The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“You’re too damn isolated,” Falkenberg replied. “The Grand Senate won’t even keep the Fleet up to enough strength to protect what the CD’s already got—let alone find the money to interfere in your sector. The shortsighted bastards run around putting out fires, and the few Senators who look ten years ahead don’t have any influence.” He shook his head suddenly. “But that’s not our problem. Okay, what about landing security? I don’t have any assault boats, and I doubt you’ve the money to hire those from Dayan.”

“It’s tough,” Bannister admitted. “But blockade runners can get through. Tides on New Washington are enormous, but we know our coasts. The Dayan captain can put you down at night here, or along there . . .” The rebel war secretary indicated a number of deep bays and fiords on the jagged coast, bright blue spatters on the desk map. “You’ll have about two hours of slack water. That’s all the time you’d have anyway before the Confederate spy satellites detect the ship.”

III

New Washington

Roger Hastings drew his pretty brunette wife close to him and leaned against the barbecue pit. It made a nice pose and the photographers took several shots. They begged for more, but Hastings shook his head. “Enough, boys, enough! I’ve only been sworn in as mayor of Allansport—you’d think I was Governor General of the whole planet!”

“But give us a statement,” the reporters begged. “Will you support the Confederacy’s rearmament plans? I understand the smelter is tooling up to produce naval armament alloys—”

“I said enough,” Roger commanded. “Go have a drink.” The reporters reluctantly scattered. “Eager chaps,” Hastings told his wife. “Pity there’s only the one little paper.”

Juanita laughed. “You’d make the capital city Times if there was a way to get the pictures there. But it was a fair question, Roger. What are you going to do about Franklin’s war policies? What will happen to Harley when they start expanding the Confederacy?” The amusement died from her face as she thought of their son in the army.

“There isn’t much I can do. The mayor of Allansport isn’t consulted on matters of high policy. Damn it, sweetheart, don’t you start in on me too. It’s too nice a day.”

Hastings’ quarried stone house stood high on a hill above Nanaimo Bay. The city of Allansport sprawled across the hills below them, stretching almost to the high water mark running irregularly along the sandy beaches washed by endless surf. At night they could hear the waves crashing.

They held hands and watched the sea beyond the island that formed Allansport Harbor. “Here it comes!” Roger said. He pointed to a wall of rushing water two meters high. The tide bore swept around the end of Waada Island, then curled back toward the city.

“Pity the poor sailors,” Juanita said.

Roger shrugged. “The packet ship’s anchored well enough.”

They watched the 150-meter cargo vessel tossed about by the tidal force. The tide bore caught her nearly abeam and she rolled dangerously before swinging on her chains to head into the flowing tide water. It seemed nothing could hold her, but those chains had been made in Roger’s foundries, and he knew their strength.

“It has been a nice day.” Juanita sighed. Their house was on one of the large greensward commons running up the hill from Allansport, and the celebrations had spilled out of their yard, across the greens, and into their neighbors’ yards as well. Portable bars manned by Roger’s campaign workers dispensed an endless supply of local wines and brandies.

To the west New Washington’s twin companion, Franklin, hung in its eternal place. When sunset brought New Washington’s twenty hours of daylight to an end it passed from a glowing ball in the bright day sky to a gibbous sliver in the darkness, then rapidly widened. Reddish shadows danced on Franklin’s cloudy face.

Roger and Juanita stood in silent appreciation of the stars, the planet, the sunset. Allansport was a frontier town on an unimportant planet, but it was home and they loved it.

The inauguration party had been exhaustingly successful. Roger gratefully went to the drawing room while Juanita climbed the stairs to put their sleepy children to bed. As manager of the smelter and foundry, Roger had a home that was one of the finest on all the Ranier Peninsula. It stood tall and proud—a big stone Georgian mansion with wide entry hall and paneled rooms. Now, he was joined by Martine Ardway in his favorite, the small conversation-sized drawing room.

