This set off a new circuit of thoughts. He had to prevent his friend from being used as a pawn in Elora’s power game, but there was more to his mission. Austin reluctantly admitted he wanted to prove he wasn’t useless to his father. Sergio Ortega was a decent man, a great man in many ways, who had guided Mirach through good times and bad. But he was pigheaded and never admitted he was wrong. Austin couldn’t convince his father that a good Governor was not only beneficent, but also able to rule with an iron hand when necessary. The demonstrations across Mirach were growing in violence now, and yet Sergio had failed to quell them.

A battalion of battle armor patrolling the cities would do the trick, Austin thought. That would keep the hotheads from whipping up the fear that threatened the stability of an entire world. Seeing companies of the Legate’s finest marching through the capital would also put an end to Lady Elora’s verbal tinkering. No riots, no paranoia about being cut off from the rest of The Republic, and she would become a toothless tiger.

But Sergio continued to counsel Tortorelli not to deploy troops. His one concession to restoring order had been to send out the police, but Austin saw this as too little, too late. The police had no stomach for trying to control the uncontrollable.

Austin snapped back from his reverie when he almost missed the turn in the road. He careened through the curve, fighting the controls and finally righting the car. Then he opened up the throttle and whirred along to the barracks at better than two hundred kilometers per hour. All too soon, he saw the rotating blue and yellow lights atop the guardhouse and knew he had to slow down. More than a klick away, he took his foot off the accelerator. Speed peeled away like layers of an onion, bringing him to a reasonable pace by the time he could make out the individual guards on duty. Austin braked and brought the car to a halt beside the guard standing duty on incoming traffic.

“Sir, good evening,” the guard said. She bent over and peered into the car. “Just you?”

“Returning from R and R,” he lied. Austin had pulled out his uniform from storage, the one he thought he would never wear again, and had put it on for this charade. Although he was no longer entitled to wear the black-and-silver, it surprised him how right it felt.

“What unit?” she asked, frowning a little.

He started to say he served under Captain Leclerc, then caught himself. Even if Manfred hadn’t been in serious trouble, that wouldn’t have been an acceptable response. The FCL was being broken up, the soldiers deployed to smaller units all over the continent of Musasalah. Some of the scuttlebutt he had overheard between the FCL guards still at the Palace detailed how some of the First Cossack Lancers were even being sent across the planet to the other continent of Ventrale to garrison research outposts. Any cohesion in the FCL would be completely erased within months.

Austin figured that was Tortorelli’s intent: destroy the Governor’s bodyguard and leave him vulnerable. Any element of the Legate’s force sent to protect Sergio Ortega wouldn’t have the devotion, the loyalty, the take-a-bullet dedication Manfred had instilled in the FCL.

“On detached duty with the Legate’s staff. Liaison with Governor Ortega’s office.” Austin fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his legitimate ID. It said nothing of military standing but had the official seal and his father’s signature at the bottom of the card.

The guard took the ident-card and peered at it under the bright guardhouse light. Then she ran it through a verifier. Austin held his breath until he was sure the guard wasn’t calling up his full dossier.

“Go on in, Lieutenant,” she said. “You know the way to Colonel Armitage’s office?”

“To the command office? Of course,” Austin said, “but I have to stop at the barracks for a few minutes.”

She stepped back, saluted, and waved him on in. He realized then that he had passed one final, small test. It was good that he had come out here several times with Manfred, Dale, and the other FCL officers for training seminars. Austin refrained from flooring the accelerator. He drove slowly into the tangle of narrow streets, hunting for the proper crossing thoroughfare. When he found it, he turned in and pulled over.

Austin jumped from the car, made certain his uniform was in order, then entered the front door of the barracks. Two men lounging around looked up but, once they saw his FCL uniform insignia, hastily turned away. That gave him an idea of the status of Manfred’s former unit. Insulted by this pointed disregard, he made his way upstairs to the rooms allocated to the FCL. Or what remained of them.

The first three he checked were empty, but in the fourth he found a veritable fountain of information. Master Sergeant Dmitri Borodin was like a spider in the middle of a web. Every vibration, no matter how tiny, became a full-fledged rumor in a single telling. He was just the man Austin wanted to see.

“Master Sergeant, as you were,” Austin said. Borodin looked up from the tech manual he studied intently, startled.

“Lieutenant, didn’t know you were here. Most all’s out and about tonight.”

“Pulled punishment duty again, Sarge?” Austin laughed as he perched on the edge of the desk where Borodin struggled to make sense out of the material. Austin reached over and looked at the title. “Must have been a dandy. Not black-marketing again, were you?”

“It was only meant to be a prank. Didn’t mean no harm, Lieutenant. Honest. That major’s behind was only slightly singed. Hardly noticed it, ’specially after he got the hole in the pants fixed.”

Austin wished he could hear the entire story, but he was on a mission. Dale’s death, his own brush with death, Manfred’s indictment—all were more important than a passing diversion of what had to be a funny story.

“You didn’t come out here for my stories. How are you faring since the …exercise?” Borodin asked. “Damn shame about your brother. He should have been in armor…”

“I’m getting ready to transfer back,” Austin said, hoping to spark a comment from Borodin. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Reckoned that might be what happened, what with Dale dead and Captain Leclerc up to his neck in hot water. We need all the leadership we can get, not that there’s many of us left. I do up the roster, you know.” Borodin looked at him, as if expecting comment. Austin wasn’t certain what the master sergeant hoped he would say.

“I wish I could help Manfred,” Austin said. “He’s a fine soldier, no matter what they say about him.”

“You heard the rumor, too? That he’s run off to hide in Cingulum and do nothing but start riots? Pure garbage.” Borodin’s voice lowered. “I support Aaron Sandoval all the way, but as Lord Governor of a Republic Prefecture, not any other way.”

Austin said nothing. There was more making the rounds in the barracks than he had expected. Soldiers generally held themselves above political concerns.

“No, Lieutenant, I tell you, Sandoval’s a respectable fellow, brave and true as a tempered steel blade, but he’s got my loyalty only as long as he follows in Devlin Stone’s footsteps.”

“I can’t believe Manfred—Captain Leclerc—would support any opposition to the government.”

“Might not, but that’s not what some are saying.” Borodin cleared his throat. “I know you and the captain are friends and all, but I got to know where his true loyalties are.”

“Manfred supports The Republic all the way,” Austin said without hesitation. He straightened a little when he saw that wasn’t the intent of Borodin’s nascent question. “You think Manfred’s sold out to somebody else?”

“Not me, Lieutenant, not me,” the sergeant said, not wanting to condemn an FCL officer after Austin had so strongly spoken his praises. “But the others, now, they don’t know him so well. But is there any chance he might be running with the MBA?”