Lysander blinked at the bright sunshine outside. Sentries and messengers were scurrying all over the field. A group of three officers came out of the Headquarters building to stride briskly toward them. The leader was Major Bennington, a short competent-looking man, Spartan-born, Citizen, an engineer turned soldier. When he saw who had come, he shouted back into the orderly room. Bugle notes sounded, and a company hastily formed as an honor guard.
Bennington saluted. “Highness, they told us to expect visitors, but not who. Apologies—”
“No problem,” Lysander said. He returned the salute, then went over to clasp Bennington’s hand and clap him across the shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Jamie, my Brother,” he said formally. He raised his voice, “And all of my Brothers.”
“And you, Brother.” Bennington was careful to clasp hands with Harv as well. Then he led the way to the waiting troops.
They walked past the leading ranks of the honor guard. Lysander stopped. “Sergeant Ruark. Good job spotting that minefield in the Dales,” he said. “Saved my arse.”
Ruark grinned, and so did the men around him.
Lysander stopped to talk with several more of the men he recognized, before letting Bennington lead him away.
“It’s good to see you, sir,” Bennington said. “But you should have told us—”
“Our communications have been leaky, and headquarters thought it better not to say who was coming. Surprising you wasn’t the purpose, but no way to avoid it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You look tired. So do the troops.”
“A bit, sir. It was tough out there. But we’ve had three weeks to rest up, and it’s getting time to go back into the line. But first—With your permission, we’ll have ‘dining in’ at the mess tonight. Not often we have our Battalion Commander with us.”
“‘Fraid it will have to be ‘dining out,'” Lysander said. “Owensford and some of the staff will get in shortly. Please see they’re invited—Who’s mess president?”
“Captain Hooker, sir. Preston Hooker. Demartus Phraetrie.”
“Ah. Platoon commander in heavy weapons support.”
“Company commander now. Yes, sir.”
“Lots of new faces,” Lysander said. “I don’t get here often enough. I know I’m only nominal commander but dammit, I ought to know my officers, all of them in this regiment anyway!” He grinned. “Yes, I said regiment. First Royal Cavalry, Prince Royal’s Own. You’ll get the official word soon enough, along with a promotion.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Not much of a surprise, the way we’ve been adding to your duties, but I thought I should bring The Word myself.” He looked around the compound. “Yep. New faces, now, more coming. I’ve got my work cut out learning them all. I knew all of Falkenberg’s people when we had them showing us how. Things working all right without them?”
“Yes, sir. We miss their technical skills sometimes, but this is a Spartan regiment now.”
Lysander nodded, pleased at the pride in Bennington’s voice. “Right. Sparta needs—our own people. Now show me around. Only you’ll have to indicate where we’re headed, else Harv will have kittens.”
Bennington led the way to the edge of the raw-earth berm. They looked out over the rolling lands below. The 1st Mechanized Battalion, 1st Royal Spartan Infantry, was encamped on three hilltops near the working parties they were helping to guard. The hill camps were leaguered behind earth berms thrown up by ‘dozer blade. The troops were in undress uniforms, weapons stacked, a few doing useful things, but most seemed to be just enjoying the mild weather. They were a hundred kilometers inland and north of the Aegean, but the gentle hand of the sea lay across the rolling volcanic hills. This district was warm enough that there were palms in some of the sheltered swales along the Aegean coast.
“Good land,” Lysander said.
“Sir.” Bennington grinned. “Like most of Sparta. Hasn’t quite made up its mind what to be.”
“Grassland, I think,” Lysander said. He used his binoculars to scan the terrain around them. A few trees, some scrub brush. An occasional live-oak. “Grass. I bet you get some spectacular fires come summer.”
“Yes, sir, that we do.”
Long rolling hills faded into haze on the distant horizon of a planet larger than Earth. The pale three-quarter sphere of Cytheria sat on the edge of the world. Something moved out at the edge of what he could see. Antelope, he thought, running free in the knee-high mutant kikuyugrass on the hilltops. Bluegrass in the rocky areas, higher growths on the slopes and flats, feathery pampas grass, sloughgrass and big bluestem taller than a man’s head. Everything was vivid green from the cool-season rains, starred and woven with cosmos and crimson meadow rose. The scent was as heady as chilled white wine.
