The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“Probably,” the Prince agreed grimly. His sidearm was still in his hand; he slapped it back into the holster with a sense of angry futility. “Cordon it off, until the Milice get here. Don’t disturb the site, the forensic experts will want it that way.” Probably was the bars, he thought. Which either came from the smelter right here, or down from Olynthos on a barge. The barge, I’d bet; thousands of klicks of opportunity to substitute.

“Sorry to spoil your furlough, Sergeant,” he continued.

Harv smiled broadly and tapped the butt of the rifle slung over his shoulder. “We were figuring on doing a night-patrol exercise around your hunting lodge,” he said. “To see that you and Miss weren’t disturbed, sort of.”

“That won’t be necessary; we won’t be using the cottage,” Lysander said flatly “Neither of us will be leaving the Palace.”

The NCO’s face fell slightly. Lysander forced a smile and clapped him on the shoulder; Harv could be a bit of a trial sometimes, but he was a good man and a Brother.

“Visit your own girlfriend, Sergeant,” he said.

“Which one?” Harv said, returning the smile. Then he looked to his men: “Excuse me, sir?”

The officer nodded, turned and walked back through the doors, brushing aside the crowd of frightened technicians and their questions. Melissa was sitting on the side of the Cataphract, waiting.

“Bad?” she said.

“Two men injured,” Lysander replied. “One of the Hyundai’s is wrecked.”

She winced. “That is bad.” He explained, and she shook her head ruefully.

“Don’t tell me we’re going to have to inspect every shipment of raw stock!”

“I’m afraid so,” he said. Softly: “I’m afraid it’s too risky for us to visit the Theramenes. Personally, the Palace will do me quite well, and to hell with appearances.” He held out his hand.

CHAPTER FOUR

Confusion is often apparent in discussions where the terms guerrilla, partisan, insurgent, terrorist, and mercenary are used. Guerrilla, partisan, and insurgent are interchangeable. These three words refer to one whose aim is to overthrow a government by armed force, largely through use of indigenous resources. International conventions provide for the treatment of guerrillas, insurgents, and partisans. They must bear arms openly, wear an identifying symbol that is recognized at a distance, and conform to the laws of war. Compliance with these simple rules places the insurgent, guerrilla, or partisan in the category of a legally recognized combatant, one who is due prisoner-of-war status if captured.

Terrorists enjoy no legal protections. They normally conceal weapons, mingle with the civilian populations for personal protection, and may take hostages to achieve their aims. Defying international conventions, they are usually treated as common criminals. Terrorist methods often involve armed and illegal coercive propaganda. The most typical terrorist goal is to achieve widespread recognition for a cause through outrageous actions that compel international attention.

One term, mercenary, is apt to be much in evidence during the 21st Century, and it may be used as inappropriately then as it is now. Commercial contractors currently maintain some weapons systems, perform housekeeping duties at military and naval installations, and conduct military training. They have even drafted military plans. The use of commercial firms in military affairs is growing, and their staffs are often composed of ex-military and -naval personnel. But are these companies and their employees properly labeled as mercenaries?

The word mercenary is more often used in pejorative descriptions. The term usually has more to say about the writer or commentator’s political orientation than it does about the person described. A true mercenary’s sole motivation is financial reward, the acid test being whether he would switch sides for more money. In other words, the mercenary does not discriminate between political causes or nations to which he offers his services. His work simply goes to the highest bidder. As a practical matter, most people who are described as mercenaries are actually adventurers who discriminate between the political causes they support. . . .

—Rod Paschall

LIC 2010: Special Operations and

Unconventional Warfare in the Next Century

(Institute of Land Warfare,

Association of the US Army, 1990)

* * *

Letter found in War Office general delivery box,

Sparta City:

Dear Major-General Owensford:

Hiyo, Petie! This Skilly dropping you a line to thank you for the seminar in operational art you give us Helots back in the Illyrian Dales. That will teach Skilly not to make she plans so fancy! Skilly, now she understand more of what Clausewitz write about friction and other thing as well.

Expensive lesson, Petie, but as old Socrates say, knowledge be a treasure nobody can take away.

We Helots love the knowledge, so we want to learn everything you can teach. We be coming back for more. Again . . . and again . . . and again. As many times as it take until we get it right and pass Final Victory exams. Protracted Struggle, hey?

