“There are elements of the idea I like,” Sergio said, tenting his fingers and resting his chin on the steeple. “It would allow me to cut back on military appropriations and divert the money saved into social programs that might ease the tensions.”

“An excellent lead for the news, my lord,” Lady Elora said. “Legate Tortorelli is a capable military commander. The First Cossack Lancers will fit in nicely with an already established force.”

“What?” Austin shot out of his chair. “Father, you’re not going to give up your bodyguard? You can’t let the Legate control the First Cossack Lancers!”

“Quiet, Austin.” Sergio frowned at the outburst.

“Yes, Baronet, you are only a lieutenant, junior grade. Remember your place,” Tortorelli said, looking at him with disdain. The Legate started to say something more, but a look from Elora silenced him.

“From a financial standpoint, as well as a practical one, my lord,” Lady Elora said, “such a transfer of power makes sense.” She half turned toward Austin. “There would be no added risk to the Governor. If anything, the additional training available to the FCL will enhance an already capable unit.”

“Good points, yes, Lady Elora,” said Sergio. “I shall certainly consider it. The tax money freed up can be used to qualify for a matching grant from Jacob Bannson.” Austin sighed inwardly. His father hadn’t believed Bannson had backed the Ventrale incursion. Now, desperate to grow markets on Mirach, the offer that Bannson had relayed via personal courier several weeks earlier still stuck in Sergio’s mind. He had discussed it briefly with Austin, but Austin hadn’t really believed Sergio would accept it; it would mean too much dependence upon—and give too much power to—a complete outsider. “Bannson?” Lady Elora was taken aback.

“He wants to establish a major trading port on Mirach but is unwilling to do so without significant local financing. With the HPG not working, increased trade to Mirach will benefit us all with new job opportunities.”

“Yes, of course,” Lady Elora said carefully. “Bannson’s trading vessels would bring more off-world news, also. That might soothe the populace, knowing we weren’t so completely cut off from the daily workings of other Republic worlds.”

Her words sounded sincere, but Austin saw the set to her bony shoulders and the way her hands curled into fists, only to relax immediately. His father’s words had taken her by surprise, almost as much as the notion of transferring the First Cossack Lancers to the Legate’s command had unsettled him. That pleased Austin. These days, it was a rare circumstance when Elora didn’t have information before the Governor did.

“When you have the details, Governor, I’ll prepare the news release for your approval.” Elora lifted her chin, not quite so haughtily as when she’d first arrived.

“It won’t be long before this matter is resolved and ready for your expert touches,” Sergio said.

Elora hesitated, then stood and left the conference room. Tortorelli trailed after her as if held by an invisible leash.

“You can’t do this, Father!” Austin protested the instant the doors closed behind the Legate and Minister and they were alone in the room.

“He’s right, you know, Papa,” said Dale. “You need a dedicated bodyguard. You shouldn’t have to go through Tortorelli’s chain of command. There’s no telling who or what he would send—or when. You’d be at the Legate’s mercy when you need loyalty the most.”

“I told the Legate I’d think about it. I need a final meeting with Leclerc before making a decision.”

Captain Manfred Leclerc had commanded the FCL since the unit had been detached from The Republic Militia, and Austin trusted him completely. Arguing with his father wouldn’t get him anywhere, but Captain Leclerc would convince the Governor to reject any transfer.

“Let’s return to my office. I have your FCL resignation papers ready, effective at the end of the month. It’s time for you both to move on.” Sergio stood, his colorless eyes daring either Austin or Dale to argue. They didn’t.

All WorldComm industrial park, south of Cingulum

Mirach

5 April 3133

“The crowd is getting unruly,” Marta Kinsolving said. Her lips thinned to a line and she brushed back a vagrant strand of auburn hair when she bent forward to study the bank of monitors. Eight cameras showed the main gates to AllWorldComm’s main assembly plant. Three screens were filled with chanting, shouting, angry mobs of people who had lost their jobs due to cutbacks. With mining down, a ripple effect had passed through all Mirach’s businesses, and AWC had been hit worse than many others. Fully a quarter of AWC workers had been laid off over the past few months, and Marta saw more reductions looming.

“Don’t worry so,” her security chief said. Inger Ryumin reached past the AllWorldComm CEO and stabbed a finger down onto a red button. “That’ll take care of it.”

“Public relations,” Marta reminded her. “We need to keep some customers.”

“This is the way to do it,” Ryumin said, an edge in her voice. “I might be out of line, but I think you worry too much about the wrong things. Running the corporation ought to be your primary concern. Security for AWC property is mine. Nobody’ll get hurt unless they touch the electrified wires in the fence and gate.”

Marta usually kept her sometimes-volatile anger in check but not now.

“You’re right about one thing, Chief Ryumin,” she flared. “I am CEO and you work for me.”

“Then get the civil authorities to come out,” Ryumin said. “Have them keep our plants from being destroyed and workers beat up. You cut my security force, you didn’t approve additional equipment, and I’m not sure I can depend on the funding for the special project you and the other CEOs have cooked up.”

Marta appreciated Ryumin’s reluctance to mention how the alliance of businesses, the Mirach Business Association, had slowly come together in a pact to refit IndustrialMechs for use in what amounted to a private military force. But funding was scant and the project under wraps. Only if necessary would the ’Mechs be refitted and used, since that would be a slap in the face of both the Governor and the Legate.

“I’m doing what I can to keep AWC solvent. Since the net went down, all our revenue comes from low-margin local communications. The new moon relays take up most of our R and D budget. You know about the labor trouble with the tantalum mines over in Ventrale, the—”

“Marta,” Ryumin cut in, “I apologize. I’m just trying to do the best I can with what little I have. Tell me how you want those rioters dealt with and I’ll do it.”

“You’re doing fine, Inger,” Marta said, her tone softening a little. They were all under pressure to keep the business running smoothly. The fall of the HPG net made that an almost impossible chore for AllWorldComm, however. Marta fought constantly with her board of directors about the bottom line, and the time she spent performing her duties as president of the Mirach Business Association put her at odds with the directors’ wishes. “Keep them out of our assembly plant. Our guards cannot hold them back indefinitely and the fences might be breached.”

“Including—?” Ryumin pointed to another monitor.

Marta’s brown eyes misted over for a moment. It had come to this. Inger Ryumin had ordered an IndustrialMech positioned inside an assembly building out of sight of the demonstrators. The hulking ’Mech’s right arm held a razor-edged, meter-long diamond drill bit. Its left hand sported a twenty-kilogram sledgehammer. If it advanced into the crowd, it could smash and cut unimpeded. The carnage would be terrible. And the MBA spoke of converting even this fearsome mechanism, equipping it with autocannon and rockets.