“God, I love this planet.”
“Yes, sir. Wish everyone did,” Jamie answered grimly. “The Prince Royals have been taking it on the chin. We needed the rest. Thanks for getting us this assignment.”
Lysander nodded. A rest from the brutal late-winter campaign in the northwest, trying to stop raids out of the Dales. A war of ambushes and burnt-out ranches and endless cold and mud and low-level fear, seasoned with continuous frustration and spiked with moments of raw terror. Always wondering if the next step would be onto a mine, if that clump of trees held a sniper. Too many recruits and never enough time to teach, as the Royal Army doubled and redoubled and units were mined for cadre; newcomers making stupid newbie mistakes, rushing in straight lines towards a noise, showing lights, walking against the skyline. Getting drunk alone in an Olynthos cathouse and ending up knifed in an alley, for that matter.
“The problem is, the rest gives people time to think,” Jamie said. “Everyone was feeling fairly good after the Dales campaign; we’d whipped their butts. The men were walking tall. Then we landed on a greased slope and spent the whole winter running as fast as we could to stay in one place.”
Lysander ran a hand through his short brown hair. “Don’t I know it, Jamie,” he said. “Look, that’s one reason I came out here to talk to you. We’ve got to start thinking beyond the next year; beyond settling this war, come to that. We both know the Helots wouldn’t last six months without outside help. Hell, without the CoDo shoveling their human refuse on our heads, there wouldn’t be any Helots.”
“True enough,” Jamie Bennington said, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Meaning?”
“Meaning we’re in this mess because we’re helpless. Not just against Earth. Whitlock says the CoDominium won’t last five years. Without the Fleet—”
“Yes, sir,” Bennington said. “That gets discussed in the mess of a night. Friedland’s friendly enough now, but—”
“Or Meiji. Look at what’s happening to Thurstone and Diego, and that’s with the CoDominium still trying to keep order. Without it there’ll be no order at all out here any more.”
“And so, Lysander my Brother, you are saying that we should not plan on soft garrison life after we kill off the Helots.”
“More than that.”
“More than that,” Bennington mused. “More than that, my Prince. So. You will want more than just the Spartan Legion ready for expeditionary duty. And we are chosen?”
“I’ve thought of it. What will the men think? Will they follow orders?”
“Depends on who gives the orders,” Bennington said. “They’ll follow their Prince. Just about anywhere, after the Dales.”
They went back toward the orderly room. Inside were the duty sergeant and two corporals. The sergeant jumped to his feet. “Sir. I’ll inform the officer of the day that you’re here.”
Before he could do that, a corporal came in from the next room. “Sergeant, urgent message from—” He stopped when he saw Lysander and Bennington.
“Carry on,” Bennington said.
“Sir. Urgent signal, sir. Message through the Rural Emergency Network from the Halleck ranch at Three Hills. Oldest son and three hands missing. Suspicious tracks. The local constabulary requests assistance.”
“Right,” Bennington said. “Sergeant, alert the ready team—”
“Halleck?” Lysander asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Damn,” Lysander said. “Would that be Aaron Halleck’s place?”
“Sergeant?” Bennington asked.
The duty sergeant typed at a console. “Says here Roger Halleck, let’s see, Roger Halleck, Divine Twins Phraetrie, son of Senator Aaron Halleck, sir.”
“That’s torn it,” Lysander said. “Senator Halleck’s grandson missing. Major, I’d count it a favor if you sent the best you have on this one.”
“Right.” Bennington conferred with his duty master sergeant. “Who’ve we got?”
“Sir, the ready platoon is Lieutenant Hartunian’s scouts. About as good as we have for this sort of thing.”
“Get them moving,” Bennington said.
“Sir.” The sergeant turned to his console.
“What’s the situation out there?” Lysander asked.
Bennington activated the map wall. “We’re pretty sure there aren’t any big gangs operating around here—they’d love to get at the road to Colchis before we finish it, but there’s no cover south of the Drakons.” He waved toward the mountain chain to the north and west. “Snow up there. Hard to get through without leaving tracks. But there’s canyon country over here. Anything could hide in those caves.”