The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

An extreme example is Sparta, (q.v.), where the relative youth of the planet and the great rapidity of continental formation and subsidence meant that the local ecology had barely begun to colonize the landmasses at all. Faced with an entire planet of virgin ecological niches, the introduced plants and animals exploded across the continent, completely replacing the meager native species (analogs of mosses, lichens and ferns, with some amphibious insects) almost overnight. In turn, the introduced species have engaged in complex and fluctuating interactions as plant-herbivore-predator associations are worked out to fit the patterns of a world never quite like Earth. A stable ecology may take millennia to form. . . .

* * *

“Excellent,” Dion Croser said, lighting his pipe. Thank god the geneticists got the gunk out of tobacco, he thought absently. Greatest aid to concentration ever invented. “Excellent work.” He was a tall man, 180 centimeters, rangily athletic; his face was mostly Anglo-aquiline, and the eyes were blue. Their slant and the high cheekbones were a legacy from a California-nisei mother, but Croser was Sparta-born, the second generation after the Founding. “Particularly getting someone inside the Legion’s Intelligence service.

“Not a high-ranking source; and our contacts through the Royalist secret service indicate the double agent may be under suspicion already. We are developing plans to replace this agent, and to extract maximum asset-value in the meantime.”

The man sitting across from him in his study did not look much like Kenjiro Murasaki, head of Special Tasks Inc., of New Osaka; more like an American of mestizo background, if anything. But then, he had seen Murasaki in his own persona only once—if that. A knight of ghosts and shadows indeed, Croser thought. Mercenary technoninja, an ironic ally for the Non-Citizen’s Liberation Front. Politics made strange bedfellows, and Bronson’s money even stranger ones.

“Still, we’ve gained valuable information already,” he said aloud.

Kenjiro made an expansive gesture; even his body-language had changed with the disguise. “Largely a confirmation of material from other sources, Capital Prime,” he said. “We are still working on cracking the control codes for the computers of the Legion itself; even that will be of limited utility, since they are ROM-programmed. Best to proceed very cautiously, very cautiously indeed. Our probes have positively identified CoDominium Intelligence security and counter viral systems, Fleet HQ level. Excellent work, if unsubtle; BuInt has been keeping many of the people they ‘disappeared’ over the past century working in their own research institutes.”

“Certainly,” Croser said. “Well, Earth Prime was right, they are working hand-in-glove with Lermontov. Damn the CD anyway.”

Once the Democratic Republic’s established, I have to get a priority effort going on computers. We can’t depend on foreigners. He glanced up, into the mask of North American affability that Murasaki was wearing. And I’m uneasy at the extent I depend on this one already, he mused. Meijians had a reputation for fanatic loyalty to their employers. But Bronson—Earth Prime—is the employer here, and what does the Senator really want?

Murasaki inclined his head. “Even so, Earth Prime is not without influence on the CoDominium. More may come of that. As for now, Capital Prime, I would recommend certain selective assassinations.”

Croser frowned. “I thought you’d started on the regional governments?”

“Yes. I was referring to key personnel in the upper structures of the enemy.”

“Not the kings, I hope?” That would be a little too much, at this point. For that matter, he intended to exile rather than execute them, after he won.

“No.” Murasaki spread his hands. “David I is a very competent administrator and economist, but is emotionally incapable of adjusting to harsh conflict. We would not wish him replaced. As for Alexander—” a thin smile “—he is still too popular and trusted, among many non-Citizens as well. Removal would be counterproductive. His judgment is still uncertain” —the news of the viral psychopoisoning of the King had come out some time ago— “and Prince Lysander is alarmingly capable, and has a wide following among the young. A heroic soldier-king is not our need at this point. No, I was referring to technical personnel; the Royalist government’s mobilization is proving alarmingly effective.”

“Agreed,” Croser sighed, rubbing thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose. I wonder if the fear aroused by Alexander’s poisoning was worth the anger? “Try to be a little less sloppy than you were with the Arrnstrongs, won’t you?”

