“I’d like nothing better,” Falkenberg said. “But the men will feel a lot better about going to New Washington, knowing the families are safe on Sparta. They trust you. One thing, Major. Nothing is ever as easy as it looks.”
He looked up. “You’re anticipating trouble?” The Colonel’s face was as unreadable as ever, but Falkenberg did not waste words. Theoretically, the Fifth Battalion’s mission was training Field Force regiments of regular troops for the embryonic Royal Spartan Army. There were said to be some bandits on Sparta, but not enough to be a real threat. “Any special reason for that, sir? I thought this was a training command. Troop exercises, staff colleges. Cakewalk.”
Falkenberg shrugged. “No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy. And don’t kid yourself, Major. The Spartans have enemies, even if they’re not telling us much about them.”
“Has Rottermill—”
“Intelligence has nothing you don’t know about,” Falkenberg said. “But the Spartans aren’t paying our prices without good reasons.” He shrugged. “And maybe I’m suspicious over nothing. We do have a good reputation; hiring us to set up their national forces makes sense. Still, I have an odd feeling—pay attention to your hunches, Peter Owensford. Like as not, if you get a strong hunch, your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”
“Yes—sir.” First names in the mess, except for the Colonel, but Major Savage calls him John Christian. I never heard anyone call him John. His wife must have—maybe not in public. Peter had never met Grace Falkenberg, and none of the Colonel’s oldest friends ever spoke of her.
Falkenberg touched a control in a drawer and the pearly gray surface of the desk blinked into a holographic relief map of Sparta’s inhabited continent. “The latest word.”
Owensford leaned forward to stare at the maps, hoping they’d tell him something he didn’t already know. He’d memorized everything in the Legion’s data base, and spent countless evenings with Prince Lysander. Not that it was so difficult spending time with the Prince. Lysander was a good lad, a bit naive, but he’d outgrow that. And how does it feel to know that one day your word will be law to a whole planet?
Sparta. A desirable planet. Gravity too high, day too short, but more comfortable than Tanith. One big serpentine-shaped major continent, three times the area of North America, and a scattering of islands ranging from the size of Australia down to flyspecks. The inhabited portions were around a major inland sea about the size of the Mediterranean, in the south. Originally slated as a CoDominium prison-planet, then leased out to a rather eccentric group of American political idealists on condition that they take in involuntary colonists swept up by BuReloc.
“Colonel, I am surprised at how much rebel activity there is,” Owensford said. “It’s much better run than the average autonomous planet these days. At least I get that impression from Prince Lysander.”
Falkenberg sipped at his drink. “Problems of success.” His finger tapped Sparta City, on a bay toward the eastern end of the Aegean Sea. “They’ve managed to keep the population of their capital down.”
About two hundred fifty thousand, out of a total three million. They had both seen planets where ninety percent of the people were crammed into ungovernable slum-settlements around the primary spaceport.
“But that means a lot of population in the outback.” Falkenberg swept his hand across the map. “It’s pretty easy to live there, too. Not much native land-life, so the Package worked quite well. All too well, perhaps.” The Standard Terraforming Package included everything from soil-bacteria and grass seeds to rabbits and foxes; where the native ecology was suitable it could colonize whole continents in a generation. “There’s even a fairly substantial trade in hides and tallow from feral cattle and such. Scattered ranches, small mines—plentiful minerals, but no large concentrations—poor communications, not enough money for good satellite surveillance, even.”
Owensford nodded. “About like the Old West, sans Indians,” he said. “You think some of the bandit activity is political?”
“Of course it’s political. By definition, any large coordinated action is political. But if you mean connected with off-planet forces, possibly not. Fleet intelligence says no, anyway. Of course Sparta is a long way away.” The Legion had strong, if clandestine, links to Sergei Lermontov, Grand Admiral of the CoDominium Fleet.
“Mostly it’s insurrection, which can’t be too big a surprise. The involuntary colonists and convicts Sparta gets are a cut above the usual scrapings. They’ll be unhappy about being sent to Sparta. Ripe for political organization, and when there’s an opportunity, a politician will find it.”
