The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“I’m surprised there’s so many big grazers after only, what, eighty years?”

“CoDo,” Skilly shrugged. “They seeded the plants, did the gene-thing with some of them to grow faster, you know? Then the animals, sent all females and all pregnant, and screwed around with their genes too, so they have only one bull to ten cowbeasts for a while. No diseases and plenty room, grow by ge-o-metric progressive. Only last couple of years the meateaters start to catch up.” Those had come from zoos, mostly; the Greens had had a lot of influence back in the 2030s, enough to override local protests and have bears, wolves, dholes, leopards and tigers and whatnot dropped into remote areas. No point in trying that on Earth, the former ranges were jammed with starving people who would gladly beat a lion to death with rocks for the meat on its bones.

“Quiet now.”

The valley opened up slightly, glances of blue noon sky and Sparta’s pale-yellow sun through the canopy above. Skida halted her mount with a shift of balance, touching its neck with the rein to turn it three-quarters on.

“Skilly sees you,” she said in a bored tone of voice.

Niles blinked, as two figures rose from the hillside. Both had been invisible a few minutes earlier; they were covered from head to foot by loose-woven twine cloaks stuck with twigs and leaves, and the scope-sighted rifles cradled in their arms were swaddled in mottled rags. Farther up the hill the ground moved aside under the roots of a pine, and a man vaulted out and skidded down the slope to the mounted party. This one wore leather breeches and boots, a camouflage jacket over that, and webbing gear. A machine-pistol was slung across his chest and there were corporal’s stripes on his sleeve; the military effect was a little offset by the black pigtail, bandanna and brass hoop-earring.

“Corporal Hermanez,” Skilly said, returning his casual salute.

“Field Prime,” he said, obviously pleased that she had remembered his name. “How did you spot my scouts?”

“Leaf piles doan scratch their arse.” The guerrilla noncom turned to glare briefly at one of the men, who stiffened. “Two-knife?”

“Off popping the virgins, Field Prime—another fifty recruits in yesterday.”

“Carry on.”

The valley narrowed again. Alerted, Niles thought he saw movement now and then, once something that might be a sonic sensor input mike. The skin on the back of his neck crawled slightly. Then the thickly grown rock flared back on either side of them, into a hummocky clearing of gravel and rock and thin grass several hectares in extent, scattered with medium-sized oaks and big eucalyptus trees with peeling bark. Camouflage nets were rigged between the trees at a little over head-height, mimicking the ground. Across the way was a taller hill where the shell of limestone rock had collapsed inward. Water fell over the lip to a pool at the base, and he could see several dark spaces in the light-colored rock that reached back out of sight.

“Home,” Skilly said. “Base One.”

Men in the same uniform came and led the horses away at a trot. Niles followed Skida as she ducked under one of the tarpaulins and walked toward the falls, trying not to be too obvious as he looked around. Not my idea of a rebel encampment, he thought. There were dug-in air defense missiles, light Skyhawks and frame-mounted Talons; CoDo issue, or copies. Plenty of people moving around; not a spit-and-polish outfit, but they all seemed fairly clean and to know where they were going. Crates and boxes were stacked in neat heaps, and there were half a dozen circles around blackboards or pieces of equipment, familiarization-lectures. A pile of meter-diameter cylinders lay on a timber frame. He stared at them in puzzlement and then recognized a Skysweeper, a simple solid-fuel rocket that could loft a hundred-kilo load of ball bearings into the orbital path of a spy satellite.

His lips shaped a soundless whistle. Not too shabby, he thought. A squad jogged by, rifles at port; Skilly returned their leader’s salute, the same half-casual wave, and then slapped palms with a figure he recognized: the big Indian he had met briefly in Sparta City, with his twin machetes over his back. Here he also carried a light machine gun, dangling from one hand as if it were no more than a rifle.

“Yo, Two-knife. How it go?”

