The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“No, Major Savage, I won’t be long about it. You’ll hear from me in an hour. Barton out.”

“Will someone please explain what’s happening?” Lysander asked.

“What’s to explain?” Captain Fast asked. “Ace Barton’s meeting his obligations.”

“He’s going to rescue the colonel?”

“Certainly. Who else should?”

“Well—us.”

“Oh, sure, we’d give it a try,” Amos Fast said. “We’re moving in backup units. But our motives wouldn’t be quite the same as Barton’s, would they?”

“So we’re not going to rescue the colonel?”

“If we must, we will,” Major Savage said. “As Amos says, we continue to make preparations. But I can’t think it will be necessary. Barton’s lot are thoroughly competent.”

“But—they may kill Colonel Falkenberg.”

Jeremy Savage’s smile didn’t change. “That really would be a mistake, you know. Hard to believe they’d be that stupid.”

“But they might try! Major, our people are more competent than Barton’s! We have to go in there!”

“I do think that’s needlessly hard on Ace Barton,” Savage said. “Let’s give him a chance, shall we?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you people,” Lysander said.

“Politicians seldom do,” Major Savage said.

* * *

The helicopter turned a tight spiral around Rochemont before landing on the helipad outside.

The roof of the eastern wing had collapsed, and all the glass was broken out. Smoke blackened the walls outside two rooms. The rest of the house seemed repairable.

Ace Barton got out of the helicopter and strode toward the front door. Now’s the time he shoots me, Barton thought. I’m getting too damned old for this.

He was nearly to the door when it opened. Anton Girerd came out. He had a small automatic pistol in his hand, but he held it barrel down. “What the devil do you want?”

“You know what I want,” Barton said.

“No. I meant what I told that Savage—”

“I’m sure you did,” Barton said. “But do the rest of your people understand what you’ve got them into?”

Barton waved to indicate the fleet of helicopters coming in around the house. “First there’s my troops. You know what they can do. Let me show you.” Barton waved in a complex gesture.

One of the helicopters circled the horse barn. A stream of fire poured from the gunship’s door. Horses screamed in agony as tracers riddled the barn, then set it on fire. One of the horse herders staggered out of the barn door. He was covered in blood.

Barton waved again. A dozen cattle burst from another barn. A helicopter circled and came in behind them, sending them in wild flight out into grain fields. The chopper’s gatling opened fire. Tracers chewed the ground just behind the cattle, and the beasts ran faster in blind panic. The tracers moved slowly into the herd. Blood and meat and smoke mingled on the trampled grain.

Girerd screamed and aimed his pistol at Barton. “Stop! Stop it!”

Barton gestured again and the choppers ceased firing. “Okay. But my troops aren’t your real problem. I’m a sweetheart compared to what you get if you shoot me. First off, my troops will be pissed. Maybe you can take them all out before they level this place. I doubt it, but suppose you can? After us, you damned fool, there’s the whole Forty-second! Man, you’ve got yourself on the shit list of the toughest bastards in the galaxy! Don’t you know what they’re doing? They’re not getting ready to negotiate. They don’t negotiate with people like you. They’re getting ready to come here and sterilize this place.”

“They can’t do that, I’ve got their colonel—”

Barton laughed. “Girerd, don’t you think Falkenberg thought this might happen someday? His troops have standing orders. They won’t negotiate.” He spoke louder, so that everyone nearby could hear. “They’ll never negotiate. They’ll just see that nothing survives here. Nothing. Not you, not your animals, not your troops. Not even women and kids. Nobody and nothing. Then they’ll burn everything. It’s their colonel! They’ll sow the ground with salt, Girerd. Hell, that’s exactly what they’ll do. Girerd, you’re in trouble, and so is everyone here. You’re all fucking dead.” Ace kept his face turned toward Girerd, but he let his eyes look to the side. Several Girerd ranch hands were slinking away.

“You’re just trying to frighten me—”

“Trying? I sure as hell hope I’ve done better than try! I hope I’ve scared the shit out of you.” He waved again. One of the helicopters darted down.

“Wait, wait, don’t!” someone screamed.