BuReloc had been shipping the worst troublemakers off Earth for two generations now . . . except for the Grand Senators, Owensford thought mordantly. Earth could not afford more trouble. The CoDominium had kept the peace since before his grandfather’s birth, the United States and Soviet Union acting in concert to police a restive planet. The cost had been heavy; an end to technological progress, as the CoDo Intelligence services suppressed research with military implications . . . which turned out to be all research.
For the United States the price of empire had proved to be internal decay; the dwindling core of taxpayers grimly entrenched against the swelling misery of the Citizens in their Welfare Islands, kept pacified by arbitrary police action and subsidized drugs. Convergence with the Soviets even as nationalist hatred between the two ruling states paralyzed the CoDominium.
By the time they destroy each other, there won’t be any real difference at all.
They. Them. The thought startled him; he had been born American and graduated from West Point. Legio Patria Nostra, he quoted to himself. The Legion is our Fatherland.
“Yes, I expect most of the deportees who make it to Sparta bribed the assignment officers,” Owensford said. Which indicated better than average resources, of money or determination or intelligence. There were planets like Thurstone or Frystaat or Tanith where incoming deportees ended up in debt-peonage that was virtual slavery. A few like Dalarna where the Welfare provisions were as generous as on Earth, though God alone knew how long that would last. On Sparta able-bodied newcomers had the same civil rights as the old voluntary settlers, and the same options of working or starving.
“So,” Falkenberg said, “I don’t have anything specific, but something doesn’t feel right. And Sparta is just too damned important to Lermontov’s plan.”
“Our plan,” Owensford said carefully.
Falkenberg shrugged. “If you like.”
“I thought you were an enthusiast—the Regimental Council approved it, mostly on your insistence.”
“Correct. Don’t misunderstand,” Falkenberg said. “Lermontov is our patron. Whatever the problems with this scheme, we don’t have anything better—so we act as if it’s going to work and do what we have to do for it.”
“But you’re not happy even so.”
Falkenberg shrugged. “We don’t control Sparta, and it isn’t our home. I’d be happier with a base we do control—but we don’t have one. So we go on putting out fires for the Grand Admiral.”
Owensford made a noncommittal sound; Grand Admiral Lermontov’s private policy-making was a dangerous game. Essential when the Russki-American clashes paralyzed the Grand Senate, but dangerous nonetheless. Falkenberg’s Legion had defended Lermontov’s interests for decades, and that too was dangerous.
“Unfortunately, putting out fires isn’t enough anymore,” Falkenberg said. “The CoDominium is dying. When it dies, Earth will die with it; but I like to think we’ve bought enough time for civilization to live outside the Solar System. The Fleet can’t protect civilization and order without a base.”
“And Sparta looks to be it.”
“It’s the best we have,” Falkenberg said. He shrugged. “Who knows, we may find a home on Sparta. People don’t usually have much use for the mercenaries they hire, but the Spartans may be different. Given time, who knows? Lermontov doesn’t expect things to come apart for ten years, twenty if we’re lucky. When the crash comes it’s important to have Sparta in good shape.”
He paused, finished his drink and frowned at the rapidly melting ice cubes in the bottom of the glass. “I suspect it will take luck to keep things going ten more years.”
Peter nodded slowly. “Whitlock’s report. You put a lot of confidence in him—”
“It’s been justified so far. Peter, what’s important is that Sparta stays committed to the Plan, that they see us—the Regiment, and the Fleet, and the rest of us—as part of their solution and not more problems. Otherwise we’d end up with another insular regional power like Frystaat or Dayan or Xanadu, not a seed-crystal of . . . call it Empire for lack of anything better.”
Owensford chuckled. “Colonel, are you saying the future of civilization is in my hands?”
Falkenberg grinned slightly, but he didn’t answer.
“All right, why me?”
“An honest question,” Falkenberg said. “Because you’ll get the job done. You won’t be ashamed to take advice. Just remember, you won’t be alone in this.”
“I hope not—John Christian. Who else is in on this conspiracy?”