“Yo, Skilly. Not bad. Your little yellow men got here with their toys, setting up now.” He jerked a thumb at the caves.

“Toys may save our asses, Two-knife. Any trouble?”

“Discipline parade for offenders, and taking in the fresh meat. Got them kit, ran them up and down hills all yesterday, usual thing like you say.” The blank black eyes turned on Niles, and the Indian said something in a choppy-sounding language, not Spanish.

“He’s a trained officer, not just a pretty face,” Skilly replied; Niles felt oddly flattered, and returned the bigger man’s gaze coolly. She slung her rifle. “Let’s go. Niles should see our discipline.”

* * *

The stench almost made Niles gag as they walked past the row of a half a dozen pits. Each was just wide enough to hold a man and deep enough that only the faces showed; none of them looked up.

“We got this from the CoDo Marines,” Skilly said, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “Make them dig a hole and then live in it for a week. Next step up from punishment drill. Lot of our original trainers were ex-Marines”—mostly gone now, she thought but did not say—”and we had a bunch of our Movement people do hitches with the CD and some of the other armies.”

“Second offense, not cleaning rifle,” Two-knife said, kicking dirt in the direction of the first pit and walking on to each in turn. “Stealing. Second offense, refusing to wash. This one didn’t want to learn to read. Backtalking his squad leader. Smoking borloi. Lighting fire in the open.”

Beyond the row of pits were two upright X-frames made of saplings, with men lashed to them spreadeagled. Odd-looking bruises and dried crusted scabs covered their naked bodies.

“Gauntlet,” Skilly explained. Niles kept his face carefully blank; that meant running between lines of your comrades while they flogged you with their belts. You could not have an army without discipline, and a guerrilla army like this had no system of laws and courts to fall back on. Not to mention the type of recruits they would have to depend on, men on the bad side of the law to begin with.

“Asleep on watch,” Two-knife said of the first man. “Striking an officer,” of the second. “Got an offender among the virgins, too,” he went on.

They were near the C-shaped bowl that fronted the clearing; the waterfall was a hundred meters away, at the center of the curve, and its sound was a burr of white noise in the background. Here the ground ran down to the base of the cliff in a natural amphitheater. Fifty or so men and a few women were squatting on the rocky ground, in uniform but looking awkward in it, and groggy with exhaustion where they were not tense with fear. Very out of place, as well; you could tell these were men who had spent their lives in cities, and on their streets. A few armed troops stood by, not quite guarding the recruits; two more flanked a bound prisoner at the base of the slope, very definitely guarding him. A short woman stood nearby, glaring at the one under guard.

“The virgin’s name is Carter,” Two-knife continued. “The other one is Werewolf. He caught Williams in the third back warehouse cave, tried to hump her. She caught him a couple and he whipped on her muy mal, then ran when the patrol came.”

“Williams . . . Citizen family, University, come in right after we blow the Peacemaker? Her squeeze killed by Milice?”

He nodded and Skilly fell silent, taking in the parties as she walked down toward them. Then she turned to face the recruits, ignoring the judicial matter for the moment.

“This,” she said, indicating herself with a thumb, “is Field Prime. Field Prime commands the Spartan People’s Liberation Army. We call ourselves the Helots; pretty soon you learn why. Helots are under the direction of the Movement Council and Capital Prime. Field Second,” she continued, turning to Two-knife, “repeat the charge.”

When he had finished, she turned to the woman. Girl, rather; about nineteen, but it was difficult to tell anything else because of massive purple-and-yellow bruises that covered her face.

“Yes.”

“Louder, Helot.”

“Yes! I told him to go away and he grabbed me and I kicked him and he started hitting me and—” She turned away, arms tightly crossed over her chest.

“So, Carter,” Skida continued, to the prisoner “What you say?”

“Lies,” the man said. He was not much older than his victim, still in gang colors, a thin acne-scarred face and darting eyes. “Them University cunts, they’ll spread for anything. Stuck-up bitch probably has the crud, anyway.”