The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

He walked through. The bedroom was larger than his, but scarcely better furnished, except for one wall that held racked bookcases and a veedisk player. A big Japanese-looking print beside that, but he paid little attention to it. Skilly was lying reading on her bed, the blankets and ermine coverlet folded down to the foot of it. She was entirely naked, and there were two glasses of brandy waiting on the night table. “Well,” she said softly, putting aside the book. Some distant part of his brain noted the title: Seven Pillars of Wisdom. “Skilly was beginning to think you not mon enough, Jeffi.”

She slid down from the pillows and stretched; her chocolate-colored skin rippled in long smooth curves as she linked her hands behind her head. Her breasts were high and rounded, the nipples plum-dark and taut. He felt his hands open and close convulsively, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse with the pulse that hammered painfully in throat and temples and groin.

“I think you’ll find me man enough and more.”

She laughed, with a child’s gleeful malice in the tone. “Come show Skilly, then. Show me what you made of.”

* * *

The Englishman murmured slightly as Skida slipped out of bed; she waited for a moment until he turned over and burrowed his head into the pillow. Chuckling soundlessly, she pulled the ermine coverlet up around him before slipping into her pajamas and out the door. This was officer country and safe, but she tucked a small automatic into the back of the trouser-band just the same; habit, and good habits kept you alive. She gave a contented yawn as she padded down to the wardroom and over to the cooler unit set against one wall, taking out a tall glass of milk and a plate of her favorite oatmeal cookies before flopping down on a couch. The wardroom’s style was deliberately casual, to encourage the command cadre to develop a club spirit. Not very likely anyone would be here at this hour, though; Base One rose with the dawn, and Sparta’s nights were short.

She sipped and nibbled contentedly, thinking, smiling to herself.

“Skilly looking happy,” Two-knife said. “You going to drop Croser?” He knew she seldom had more than one man at a time; Skida Thibodeau hated mess and confusion and unnecessary trouble.

“Not right now, but it time to put us on a more professional footing,” she said lightly.

Two-knife walked over to the cooler and fixed himself a plate of cold chicken, popping the cap off a beer bottle with one thumb. He was wearing only cotton-duck trousers, and the faint glowlight emphasized the heavy bands of muscle over shoulders and chest and stomach; he was taller than her, but broad enough to seem squat. She smiled affectionately, remembering the time a pimp in Mayopan had decked her from behind with a crowbar during a negotiation session over territorial rights; Two-knife had grabbed him by wrist and neck and done a straight pull until the man’s arm came out at the shoulder socket.

“What joke?” he said.

“Remembering old times,” she said; they dropped back into a familiar mixture of Belizean English, Spanish and low-country Mayan. “Remember the time RoBo was going to shoot you?”

Two-knife laughed, a rumbling sound. “Never forget it. The look on his face when you broke his neck! Ah, those were the days, Skilly.” There was a companionable silence. “How long you going to keep the Englishman?”

“Permanent, Skilly thinks,” she said. At his look of surprise: “Well, Croser not the one I want for keeps. Hard man, him, maybe too much to handle up close. Besides, Skilly don’t like cutting throats in the family, and if . . .” She made a gesture, and he nodded: it had long been obvious there would be an endgame after the Revolution, if they won.

“Jeffi perfect; got the right connections, smart enough, make good babies”—she had had several hundred ova frozen a couple of years ago—”just what Skilly need to put on the polish when she move up in the world. Anyway, going to be busy for a while.”

Two-knife grunted. “Yes. There’s going to be a lot of dead white-asses soon.”

“Hey,” she said playfully, “no race prejudice in the Helots—that a gauntlet offense!” They both laughed. Of course, there was a regulation to that effect; there had to be, given the polyglot nature of the force. Two-knife made a show of despising everyone but Mayans from his home district, anyway, and for that matter, the term meant “naive fool” as much as anything specifically ethnic.

“Besides, Skilly’s momma was a white-ass.”

“I, Two-knife, will forgive you for that. Even forgive you that your father was a damned Black Carib pimp.”

