The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“They did,” Barton said. “They’re good, but they’re not that good. Bobby, you sure you can’t disable that assault boat without blowing it up?”

“Wouldn’t want the responsibility, sir. Not till they get the fuel lines disconnected and capped. I’ve got artillery, not magic.”

“Bring in another assault boat!” Girerd shouted.

“Right. Mr. Wichasta, do you have communications with Norton Star?”

“I will see.”

“Please do. So. Martino, where the hell’s the pilot of that boat?”

“Still no answer, Major.”

“God damn it—”

“Captain Anderson,” Wichasta said. “This is Chandos Wichasta. I speak for Senator Bronson. Captain, that landing boat must not be recovered by Governor Blaine. If there is any chance of that boat falling into the hands of the governor, destroy it.”

“No!” Anton Girerd screamed.

“Captain, I am authorized to offer you wealth beyond your wildest dreams,” Wichasta said. “Major Barton, we will pay your expenses and fees in full, with a bonus, provided that the borloi does not come into Governor Blaine’s possession. An extra bonus for delivering the crop to us, but we will pay even if it is destroyed.”

“Major.” Centurion Martino’s voice took on the deadly calm note professional soldiers use when things get serious. “The landing boat has started its engines. I still have no contact with the pilot.”

“Wally!”

“All true,” Honistu said. His voice sounded strained. “I’m running like hell—”

“Captain Anderson,” Wichasta shouted. “Destroy that ship now!” Then he turned away and spoke into his microphone. Barton heard nothing of what he said.

Ace Barton touched buttons on his sleeve console. “Martino, keep this secure. Bobby, belay that instruction.”

Anderson’s voice was in his earpiece. “Ace, how much is wealth beyond our wildest dreams? Enough to get out of this racket?”

“What do you care? Belay that order!”

“Honistu here. Bronson’s tank is firing at the landing boat.”

XXV

Lysander examined the landing ship’s control panel. All the test circuits glowed green except fuel line security. Nothing I can do about that. No point in communications security, either. “Harv.”

“Right here, Prince.”

“Mooring lines.”

“Done, Prince. You all right up there?”

“Fine here. Watch my back.” He thumbed the ship intercom button. “Hear this. Secure for immediate liftoff. Hear this. Secure for immediate suborbital flight.” He punched in the code for Falkenberg’s alert frequency. “Schoolmaster, this is Lion. I’ve got her. Attempting to move now.”

Then he said a silent prayer and hit the startup sequencer. Displays flashed.

FUEL LINES NOT SECURE.

Lysander punched in OVERRIDE. IMMEDIATE STARTUP.

OVERRIDE. IMMEDIATE STARTUP. CONFIRM?

CONFIRM.

There was a loud whine of pumps, then the roar of the engines. Lysander steered to port, away from the dock. The ship began to move.

A geyser erupted in front of him. Someone was firing at him. Falkenberg?

“Schoolmaster, this is Lion. I say again, I have control. Attempting takeoff.” Steer at the splashes, he thought. And hit the throttles. Accelerate. Moving target. Damned big moving target . . .

The pilot struggled into wakefulness. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.

“Getting us out of here! They’re shooting at us.”

“I’ll be damned if—”

“Look, I haven’t time to discuss this. If you touch the controls, I’ll shoot you, provided that we live through it, which we probably won’t. They’re shelling us.”

“Close the refueling valves, you moron! Christ, where did you learn to fly?”

“On Sparta. But I don’t know how to do that.”

“I’ll get it—”

“Right. Be careful.” Another geyser rose just to starboard. “If we slow down they’ll hit us.”

“Christ, I didn’t contract to get killed.” The pilot threw two switches. Red lights changed to green.

“Thanks,” Lysander said.

“Jesus! Look, you’ll never make it, there’s not enough fuel—”

“I’m not trying for orbit. Just up and back down again.”

“Down where?”

“Lederle for preference. Otherwise, anywhere I can set down.”

“Did you ever fly one of these boats?”

“Landed once,” Lysander said.

“Jesus Christ,” the pilot said.

* * *

There was a scream of rage. Ace Barton turned to see Anton Girerd struggling with Chandos Wichasta. “He’s ordered that tank to fire on the landing ship!” Girerd shouted. “We’re ruined! Major, you must stop him!”

