The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

The visitor stood with the colonel to watch a mustering ceremony evolved in the days of Queen Anne’s England when regimental commanders were paid according to the strength of their regiments, and the Queen’s muster masters had to determine that each man drawing pay could indeed pass muster—or even existed.

The visitor was an amateur historian and viewed the parade with wry humor. War had changed and men no longer marched in rigid lines to deliver volleys at word of command—but colonels were again paid according to the forces they could bring into battle.

“Report!” The adjutant’s command carried easily across the open parade field to the rigidly immobile blue and gold squares.

“First Battalion, B Company on patrol. Battalion present or accounted for, sir!”

“Second Battalion present or accounted for, sir.” “Third Battalion present or accounted for, sir!”

“Fourth Battalion, four men absent without leave, sir.”

“How embarrassing,” the visitor said sotto voce. The colonel tried to smile but made a bad job of it.

“Artillery present or accounted for, sir!” “Scout Troop all present, sir!” “Sappers all present, sir!”

“Weapons Battalion, Aviation Troop on patrol. Battalion present or accounted for, sir!”

“Headquarters Company present or on guard, sir!”

The adjutant returned each salute, then wheeled crisply to salute the colonel. “Regiment has four men absent without leave, sir.”

Colonel Falkenberg returned the salute. “Take your post.”

Captain Fast pivoted and marched to his place. “Pass in review!”

“Sound off!”

The band played a military march that must have been old in the twentieth century as the regiment formed column to march around the field. As each company reached the reviewing stand and men snapped their heads in unison, guidons and banners lowered in salute, and officers and centurions whirled sabers with flourishes.

The visitor nodded to himself. No longer very appropriate. In the eighteenth century, demonstrations of the men’s ability to march in ranks, and of the noncoms and officers to use a sword with skill, were relevant to battle capabilities. Not now. Still, it made an impressive ceremony.

“Attention to orders!” The sergeant major read from his clipboard. Promotions, duty schedules, the daily activities of the regiment, while the visitor sweated.

“Very impressive, Colonel,” he said. “Our Washingtonians couldn’t look that sharp on their best day.”

John Christian Falkenberg nodded coldly. “Implying that they mightn’t be as good in the field. Mr. Secretary? Would you like another kind of demonstration?”

Howard Bannister shrugged. “What would it prove, Colonel? You need employment before your regiment goes to hell. I can’t imagine chasing escapees on the CoDominium prison planet has much attraction for good soldiers.”

“It doesn’t. When we first came things weren’t that simple.”

“I know that too. The Forty-second was one of the best outfits of the CD Marine—I’ve never understood why it was disbanded instead of one of the others. I’m speaking of your present situation with your troops stuck here without transport—surely you’re not intending to make Tanith your lifetime headquarters?”

Sergeant Major Calvin finished the orders of the day and waited patiently for instructions. Colonel Falkenberg studied his bright-uniformed men as they stood rigidly in the blazing noon of Tanith. A faint smile might have played across his face for a moment. There were few of the four thousand whose names and histories he didn’t know.

Lieutenant Farquhar was a party hack forced on him when the Forty-second was hired to police Hadley. He became a good officer and elected to ship out after the action. Private Alcazar was a brooding giant with a raging thirst, the slowest man in K Company, but he could lift five times his own mass and hide in any terrain. Dozens, thousands of men, each with his own strengths and weaknesses, adding up to a regiment of mercenary soldiers with no chance of going home, and an unpleasant future if they didn’t get off Tanith.

“Sergeant Major.”

“Sir!”

“You will stay with me and time the men. Trumpeter, sound Boots and Saddles, On Full Kits, and Ready to Board Ship.”

“Sir!” The trumpeter was a grizzled veteran with corporal’s stripes. He lifted the gleaming instrument with its blue and gold tassels, and martial notes poured across the parade ground. Before they died away the orderly lines dissolved into masses of running men.

There was less confusion than Howard Bannister had expected. It seemed an incredibly short time before the first men fell back in. They came from their barracks in small groups, some in each company, then more, a rush, and finally knots of stragglers. Now in place of bright colors there was the dull drab of synthetic leather bulging over Nemourlon body armor. The bright polish was gone from the weapons. Dress caps were replaced by bulging combat helmets, shining boots by softer leathers. As the regiment formed, Bannister turned to the colonel.