He had felt a little sick, when the pictures came in. Oh, Senator Steven Armstrong was a bull-headed reactionary of the worst sort—typical new-money greed and pushiness—but Alicia had been charming. It was a pity about the children, as well. Wife, children and hard-won ship all destroyed in an afternoon; it was no wonder the man had gone crazy.

Murasaki’s bow was slightly out of the character he was playing. “Still, Capital Prime, Armstrong’s Secret Citizen’s Army has been of immense value to us,” he pointed out.

“Feh,” Croser said, using a pipe cleaner to tamp down the tobacco. “Mad dogs, the lot of them, even if they are throwing more and more of the non-Citizens our way.”

Two more bombings this week, one of a group of transportees just off the shuttle and heading for the CoDo enclave, the other of a meeting of the new Migrant Farmworker’s Union, the first all-non-Citizen labor organization. Armstrong’s group was mad with fear and hate, but their actions might as well have been dictated from Movement headquarters.

“We’ll have to dispose of them all, first thing after we take over,” he said. Actually, there are an uncomfortable number of people to be disposed of. I should take some time to think about this; granted you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs, no point in beheading the chicken. He could not govern Sparta without some of the old ruling class. “Still, they help our recruiting considerably. Beautiful symmetry.” He grinned. “‘See, the Royalists have their extremists too, and they can’t control them any more than the NCLF can the Helots.’ By the way,” he added, reminded. “Field Prime says that she needs more of your people if they’re going to get things rolling again after the Dales campaign.”

The Meijian bowed again. “We sacrificed a number of assets,” he said judiciously. “But an early breaking of the myth of Citizen invincibility is some compensation. Granted that the Royalists held the field, we demonstrated that our troops could fight the Royal Army.”

“Well, the dice rolled that way. Could have been much better, could have been much worse.” Sitting by the receiver during those crucial hours had aged him a year. Unbelievable exultation, when it looked like the mercenaries and the Royal forces had walked into a trap, then the savage disappointment of seeing it close on his own people instead. The combat experience of Falkenberg’s people had been enough to offset Murasaki’s penetration of the Royalist intelligence computers.

“My next political move,” he went on, “is a direct assault on the legitimacy of the Royalist government. Best to get it done before they proscribe the NCLF and me, personally; that’s coming, although we’ll fight to delay it. Here’s how the open and clandestine wings can help—”

“Don’t you have to be at the meeting, Lynn?” Melissa von Alderheim said.

“No, they’ve put it off until tomorrow,” Prince Lysander replied to his fiancee; loudly, as the noise from the factory floor was fairly heavy, even up here in the control booth. “They’ve brought in some political analyst from Earth that Falkenberg’s people think will get to the bottom of our problems; he’ll be addressing the War Cabinet.”

This was the new von Alderheim works, barely a decade old and on a greenfleld site on the southeastern fringe of the city, with its own dock on Constitution Bay. From this station they could see out over the huge machine-littered concrete bay of Assembly Hall Three. The vehicles were moving down the length of it on wheeled pallets guided by the central Works computer, stopping at each team station while groups of overalled machinists swarmed around it. Overhead trolleys lowered sheets and components, welding torches flashed, pneumatic tools shrilled. The air was full of a low electric humm, the smell of ozone and oil and hot metal.

All like something out of a historical documentary on the First Industrial Revolution, Lysander thought wryly. Something to be proud of, nonetheless. Most worlds had a thin scattering of modern equipment over a mass of hand-tools. He extended an arm around Melissa’s waist as she came to stand beside him; she was wearing overalls too, but the contents were very pleasant.

“Lynn!” she said, in mock protest, as his hand wandered slightly. “Not here!”

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, then,” he said, straight-faced. “People will begin to suspect, if we keep traveling to the same factories.” They had been friends from childhood, their eventual marriage an understood thing. Lately it had been something he looked forward to more and more. Melissa’s not just smart and pretty, she’s a real friend, and someone who wants the same things I do.