The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

They went through narrow whitewashed corridors, then into the bright Florida sunshine. A narrow gangway led to the forward end of an enormous winged landing ship that floated at the end of a long pier crowded with colonists and cursing guards.

The petty officer spoke briefly to the Marine sentries at the officers’ gangway, then carefully saluted the officer at the head of the boarding gangway. John wanted to do the same, but he knew that you didn’t salute in civilian clothing. His father had made him read books on military history and the customs of the Service as soon as he decided to find John an appointment to the Academy.

Babble from the colonists filled the air until they were inside the ship. As the hatch closed behind him the last sounds he heard were the curses of the guards.

* * *

“If you please, sir. This way.” The petty officer led him through a maze of steel corridors, airtight bulkheads, ladders, pipes, wire races, and other unfamiliar sights. Although the CD Navy operated it, most of the ship belonged to BuRelock, and she stank. There were no viewports and John was lost after several turns in the corridors.

The petty officer led on at a brisk pace until he came to a door that seemed no different from any other. He pressed a button on a panel outside it.

“Come in,” the panel answered.

The compartment held eight tables, but only three men, all seated at a single booth. In contrast to the gray steel corridors outside, the compartment was almost cheerful, with paintings on the walls, padded furniture, and what seemed like carpets.

The CoDominium seal hung from the far wall—American eagle and Soviet sickle and hammer, red, white, and blue, white stars and red stars.

The three men held drinks and seemed relaxed. All wore civilian clothing not much different from John’s except that the older man wore a more conservative tunic. The others seemed about John’s age, perhaps a year older; no more.

“One of ours, sir,” the petty officer announced. “New middy got lost with the colonists.”

One of the younger men laughed, but the older cut him off with a curt wave. “All right, Cox’n. Thank you. Come in, we don’t bite.”

“Thank you, sir,” John said. He shuffled uncertainly in the doorway, wondering who these men were. Probably CD officers, he decided. The petty officer wouldn’t act that way toward anyone else. Frightened as he was, his analytical mind continued to work, and his eyes darted around the compartment.

Definitely CD officers, he decided. Going back up to Luna Base after leave, or perhaps a duty tour in normal gravity. Naturally they’d worn civilian clothing. Wearing the CD uniform off duty earthside was an invitation to be murdered.

“Lieutenant Hartmann, at your service,” the older man introduced himself. “And Midshipmen Rolnikov and Bates. Your orders, please?”

“John Christian Falkenberg, sir,” John said. “Midshipman. Or I guess I’m a midshipman. But I’m not sure. I haven’t been sworn in or anything.”

All three men laughed at that. “You will be, Mister,” Hartmann said. He took John’s orders. “But you’re one of the damned all the same, swearing in or no.”

He examined the plastic sheet, comparing John’s face to the photograph, then reading the bottom lines. He whistled. “Grand Senator Martin Grant. Appointed by the Navy’s friend, no less. With him to bat for you, I wouldn’t be surprised to see you outrank me in a few years.”

“Senator Grant is a former student of my father’s,” John said.

“I see,” Hartmann returned the orders and motioned John to sit with them. Then he turned to one of the other midshipmen. “As to you, Mister Bates, I fail to see the humor. What is so funny about one of your brother officers becoming lost among the colonists? You have never been lost?”

Bates squirmed uncomfortably. His voice was high-pitched, and John realized that Bates was no older than himself. “Why didn’t he show the guards his taxpayer status card?” Bates demanded. “They would have taken him to an officer. Wouldn’t they?”

Hartman shrugged.

“I didn’t have one,” John said.

“Um.” Hartmann seemed to withdraw, although he didn’t actually move. “Well,” he said. “We don’t usually get officers from Citizen families—”

“We are not Citizens,” John said quickly. “My father is a CoDominium University professor, and I was born in Rome.”

“Ah,” Hartman said. “Did you live there long?”

“No, sir. Father prefers to be a visiting faculty member. We have lived in many university towns.” The lie came easily now, and John thought that Professor Falkenberg probably believed it after telling it so many times. John knew better: he had seen his father desperate to gain tenure, but always, always making too many enemies.

He is too blunt and too honest. One explanation. He is a revolving S.O.B. and can’t get along with anyone. That’s another. I’ve lived with the situation so long I don’t care anymore. But, it would have been nice to have a home, I think.

Hartmann relaxed slightly, “Well, whatever the reason, Mister Falkenberg, you would have done better to arrange to be born a United States taxpayer. Or a Soviet party member. Unfortunately, you, like me, are doomed to remain in the lower ranks of the officer corps.”

There was a trace of accent to Hartmann’s voice, but John couldn’t place it exactly. German, certainly; there were many Germans in the CD fighting services. This was not the usual German though; John had lived in Heidelberg long enough to learn many shades of the German speech. East German? Possibly.

He realized the others were waiting for him to say something. “I thought, sir, I thought there was equality within the CD services.”

Hartmann shrugged. “In theory, yes. In practice—the generals and admirals, even the captains who command ships, always seem to be Americans or Soviets. It is not the preference of the officer corps, Mister. We have no countries of origin among ourselves and no politics. Ever. The Fleet is our fatherland, and our only fatherland.” He glanced at his glass. “Mister Bates, we need more to drink, and a glass for our new comrade. Hop it.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The pudgy middy left the compartment, passing the unattended bar in the corner on his way. He returned a moment later with a full bottle of American whiskey and an empty glass.

Hartmann poured the glass full and pushed it toward John. “The Navy will teach you many things, Mister Midshipman John Christian Falkenberg. One of them is to drink. We all drink too much. Another thing we will teach you is why we do, but before you learn why, you must learn to do it.”

He lifted the glass. When John raised his and took only a sip, Hartmann frowned. “More,” he said. The tone made it an order.

John drank half the whiskey. He had been drinking beer for years, but his father did not often let him drink spirits. It did not taste good, and it burned his throat and stomach.

“Now, why have you joined our noble band of brothers?” Hartmann asked. His voice carried a warning: he used bantering words, but under that was a more serious mood—perhaps he was not mocking the Service at all when he called it a band of brothers.

John hoped he was not. He had never had brothers. He had never had friends, or a home, and his father was a harsh schoolmaster, teaching him many things, but never giving him any affection—or friendship.

“I—”

“Honesty,” Hartmann warned. “I will tell you a secret, the secret of the Fleet. We do not lie to our own.” He looked at the other two midshipmen, and they nodded, Rolnikov slightly amused, Bates serious, as if in church.

“Out there,” Hartmann said, “out there they lie, and they cheat, and they use each other. With us this is not true. We are used, yes. But we know that we are used, and we are honest with each other. That is why the men are loyal to us. And why we are loyal to the Fleet.”

And that’s significant, John thought, because Hartmann had glanced at the CoDominium banner on the wall, but he said nothing about the CD at all. Only the Fleet. “I’m here because my father wanted me out of the house and was able to get an appointment for me,” John blurted.

“You will find another reason, or you will not stay with us,” Hartmann said. “Drink up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The proper response is ‘aye aye, sir.'”

“Aye aye, sir.” John drained his glass.

Hartmann smiled. “Very good.” He refilled his glass, then the others. “What is the mission of the CoDominium Navy, Mister Falkenberg?”

“Sir? To carry out the will of the Grand Senate—”

“No. It is to exist. And by existing, to keep some measure of peace and order in this corner of the galaxy. To buy enough time for men to get far enough away from Earth that when the damned fools kill themselves they will not have killed the human race. And that is our only mission.”