She finished her milk and licked her lips. “Hey, Two-knife, serious, mon; remember after we win, we gots to put this place back together and run it.” She looked at him from under her eyelids. “Ah! Skilly will find you a nice widow—widows be plentiful then—with yellow hair and big tits and good hips and a big hacienda, she teach you how to take off your boots in bed and eat with a fork, so Skilly won’t have to hide you in the closet at the fancy parties.”

“You want to kill me, woman?” he asked, shaking with laughter again; then his face fell, as he realized she was half-serious. And when Skilly made a plan . . . “You told the Englishman he’s getting married?” he said.

“No,” she said, dusting her hands as she finished the last cookie. “Skilly will train him up to it gradual.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Crofton’s Encyclopedia of the Inhabited Planets

(2nd Edition):

Sparta: Sparta (originally Botany Bay) was discovered by Captain Mark Brodin of the CoDominium Exploration Service ship Lewis and Clark during the Grand Survey of 2010. Alderson point connections to the Sol system are via Tanith, Markham, Xanadu, GSX-1773, and GSX-2897. Further connections exist to Frystaat, Dayan and Haven. Initial survey indicated a very favorable native ecology but no exceptional mineral or other resources. A Standard Terraforming Package was seeded in 2011, and the Category VI Higher Mammal Package followed in 2022.

Circumference: 13,600 kilometers

Diameter: 13,900 kilometers

Gravity 1.22 standard

Diurnal cycle: 20 hours

Year 1.6 standard

Composition: Nickel-iron, silicates

Satellites: Cythera, mass 1.7 Luna

Atmosphere is basically terrestrial, but with 1.17 standard sea-level pressure. Total land area is approximately half that of Earth, with extensive oceans; much of the land, c. 28,800,000 sq. kilometers (18,000,000 sq. miles), is concentrated in the Serpentine Continent, an equatorial landmass deeply penetrated by inland seas . . . Native life is mainly marine; the high concentration of dissolved oxygen in the oceanic waters, and the extensive shallow seas, permit a very active oceanic ecosystem with many large piscoid species. Land-based forms are limited to primitive vegetation and analogs of simple insects; terrestrial species have largely replaced the native on the Serpentine continent and adjacent islands. Total illumination is 92% of standard, resulting in a warm-temperate to subtropical climate in the equatorial Serpentine continent, shading to cold-temperate and subarctic conditions on the northern shores.

Initial settlement: A CoDominium research station was established in 2024, and shipment of involuntary transportees began in 2032. In 2036 settlement rights were transferred to the Constitutionalist Society (conditional upon continued receipt of involuntary colonists), a political group centered in the United States, and settlement began in 2038. Internal self-government was granted in 2040, and the Dual Kingdom of Sparta was recognized as a sovereign state by the Grand Senate in 2062; the CoDominium retained an enclave in Sparta City, and involuntary colonization continued per the Treaty of Independence.

* * *

“Well, I’m glad we won’t be doing a full review just yet, sir.” Battalion Sergeant Sergio Guiterrez said. There was heartfelt relief in his tone.

“His Majesty Alexander isn’t coming; General Alexander Collins will be here instead, Top,” Peter Owensford said. “A useful fiction; Prince Lysander came up with it, some historical thing from Britain.” Their vehicle was waiting at the steps of the General Headquarters building, but Owensford stopped for a moment to look at the camp.

The Fifth Battalion’s camp was a hundred kilometers south of Sparta City, at the base of the peninsula that held the capital and on the western fringe of the Eurotas delta. The main road from the city ran by along the sea, but that was merely a two-lane gravel strip; most traffic was by barge or river-steamer. Marsh and sandy beach and rocky headlands fronted the water, with a screen of small islands on the horizon. Inland were the Theramenes Hills that ran north to the outskirts, not really mountains but tumbled and rough enough to suit; between hills and sea was a narrow strip of plain. Eight weeks of Sparta’s short days ago it had been bare save for a thin covering of grass, a useless stretch of heavy adobe clay.

Now it was the base camp of the Fifth Battalion, Falkenberg’s Mercenary Legion—and the newly formed First Royal Spartan Infantry, King Alexander’s Own Regiment: Fort Plataia. Men and machines had thrown up a five-meter earth berm around an area a kilometer square; radar towers showed at the corners. The capacitance wire and bunkers and minefields outside did not, but they were there and ready, and beyond them signs warned intruders that the camp was protected by deadly force.