Give Skilly’s regards to Baby Prince. He getting so hard-nose, pretty soon maybe he go into her line of work? But he right not to care nothing about those prisoners and wounded.

You and you gunboys was lucky, but you earned it.

Skida Thibodeau

Field Prime, Spartan People’s Liberation Army

PS: Maybe you be lucky again. Maybe twice. But we only need be lucky once.

* * *

“The important thing,” Peter Owensford said, “the great thing, is not to lose our nerve.”

There were murmurs of approval around the Council table. “Are you going to give that letter to the press?” someone asked.

“I don’t know. Would it be more likely to stiffen resolve, or frighten people?”

“Both, I think.” Alan Hruska, Milice chief for Sparta City, looked thoughtful. “Me, I’m for telling the Citizens everything we can.”

“Right,” Owensford said. “It’s our major advantage. Citizens are our partners, not our slaves. Besides, she could send a copy to the press herself. All right, I’ll hand it to Harold Preston at the Tribune. We owe him—that was a good job he did on the Cock and Grill bombing.”

Hruska nodded. “I’d say so.”

“How’s the boy?” someone asked.

Hruska shrugged. “No change. He’ll be months in the regenn tanks, but they figure they can rebuild him. I want him on the force when he gets out—”

“And we could use him in the Army,” Owensford said. Pancake on a bomb and get a choice of careers. “Whatever happens with him, he’s got a medal coming. I take it his medical’s paid—”

“Sure, his phratrie took care of everything.”

“That’s good—ah.” Owensford stood to greet a newcomer. “Dr. Whitlock. Gentlemen, Dr. Caldwell Whitlock, political consultant.”

There was a flurry of greetings. Horace Plummer, secretary to the War Cabinet, stood. “I will inform their majesties that we are ready to begin.”

Roland Dawson, Principal Secretary of State, indicated a place at the table next to Owensford, and Whitlock went to it. He bowed slightly. “Madame Attorney General. Gentlemen. My pleasure to be here.” He spoke with a thick Alabama accent.

“I wish that were true.” Attorney General Elayne Rusher looked more like a society lady in her thirties than a grandmother of fifty-five, or would if there hadn’t been so many worry lines at the corners of her eyes. “But it’s nice of you to say so.”

“Ma’am.” Whitlock took his seat. He was a tall lean man in his early fifties, looking younger from careful exercise and expensive regeneration treatments; even under Sparta’s heavy gravity he was loosely relaxed. A blond mustache and trimmed goatee set off long carefully-arranged yellow locks, and he was dressed with foppish care, in multihued tunic, tooled boots, black-satin tights, broad sash and an emerald stickpin in his cravat, the height of Earth fashion.

“How long will you be here?” Peter Owensford asked.

“I won’t be leavin’. Closed out my affairs on Earth before I came.”

“Good God.”

“Not easy,” Whitlock said. “My family settled Montgomery, you know. And we’ve had the Jacksonville plantation ever since the Yazoo Purchase.”

“It’s that bad on Earth, then?”

Whitlock looked up to see that everyone was listening, and nodded. “I’ll have a few words about that in the meetin’. But yes, things are happening on Earth. With John Grant dead, I wouldn’t be surprised to see Unity out of office next election. If things last until then, which—”

The door at the far end of the chamber opened. “Gentlemen, ladies—their Majesties.”

Everyone stood as the kings, Alexander and David, entered with Lysander.

The King looks better, Owensford thought with relief. Lysander had told him that Melissa and the Prince’s mother Queen Adriana had been working on him in relays to take a vacation at the summer palace on the island of Leros. Two weeks among the orange trees and olive groves had worked wonders in speeding the cure; Alexander’s skin was tanned and firmer, his eyes had lost most of the desperate hunted look, and he moved less like a man carrying a double-weighted pack. By contrast, his co-monarch David looked as if he were still in mourning. He’d been Crown Prince Regnant for years until his near-invalid father quietly died. At least the Helots had the decency to let us bury the king without incidents. David’s rather low key coronation was marred by three car bombings and an attempted riot. The riot was suppressed with casualties to the rioters; relatives of the police were killed by the car bombs. Another incident of oppression for the opposition to exploit.