“I doubt it will come to that right now.” Austin slid from the limo and found himself in a strange world unlike the regal elegance of the Palace of Facets or the starkly utilitarian FCL barracks. Scents of rotting garbage and death assaulted him as much as the sight of burned-out buildings and bodies partially buried in the rubble, no one even trying to dig them free.

Austin leveled the pistol and set off, looking for the next set of instructions from Manfred—if the captain was still alive.

Ministry of Information, Cingulum

Mirach

3 May 3133

“What do you mean, you lost contact?” Lady Elora’s green eyes turned colder than jade as she glared at Calvilena Tortorelli. “Aren’t the devices I loaned you adequate, or were the operators inept?”

“Please, Elora, don’t be like this,” Tortorelli said, moving about the Minister’s office. He picked up knickknacks and replaced them after only cursory examination, making Elora angrier by the instant.

“How should I be, Calvy?” she asked with venom dripping from every word.

“They’ll turn up again. Where could they have gone? After all, Kinsolving has a large communications company to run and those dreary MBA meetings to attend. And who cares about Ortega’s worthless son? The Baronet does nothing but run hither and yon. He’s completely lost in the world of political infighting that you and I are so adept in. It was a fine idea I had separating him from the FCL, although I suspect he is hardly a soldier, either.”

“You forget who spearheaded the FCL attack during your so-called military exercise,” Elora said. She wished she didn’t need him to command the Home Guard. The civil unrest could be subdued quickly when he unleashed his forces, but it would come at a huge and bloody cost. Elora smiled faintly. She would be sure to assign the blame later where it belonged, after she was sure Mirach would be another shining jewel in the Clan’s sword hilt and her true worth was recognized.

She rocked back in the chair behind her vast desk. Her eyes swept across the flat expanse. Newly embedded in the surface, angled by clever lenses to follow her as she swiveled about, were a half dozen different projected images monitoring not only what was on-air but also the faces of her directors and producers as they worked. She reached forward, the ring on a bony finger clicking slightly as it touched the desktop, and brushed across a slight depression. The array of monitors changed, giving her a view on the world outside the Ministry of Information.

Tortorelli prattled on, citing how quickly the Baron had been isolated from all support, and taking credit for clever ploys she had suggested. Let him think he was in charge and not being groomed to be the eventual scapegoat. Elora was more intent on watching the renewed wave of rioting in the streets. Cingulum was torn apart by a dozen disturbances. Stripping police, support from Governor Ortega had been difficult because she had done it slowly, incrementally, so no one really noticed, least of all Sergio Ortega. He knew he was a toothless tiger now but could do nothing to retrieve control because he had lost the means of enforcing his orders.

The police had become looters and rioters themselves when Elora had planted rumors of manpower cutbacks, punishments, and huge salary cuts due to declining planetary revenues. Mirach’s economy had not weakened appreciably, but without the HPG to furnish second-to-second comparisons with other worlds in The Republic, gullible people would believe anything she told them because the news spoke to them directly every day, every night. She controlled the news and would the Minister of Information ever lie?

Elora almost laughed at how she had reported fighting on Achernar and set off another round of riots in Cingulum. She had heard only rumors from DropShip crews, but it sounded better—and served her purposes more—to report huge loss of life as if it were literal truth. Let the whispering spread.

“Can you be certain Kinsolving and the Baronet are not going to be problems?” she asked. “What of that renegade captain of yours?”

“Leclerc?” Tortorelli finished his circuit around the room, fingering all the small statues and objets d’art, then stopped in front of the huge faux window looking out across the city. Elora reached out a bejeweled hand to change the view to gauge Tortorelli’s reaction, then stopped. He didn’t care that he stared at a cleverly contrived monitor.

“You didn’t arrest him at the Borzoi. Your military police have been equally incapable of tracking him since his escape.”

“The Borzoi?” Tortorelli frowned, trying to recollect the name.

“The tavern where the MPs failed to kill him and young Ortega.”

“Was that the name?” Tortorelli shook his head. “Some officer I didn’t authorize was in charge. I am sure he was disciplined for his incompetence. It’s in the report my staff filed.”

Elora laughed and the Legate had no idea why. Tortorelli stood on the spot where the bogus MP officer’s blood had been spilled by a single shot from her pistol. She had arranged for his body to be dumped at the edge of a riot and no one had noticed or cared. One day the Legate would suffer the same fate. But not today. She still needed his authority.

Elora considered all the possible replacements for Tortorelli after the Governor was deposed. Prefect Radick would undoubtedly follow her guidance in the matter, since it would leave him in control of Mirach.

“Are you any closer to capturing Leclerc, Calvy?” She lowered her voice to a husky whisper to erase any hint of criticism. She had always been told she could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, though her need for an insect like Tortorelli was strictly circumstantial. He was already caught and when his usefulness evaporated, he could be quickly swatted.

“My best officers are working on finding him. He might be hiding in Havoc.”

“They’ll never find him there unless you move in adequate military power to level what buildings are still standing.” Havoc was the name her own newscasters–in private—had given to a particularly ugly section of the city. Nothing but burned-out buildings and dangerous refugees filled the ten-square-block area.

“That might not be a bad idea. Thank you for suggesting it to me, Elora,” the Legate said.

Elora had just set into motion the next step in her plan to marginalize Governor Ortega further and paint Legate Tortorelli as a bloody-handed butcher. She had to fight against overconfidence, but the time was almost at hand to contact Prefect Kal Radick and invite him to this fine world.

Havoc, Cingulum

Mirach

3 May 3133

Austin jumped at every small sound. Most were caused by rats and other scavengers feeding off the carcasses littering the streets—or what was left of the streets. Entire buildings had collapsed. He could picture in his mind’s eye how the fronts would crumble and fall onto demonstrators, unable to escape because of their numbers. Then the remainder of the building, weakened to its foundations by fires, would slowly follow in a stately, almost majestic orgy of demolition.

His nose twitched at the scent of death and decay and dust, but he kept moving cautiously through the destruction. Austin clutched the small pistol Marta had given him so hard his hand turned sweaty. He kept thinking that the first two shells in the magazine were armor piercers, the third an explosive round. He concentrated so hard on that, he didn’t hear the man creeping up from behind.