“But—they wouldn’t—my children? My wife?” Girerd demanded.

“Every man, woman, and child,” Barton said. “What the hell did you expect?” He waved again. The chopper opened up on the chicken house. In moments the ground outside it was strewn with flaming, squawking chickens. The building spewed out black smoke.

Girerd raised the pistol again.

“For God’s sake, man, the next time you raise that damned piece, you’re going to eat it, use it or not. I’m getting damned tired of this.” Barton raised his hand again. The choppers circled closer.

“Mynheer,” one of the ranch hands shouted. “Mynheer, please, Mynheer—”

Girerd looked at the pistol and shook his head. “I don’t know what I expected. A miracle, perhaps,” Girerd said.

“Not my department,” Barton said.

“But what can I do?”

“You were talking pretty rough when you threw me out of here,” Barton said. “Have you actually killed anyone?”

“No.”

“Any of them die?”

“Two, but they were not expected to live.”

“Yeah, those. No one else?”

“No.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Barton said. He turned and waved to his helicopters. They rose slightly but continued to circle. He touched his sleeve console. “Wally, bring in the rest of the troops.”

Girerd examined the pistol as if he’d never seen it before.

“Use it or give up,” Barton said.

Girerd looked at the pistol, then tossed it underhanded down the stairs.

Barton winced as it hit the dirt. Be a hell of a thing to be shot by accident just now. “All right.” He went up the stairs and took Girerd by the arm to lead him into the house. “Now you’re getting smart.”

“No. I am a fool.” He led the way into the big study. Falkenberg and three of his men sat there. There were also four ranchers in militia uniform standing stiffly against the far wall. One of the doors lay twisted off its hinges, and seven Barton Bulldogs in full armor menaced the ranchers.

“Mynheer,” one of the ranchers said. “While the guns fired outside they came—” The man simpered in terror. “Mynheer, we heard these men say—Mynheer, we have families.”

Girerd shuddered. “I see. Major Barton rules here, as elsewhere. Odd. I thought he worked for me.”

“I did,” Barton said.

“And do again,” Falkenberg said. “Mynheer, he’s done you better service than you know.”

“Colonel—”

“All correct, Major.”

“Thank you, sir.” Barton saluted.

“Rules, Codes. What good are they?” Girerd demanded.

Barton and Falkenberg exchanged glances. Then they both looked at Anton Girerd. Their eyes were filled with pity.

XXVII

Waves of sound from the open door of the Officers’ Mess battered Lysander with enough force to make him take a step backward. Skirl of pipes and stamp of marching feet. Songs of glory, songs of betrayal. “McPherson’s time will nay be long, on yonder gallows tree . . .”

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Prince. They’ve saved a place for you.”

Lysander didn’t recognize the mess steward, but it hardly mattered. He breasted the waves of sound to get inside. The large room was crowded. Men in the blue and gold of Falkenberg’s Legion mingled with the green of Tanith’s militia. There was also a scattering of officers in blue and tan with silver bulldog badges.

Lysander let the corporal lead him to a table for four near the wall. Falkenberg sat alone at the far side. To his right was a man who wore oak leaves on the shoulder boards of his blue and tan uniform. Governor Blaine sat on Falkenberg’s left.

Captain Jesus Alana got up from the next table and came over to clap Lysander on the back. “Good to have you,” Alana shouted over the din.

“Welcome aboard,” Falkenberg said. “We’ve saved you a place. You’ve already met Governor Blaine.”

“Your Highness,” Governor Blaine said.

“Your Highness, may I present Major Anselm Barton. Prince Lysander of Sparta.”

Barton stood to shake hands. “An honor. One I would prefer under different circumstances, I think.”

Lysander took the seat opposite Falkenberg. A steward brought him a glass of Tanith whiskey.

“Heard about what you did at Rochemont, Major Barton,” Governor Blaine said. It was hard to hear him over the din from the party. “Good work, that. Must have been a bit tricky facing Girerd like that.”

“Not as dangerous as it looked,” Barton said. “I doubt that pistol of his would penetrate Nemourlon.”

“Yes, well, good work anyway. Of course you do know Girerd has a trophy case of medals for his shooting.”