The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

Croser nodded. “We’ll have to be careful,” he said. “The Finance Ministry is already checking my books.”

Skida sipped at her fruit-juice; the others were drinking wine, and she had always found it advisable to have her head straighter than the company.

“Skilly likes all this if it works,” she said. “But the outback operation is as big as it can get without doing some serious fighting, especially now that the enemy bringing in mercs. Skilly needs to get out from under their spy-eyes, faster communication, and something to counter their aircraft.”

“My technoninjas can provide all that,” Murasaki said. “Of the two hundred who accompanied me—” many on the BuReloc transports that landed every month “—approximately half will return with you to the outback, Field Prime. From now on, your situation will be very different. For example, on Meiji we have developed a method of long-distance tightbeam communication, bouncing the message off the ionization tracks of meteors.”

Of which Sparta had more than its fair share; the hundred-kilometer circle of Constitution Bay was the legacy of one such, millennia ago.

“Soon also, we will be reading the enemy’s transmissions as soon as they do. You will have abundant computer power to coordinate your logistics, and we will be able to manipulate the enemy’s accounting programs to conceal our own shipments. Also, we can degrade performance of automatic systems, the surveillance satellites the Royal government has put up, similar measures elsewhere.”

“Skilly likes, but when we start popping, they going to know we getting stuff from off-planet,” she said. “Then they start looking physical.”

“Olympian Lines uses the Spartan system for transit to Byer’s Star,” Murasaki said enigmatically.

The outermost colonized system, reachable only by a complex series of Alderson Point jumps from Sparta and a full year’s journey from Earth. It had a quasi-inhabitable planet; Haven, the second moon of a superjovian gas giant, a unique case. Croser remembered reading of it, and nodded to Skida. There was a CoDo relocation colony there, and some minerals.

“Earth Prime controls the Olympian Lines and has interests in the shimmerstone trade with Haven. While transiting this system, parcels can be released on ballistic trajectories. Given stealthing, and some minimal interference with the local surveillance computers, they will appear to be normal meteorites.”

Croser clapped his hands together. “Won’t that be a lovely surprise for Falkenberg’s killers,” he said. “Speaking of which, how’s he doing?” Grand Senator Bronson had excellent intelligence, from his own resources and his leads into the Fleet.

“They are expected to land on New Washington shortly,” Murasaki said. “With luck, while we destroy the Fifth Battalion here, the Friedlanders and Covenanters will do the same for the rest there.”

Croser grunted skeptically. Falkenberg’s Legion were some of the best light infantry in known space. Scum soldiers, but well trained, well equipped and well lead; and Falkenberg had a reputation. Men like that made their own luck. Men like me, he thought. Still, New Washington was five months’ transit from Sparta; they ought to have ample warning of any move.

“We’ll see,” he said. “Now, the other half of your people will be integrated into my clandestine operation in the towns?”

“Yes; the companies our sponsors own will provide excellent cover. I myself and my closest aides, with your permission, will form the cadre for the extension of your Spartacus organization.” The inner-circle hit squads. “We can begin Operations against enemy targets almost immediately.”

“A little early for that, surely?” Croser said.

“I think you are underestimating the element of ju,” Murasaki said.

Croser blinked for a second. Ah, “go-with,” he thought. The Meijian was fond of using martial-arts metaphors for political struggle; only to be expected, of course. The man was a mercenary, with a professional’s emotional detachment. All to the good. You need a cold head. Anger was like compassion; for afterwards, when the struggle was over and it was time for the softer virtues of peace. You made the decision, you had to make the decision, from your heart. Grief at what his father’s dream had become; rage at the smug fools who ignored him when he warned, when he pleaded, when he showed them and they wouldn’t believe. After that everything had to come from the head; anything else was a betrayal of the Cause.

“Granted that it is too early and our network in the towns too incomplete for a comprehensive campaign of terrorism—”

People’s justice, damn you, Croser thought, with a well-concealed wince. There was such a thing as taking detachment too far.