“Congratulations again, Roger,” Colonel Ardway boomed. “We’ll all be behind you.” The words were more than the usual inauguration day patter. Although Ardway’s son Johann was married to Roger’s daughter, the Colonel had opposed Hastings’ election, and Ardway had a large following among the hard-line Loyalists in Allansport. He was also commander of the local militia. Johann held a captain’s commission. Roger’s own boy Harley was only a lieutenant, but in the Regulars.

“Have you told Harley about your winning?” Ardway asked.

“Can’t. The communications to Vancouver are out. As a matter of fact, all our communications are out right now.”

Ardway nodded phlegmatically. Allansport was the only town on a peninsula well over a thousand kilometers from the nearest settlements. New Washington was so close to its red dwarf sun that loss of communications was standard through much of the planet’s fifty-two standard-day year. An undersea cable to Preston Bay had been planned when the rebellion broke out, and now that it was over work could start again.

“I mean it about being with you,” Ardway repeated. “I still think you’re wrong, but there can’t be more than one policy about this. I just hope it works.”

“Look, Martine, we can’t go on treating the rebels like traitors. We need ’em too much. There aren’t many rebels here, but if I enforce the confiscation laws it’ll cause resentment in the East. We’ve had enough bloody war.” Roger stretched and yawned. “Excuse me. It’s been a hard day and it’s a while since I was a rock miner. There was once a time when I could dig all day and drink all night.”

Ardway shrugged. Like Hastings, he had once been a miner, but unlike the mayor he hadn’t kept in shape. He wasn’t fat, but he had become a large, balding, round man with a paunch that spilled over his wide garrison belt. It spoiled his looks when he wore military uniform, which he did whenever possible. “You’re in charge, Roger. I won’t get in your way. Maybe you can even get the old rebel families on your side against this stupid imperialistic venture Franklin’s pushing. God knows we’ve enough problems at home without looking for more. I think. What in hell’s going on out there?”

Someone was yelling in the town below. “Good God, were those shots?” Roger asked. “We better find out.” Reluctantly he pushed himself up from the leather easy chair. “Hello—hello—what’s this? The phone is out, Martine. Dead.”

“Those were shots,” Colonel Ardway said. “I don’t like this—rebels? The packet came in this afternoon, but you don’t suppose there were rebels on board her? We better go down and see to this. You sure the phone’s dead?”

“Very dead,” Hastings said quietly. “Lord, I hope it’s not a new rebellion. Get your troops called out, though.”

“Right.” Ardway took a pocket communicator from his belt pouch. He spoke into it with increasing agitation. “Roger, there is something wrong! I’m getting nothing but static. Somebody’s jamming the whole communications band.”

“Nonsense. We’re near periastron. The sunspots are causing it.” Hastings sounded confident, but he was praying silently. Not more war. It wouldn’t be a threat to Allansport and the Peninsula—there weren’t more than a handful of rebels out here, but they’d be called on for troops to go east and fight in rebel areas like Ford Heights and the Columbia Valley. It was so damn rotten! He remembered burning ranches and plantations during the last flareup.

“Goddamn it, don’t those people know they lose more in the wars than Franklin’s merchants are costing them?” But he was already speaking to an empty room. Colonel Ardway had dashed outside and was calling to the neighbors to fall out with military equipment.

Roger followed him outside. To the west Franklin flooded the night with ten thousand times Luna’s best efforts on Earth. There were soldiers coming up the broad street from the main section of town.

“Who in hell—those aren’t rebels,” Hastings shouted. They were men in synthi-leather battledress, and they moved too deliberately. Those were Regulars.

There was a roar of motors. A wave of helicopters passed overhead. Roger heard ground effects cars on the greensward, and at least two hundred soldiers were running purposefully up the street toward his house. At each house below a knot of five men fell out of the open formation.

“Turn out! Militia turn out! Rebels!” Colonel Ardway was shouting. He had a dozen men, none in armor, and their best weapons were rifles.