final look out into the street to see if anyone noticed him, then went to the clerk behind a long counter running three-quarters the length of the store.

“I’d like a history book,” he said.

“History is a dusty subject,” came the answer. “Perhaps you’d like something else.” The clerk looked bored and never glanced up at him. He was reading a book of his own.

“Then I’ll buy a cookbook.”

The man lifted his chin, silently pointing out a staircase leading to a second floor, reached under the counter, and pressed a button. He went back to his reading without saying another word.

Manfred hurried up the steps, aware of the intricate wiring and electronics along the way. He opened the door at the head of the stairs, slipped inside quickly, and shut it behind him with a profound sense of relief. He had made it without being seen.

“You worry too much, Manfred,” Sergio Ortega said.

“Sorry to take so long, my lord. I had to be sure no one noticed I’d left.”

“Unless I miss a guess, you are completely off the radar screen in the Legate’s headquarters. That makes it easier for you to get away often, as you will have to if we are to finish this scheme quickly.” Sergio sat in a comfortable chair, a book perched on the arm. Manfred sidled around to read the title. A book of essays on pacifism written by a Terran named Bertrand Russell.

“I overheard a few officers talking after an emergency conference,” Manfred said with some bitterness.

“To which you were not invited, I take it.” Sergio laughed. “Don’t feel left out, Manfred. I’d’ve worried if you had been included.”

“I suppose you’re right, sir,” Manfred said. “An infantry major spoke with a tank commander about a call-up against civilians. The major bragged how battle armor could take out any rioter.”

“Bravado, nothing more. I can’t believe Tortorelli would use battle-armored troops against demonstrators after I’ve warned him against such a move.”

“He’s concerned that there is a rebellion brewing, Sergio, one powerful enough to overthrow the government.”

“Insurrection? And the leader…?” From the way Sergio sat a little straighter, Manfred saw he had the Governor’s complete attention.

Manfred hesitated, then said, “Your son. With the backing of the MBA and their converted IndustrialMechs.”

“Austin is going to overthrow me?” Sergio’s good humor slowly evaporated as he considered this. “He’s a hothead and we don’t agree on how to handle the demonstrations, but he’d never lead a revolt.”

“I don’t think so, either, Baron,” said Manfred.

“No, of course he wouldn’t. He’s a good boy. But he has a stubborn streak in him and he doesn’t believe I’m doing a particularly good job running the world at the moment. I want to keep him out of this ruckus as much as I can until he gets more experience, but that might not be possible if Tortorelli thinks he is leading a revolt.”

Manfred said nothing as Sergio argued with himself, finally deciding that Austin would never sanction rebellion, even if he thought it strengthened The Republic’s grip on Mirach. That’s what Sergio ended up saying aloud.

Manfred worried that the Governor didn’t sound as if he truly believed it. Deep down, they both knew Calvilena Tortorelli was capable of ordering troops against civilians, whether out of fear or cupidity did not matter, and that was something Austin would oppose with all his heart and soul.

Industrial Giants manufacturing plant, outskirts of Cingulum

Mirach

30 April 3133

“The Governor’s not planning to cut his spending on other projects, is he?” asked Marta Kinsolving. She tried to sound nonchalant, but Austin Ortega felt the tension in her question. Her brown eyes fixed on him, making him a little uneasy about having to lie to her.

“The budget is set for the coming fiscal year,” Austin said, carefully choosing his words. He wasn’t lying about that. He simply didn’t know what his father was going to do because he was not privy to the actual workings of the government or how his father came to his decisions. Two things were certain, though. Because of his pacifist leanings, Sergio Ortega was not inclined to spend more on military procurement, and Austin had wrangled a tour of another plant under false pretenses.

Austin wasn’t sure if he wanted to see what military capability the MBA might be developing or if his purpose was to see Marta again. She was a benign splinter in his mind, always obvious, yet not doing anything to fester. Try as he might, Austin could not find evidence that Marta had arranged Dale’s death. The trail of guilt went to the technician loading the live rounds and abruptly stopped there. When the inventory had been delivered to the field, one crate had been mismarked; the tech actually thought she had given the tank commander dye-marker warheads. But how the crates had become confused—or switched and the labeling altered—was something Austin had failed to determine. There was one soldier in the supply chain he had been unable to identify, but pursuing the lead had proved difficult because his father had kept him so busy with small, time-consuming chores.

The only chance he had of proving to his own satisfaction that Dale’s death was anything more than the officially reported accident was to dig around in Marta Kinsolving’s businesses to eliminate her and the MBA as suspects.

She and AWC had profited immeasurably by Dale’s death. The contract Sergio Ortega had announced helped offset the loss of revenue from the HPG net failure and gave All WorldComm a position that challenged the Ministry of Information for eventual influence over Mirach. The Span-net proposed by AWC would connect citizens directly, doing away with the need for scheduled newscasts vetted by Lady Elora. A single flip of the switch on a handheld unit would connect to any news provider, and the small cost for maintaining such a service would ensure that dozens of competing private companies would flock to set up their own direct-transmission news operations.