The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

On the other hand. David Freedman always looks like that when we have to increase taxes. The Freedman kings had been economics professors of a very laissez-faire bent, back when Sparta was the dream-child of the Constitutionalist Association on Earth. Every regulation or tax was like tearing off a piece of skin, to them. One could sympathize, but that money was buying what his men needed to fight and win.

The royal party took their places at the center of the table. Alexander nodded to Horace Plummer. “Mister Secretary.”

“Your Majesties. Your Highness. The first order of business is a report on the current situation. General Owensford.”

* * *

” . . . so by the end of spring, we’ll have better than thirty thousand people under arms in the Royal Army, under the Emergency Program,” Owensford concluded. “In addition we have a full two regiments of the Spartan Legion. We’ve got four companies of Helot deserters trained and heading out to New Washington as reinforcements for Colonel Falkenberg.”

“Tell us about that,” Attorney General Rusher said.

“Not much to tell,” Owensford said. “We offered amnesty to any captured enemy enlisted troops who’d join the Legion, and got about two thousand. Half that many made it through training. We turned the others, the ones who wouldn’t volunteer, over to the Milice.”

“What happens to the washout volunteers?” Roland Dawson asked.

“Turned over to the Milice same as those who told us to go to hell,” Peter said. “Provides an incentive to finish training.”

“They go to the far end of the island,” the Milice chief said. “Separated from the ordinary POWs. Right now both groups have enough work just building their camp and raising their own food, but we hope to have an education program for those that stay out of trouble and want to get back into mainland life.” He shrugged. “One more thing to do, and we’re in no big hurry to do it, not until the war’s over.”

“So none of your trained Helot warriors will stay on Sparta,” Elayne Rusher asked.

“That’s correct, ma’am, we couldn’t trust them here. Off-planet—” Owensford shrugged.

“Legion’s been making troopers out of that sort forever,” Dr. Whitlock observed.

“All true,” Owensford agreed. “And finally, we’ve reinforced the Fifth Battalion, Falkenberg’s Legion, almost to full regimental strength, mostly with recruits just off the CD transports. Unavoidably, this means temporary compromises with unit quality but we’re working on that.”

“Nothing like combat to sharpen up the troops,” Whitlock said dryly.

“Quite true,” Owensford said. “Especially NCOs. Of course we’ve accelerated officer and NCO training. We’re combing the CD transports for men with Marine experience. But the best training is still live fire. Unfortunately we’re getting all too much of that.” The map wall sprang to life.

“Notice the pattern of incidents.” He called up an arrow and traced the line of southern Drakons, south and east from the Rhyndakos toward the coastal town of Colchis. “Attempted infiltrations, here and here. And too many successes, because we have no satellite reconnaissance, and not much aerial.”

“Dr. Whitlock,” Alexander said. “Do we dare renew the satellites? The local CoDominium commander won’t answer. Says the question is insulting. But we haven’t infinite resources—”

Whitlock nodded. “I wouldn’t, just yet. Admiral Lermontov is aware of the situation, but his efforts to make some changes here were blocked by Vice Admiral Townsend.”

“Townsend?”

“A Bronson grandson,” Whitlock said.

“That sounds ominous,” Hal Slater said.

“Ominous indeed, Colonel Slater. Excuse me. General Slater,” Whitlock said. “Control of the Fleet is very much in dispute just now, and unfortunately there are other critical situations demanding Admiral Lermontov’s attention and influence.”

“Such as New Washington?” David Freedman asked.

“Yes, Majesty,” Whitlock said. He looked around the room. “Do you want that report now, with all these people?”

“Yes, I think so,” Alexander said. “If we can’t trust this group, we’re finished.”

“All right. But with your permission, Sire, I’ll let General Owensford finish telling us how he sees the situation before I begin.”

“All right,” Alexander said. “I take it that we won’t be getting a new satellite.”

“Maybe not just yet, Sire.”

“I see. General—”

“There’s not a great deal more to report,” Owensford said. “There have been actions here, up the valley of the Jason and into the Lycourgos Hills. We know they’ve gotten small forces into the foothills of the Pindaros and Parnassus ranges east of the river. Meanwhile, activity of all sorts is increasing throughout the Middle Valley; their latest trick is to drop mines into the river. We’ve recovered a few. Big box of plastique with a simple pressure trigger; blows the bottom out of a river boat quite thoroughly.”