“Do not be a fool,” Wichasta said. “Senator Bronson will pay your expenses. These wretches can pay nothing. As Girerd says, they are ruined.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” Barton said. “All the same, I give the orders here. Corporal, see that Mr. Wichasta doesn’t talk to anyone until I say he can.”

“Sir.” Barton’s orderly moved up behind Wichasta.

“Get me Anderson,” Barton said. “Bobby, concentrate on the enemy artillery. Ignore that landing boat.”

“Sure you know what you’re doing, Ace?”

“I think so. No time for discussion. Carry out your orders.”

“He’s talking real money, Major. And who’s going to pay our fees if we lose the crop?”

“Captain Anderson, you have your orders.”

There was a long pause. “All right. There goes wealth beyond my wildest dreams.”

There goes a life of looking over your shoulder. “Channel Red Four. Wally!”

“Yeah.”

“Tell whoever you put to covering Bronson’s tank to take it out. Now.”

“Aye aye. Leopard Three, this is Honistu. Command override. Sergeant Billings, Fire Mission Dead Muskrat. Execute. I say again, command override, execute Dead Muskrat.”

“You are a fool,” Wichasta said.

“Yeah,” Barton said. “I expect I am. But I do know who hired me.”

* * *

“Corpsman!” someone shouted. “The lieutenant’s down!”

“Coming.”

Alf Tandon hunkered down as low as possible. The Leopard was chewing up the edge of the jungle, and if you stuck your head up you’d get it blown off. Then abruptly the firing stopped. Tandon waited. Still nothing. He lifted his head warily, then took a chance and used his binoculars. “Holy shit. Sarge!”

Nothing. The fibre optic lines were down. Maybe the computer was gone too. Lieutenant is down. Can’t reach Miscowsky. Who’s in charge? Maybe it’s me. Hell with it. They sure as shit know we’re here. He thumbed the radio switch. “Sarge, this is Alf.”

* * *

The damned thing definitely was a leechworm, and it was crawling up his right leg toward his crotch, but right now the other leg was Miscowsky’s biggest problem. His left thigh hurt like hell above the knee, and he couldn’t feel a thing below that. His trouser leg was soaked with blood, and the last mortar round had been close enough to rattle his teeth. Stuff was whizzing overhead and all around so he didn’t dare sit up to look at how bad he was hit. It don’t seem too much for the regenners. Not yet. If I just don’t fucking run out of blood—

“Sarge, this is Alf.”

It was an effort, but Miscowsky punched buttons on the big radio box that lay next to him. Fuckers are probably homing in on the set. My turn in the fucking barrel. “Go ahead, Alf.”

“Lieutenant’s down. Corpsmen on the way.”

“Roger that.” And not much I can do about it.

“The Leopard’s changed targets. It’s shooting hell out of the light tank they brought in on the landing boat.”

“Repeat that.”

“The Leopard is firing at the troops brought in on the assault carrier. It has disabled the light tank.”

“I’ll be damned. OK, keep watching. Out.”

Miscowsky felt himself getting weaker. There was enough of a lull in the firing that he could sit up and look at his leg— In a damn minute. He thumbed the mike switch on his helmet. “Command information. Lieutenant Mace is down. Orders. All units report status.” He listened, then changed frequencies. “Colonel, Lieutenant Mace is out of action. You’re in tactical charge, only there ain’t much here. No more than ten effectives including wounded, and no working guns.”

“I heard the reports.”

“Any orders, sir?”

“I relieve you. Have you heard from Mr. Prince?”

“Nothing you didn’t hear, sir.”

“We’ll have to hang on until we do hear from him. Are you hit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take care of yourself, Sergeant. I’ll mind the store.”

“Aye aye, Colonel.” Hang on. Rather run for it. Only where the hell can we run? With this leg I ain’t running anyway. He wriggled painfully across the jungle floor, dragging the radio, his wounded leg dragging uselessly behind him, until there was a thick tree trunk between him and the jungle edge. Then he sat up with his back to the tree.

His left leg was broken and there were jagged holes in his Nemourlon armor. A thin shiny sliver stuck out halfway down his shin. The upper part of his leg hurt like hell, but the numbness in the lower half worried him more. Tourniquet time. I can get that on, but . . . “Medic. Any medic. This is Miscowsky. I’m hit. Need help.”

“Kamaria here. I can get over there after I finish with the lieutenant. Five minutes. Can you hang on that long?”

“I’ll have to.” He tuned back to the general command frequency.