“Why trumpets? I’d think that’s rather out of date.”

Falkenberg shrugged. “Would you prefer shouted orders? You must remember, Mr. Secretary, mercenaries live in garrison as well as in combat. Trumpets remind them that they’re soldiers.”

“I suppose.”

“Time, Sergeant Major,” the adjutant demanded.

“Eleven minutes, eighteen seconds, sir.”

“Are you trying to tell me the men are ready to ship out now?” Bannister asked. His expression showed polite disbelief.

“It would take longer to get the weapons and artillery battalion equipment together, but the infantry could board ship right now.”

“I find that hard to believe—of course the men know this is only a drill.”

“How would they know that?”

Bannister laughed. He was a stout man, dressed in expensive business clothes with cigar ashes down the front. Some of the ash floated free when he laughed. “Well, you and the sergeant major are still in parade uniform.”

“Look behind you,” Falkenberg said.

Bannister turned. Falkenberg’s guards and trumpeter were still in their places, their blue and gold dress contrasting wildly with the grim synthi-leathers of the others who had formed up with them. “The headquarters squad has our gear,” Falkenberg explained. “Sergeant Major.”

“Sir!”

“Mr. Bannister and I will inspect the troops.”

“Sir!” As Falkenberg and his visitor left the reviewing stand Calvin fell in with the duty squad behind him.

“Pick a couple at random,” Falkenberg advised. “It’s hot out here. Forty degrees anyway.”

Bannister was thinking the same thing. “Yes. No point in being too hard on the men. It must be unbearable in their armor.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the men,” Falkenberg said.

The Secretary for War chose L Company of Third Battalion for review. The men all looked alike, except for size. He looked for something to stand out—a strap not buckled, something to indicate an individual difference—but he found none. Bannister approached a scarred private who looked forty years old. With regeneration therapy he might have been half that again. “This one.”

“Fall out, Wiszorik!” Calvin ordered. “Lay out your kit.”

“Sir!” Private Wiszorik might have smiled thinly, but if he did Bannister missed it. He swung the packframe easily off his shoulders and stood it on the ground. The headquarters squad helped him lay out his nylon shelter cloth, and Wiszorik emptied the pack, placing each item just so.

Rifle: a New Aberdeen seven-mm semi-automatic with ten-shot clip and fifty-round box magazine, both full and spotlessly clean like the rifle. A bandolier of cartridges. Five grenades. Nylon belt with bayonets, canteen, spoon, and stainless cup that served as a private’s entire mess kit. Great-cloak and poncho, string net underwear, layers of clothing—

“You’ll note he’s equipped for any climate,” Falkenberg commented. “He’d expect to be issued special gear for a non-Terran environment, but he can live on any inhabitable world with what he’s got.”

“Yes.” Bannister watched interestedly. The pack hadn’t seemed heavy, but Wiszorik kept withdrawing gear from it. First aid kit, chemical warfare protection drugs and equipment, concentrated field rations, soup and beverage powders, a tiny gasoline-burning field stove—”What’s that?” Bannister asked. “Do all the men carry them?”

“One to each maniple, sir,” Wiszorik answered.

“His share of five men’s community equipment,” Falkenberg explained. “A monitor, three privates, and a recruit make up the basic combat unit of this outfit, and we try to keep the maniples self-sufficient.”

More gear came from the pack. Much of it was light alloys or plastic, but Bannister wondered about the total weight. Trowel, tent pegs, nylon cordage, a miniature cutting torch, more group equipment for field repairs to both machinery and the woven Nemourlon armor, night sights for the rifle, a small plastic tube half a meter long and eight centimeters in diameter—”And that?” Bannister asked.

“Anti-aircraft rocket,” Falkenberg told him. “Not effective against fast jets, but it’ll knock out a chopper ninety-five percent of the time. Has some capability against tanks, too. We don’t like the men too dependent on heavy weapons units.”

“I see. Your men seem well equipped, Colonel,” Bannister commented. “It must weight them down badly.”

“Twenty-one kilograms in standard g field,” Falkenberg answered. “More here, less by a lot on Washington. Every man carries a week’s rations, ammunition for a short engagement, and enough equipment to live in the field.”