Lord Henry Yamaga, Minister of Interior and Development, made a sound of disgust. “What’s the point, beyond sheer sadism?”

Owensford shrugged. “The same point as putting small units into the Lower Valley,” he said. “We have to divert resources to sweep for mines, and every man we keep in the Lower Valley is another we don’t send to the Middle.”

“The plan was to keep them bottled up,” Yamaga said. “That’s not working.”

“No, my lord. I haven’t enough troops for that. Actually, Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar together couldn’t seal that area air-tight, not with a million foot-infantry. Controlling guerrilla warfare of this type sops up soldiers the way a sponge does water.”

“So what will we do?” Freiherr von Alderheim affected a monocle and looked very Prussian, but his voice was friendly. He’d been suspicious of the Legion mercenaries when they first arrived, but lately had become one of their chief supporters.

“We hold on,” Owensford said. “And continue to build strength. Majesties, my original assignment here was to train mercenaries you could hire out off-planet for hard currency. That we’re doing. As Dr. Whitlock observes, there’s nothing like live fire training to cement unit cohesion. In that sense this war has actually helped us get ahead of schedule—”

“At fearsome cost,” David Freedman said.

“Yes, Majesty, but the costs of recruiting and training this many soldiers would have been fearsome anyway. When this is over, we’ll have trained cohesive units under battle tested leaders. I should think they would command a good price.”

“Perhaps,” David said. “But I never liked that scheme to begin with.” He shrugged. “Of course if we hadn’t begun when we did, we wouldn’t have had troops ready to fight this—rebellion. We might have lost already. Your pardon, General. Please continue.”

“Majesty. Some things go well. The Coast Guard Reserve, our brown-water navy, has got control of a lot of our rivers, and contests the rest with the rebels. They used to get nearly a free ride. Not any more.

“Production of Thoth missiles is up. We don’t have as many as I’d like, but the pace accelerates. Freiherr von Alderheim’s factories are ahead of schedule in helicopter and small aircraft production. We don’t have aviation company up to TO&E in every regiment, but at least they all have some kind of aircraft, and brigade levels have more. That gives us considerably more strategic mobility.

“We can’t use those for tactical engagements, of course. The rebels have quite enough anti-air to prevent that. On the other hand, having to carry air defense missiles cuts down on their mobility and complicates their logistics, and they don’t have air capability.

“The result is that we’ve cut way back on their ability to resupply from our arms factories. They used to steal us blind, but they can’t do that any more. The bad news is they stockpiled a great deal, and they’re still receiving off-planet supplies from somewhere. Every time we cut into their quantity, there’s new increase in the quality of what they get. Almost as if it’s a game.”

“Ah,” Whitlock said. “And there’s where you put your finger on it.”

“Sir?”

“In a very real sense, it is a game. Very high stakes game, but a game right enough.”

“I expect you’re going to explain that,” Owensford said.

“Yes. I’ll have to lecture.”

“Dr. Whitlock, I assure you, you have our full attention,” King David Freedman said. “Perhaps you should begin your report now.”

“Sire. Well. All along, it must have been obvious to y’all that this rebellion hasn’t got a coon’s chance without help from off-planet.”

“Yes, of course,” Alexander said.

“And not just a little help. I don’t know what all Bronson has put into this, but it’s got to be more than a billion credits.”

“That much,” David Freedman mused. “Yes, I believe that—but Dr. Whitlock, why?”

“That’s the question,” Whitlock said. “What could he want that’s worth that much? There’s only one answer that makes sense. Empire.”

There was a long silence. “With himself as emperor,” Alexander said at last.

“Himself, an heir, a whole group of heirs,” Whitlock said. “Yes.”

“Why in God’s Name would he want the job?” Alexander demanded.

“‘Cause he thinks it’s got to be done, and he’s sure he and his people are the only ones that can do it,” Whitlock said. “I know y’all think of Bronson as purely mean and selfish. I can understand Spartans seeing him that way, but I’m surprised you two—” he indicated Peter Owensford and Hal Slater—”bought into that. Colonel Falkenberg always knew better.”