“—selective action against the proper figures is possible at once. Indeed, Capital Prime, it will be valuable training for your death-squads and their integration with my specialists.”

“Who did you have in mind?” Croser asked, intrigued despite himself.

The books all said the most efficient strategy was to go for the cadres of the government: village mayors, local policemen, sanitation officers. To demonstrate the government’s impotence, to blind its eyes among the populace, and to leave a vacuum the insurgents’ political apparatus could fill.

“Certain of the Pragmatist leaders.”

“Hmmm.” Croser frowned. “Won’t that just provoke . . . ah, I see.”

“Yes. Either they will force through ill-conceived repressive measures, increasing our support, or they will become locked in political conflict with the Loyalist faction. In either case, we benefit.”

“I’d better accelerate work on the front organizations, in case the whole NCLF has to go underground,” Croser said meditatively. That would not be for a while, but when the Crown proscribed . . . nothing like being declared an outlaw to force people to commit themselves.

“I authorize your suggestion,” Croser said. Murasaki bowed. And it takes care of certain other problems, the Spartan thought. A guardian corps within the Movement was all well and good, but who would guard the guardians? These mercenaries had no local roots, and no possibility of taking over the structure he had built. With them in charge of his enforcers, his back would be safe. “Now, about the computers.”

“Croser-san,” Murasaki said. “Penetration of the local net has proved surprisingly easy. You will understand, we cannot use the data gathered too often, or the enemy will suspect and begin countermeasures. The University has a surprisingly strong software engineering section.”

Croser nodded. “Policy,” he said. “They wanted to begin basic research in the sciences, but that means counter-sabotage work.”

CoDominium Intelligence was tasked with suppressing scientific research; their most effective method had been a generations-long effort to corrupt every data base and research program on Earth. Few of the colony worlds had the time or resources needed to undo the damage. Besides, there were few trained scientists left anywhere after four generations. Nobody wanted to live under the lidless eye of BuInt all their lives, with involuntary transportation to someplace like Fulson’s World as the punishment for stepping over the line. Mostly what were left were technicians, cookbook engineers who might make a minor change in a recipe if they were very daring.

“Yes. Similar effort on Meiji is underway.”

Croser held up a hand. “We can also use the information to sow suspicion—make them think we have more agents in place than we do.” Murasaki smiled, a rare gesture of approval, and rose for a second to make a short bow. “My thoughts exactly, Mr. Croser. We will identify their best operatives, and then . . . for example, incorrectly hidden bank accounts with suspicious funds. Then we reveal by action we know data that this agent has access to. Synergy.”

The discussion moved on to technicalities: peoples, places, times. At the last, Skida spoke.

“The Englishman. Skilly wants him.”

The men both looked at her. “He a trained officer, isn’t he? Skilly is going to need a good staff, and that the hardest type of talent for us to find; Skilly read the books, but got no hands-on training except learn by doing.”

Murasaki nodded slowly. “He does have the training,” he said slowly. “Sandhurst, and some naval experience as well. Also, he is intelligent if extremely naive. Not suitable for urban operations, I think. Too squeamish. But in the field, yes.”

Croser looked at the woman narrowly; she met his gaze with an utterly guileless smile. And he’s nearer your age, and remarkably handsome, he thought. Then: No, Skida never does things on impulse. As passionate as you could want . . . but underneath it the coldest pragmatist he had ever known; literally unthinkable for her to act without considering the long-term interests involved.

“I authorize it,” he said. There was no time wasted on amenities, not among them; they walked through into the adjoining room, where their aides and staff sat in disciplined silence.

“Hope you like riding, English-mon,” Skilly tossed over her shoulder, as she and Croser paused at the head of the stairs, arms about each other’s waists.

Niles was blinking in bewilderment at Murasaki as Skilly’s clear laugh drifted back up the stairs.

“Did you not speak of your admiration for the great English explorers and adventurers?” the Meijian asked. Niles nodded. “Consider yourself in my debt, Niles-san. I have found you as close an analog as exists in the universe.”