The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“Hartunian’s ready to roll, Major,” the sergeant said.

Benington eyed the map. “Lousy roads. Sergeant, tell the chief constable we’ll have troops there in about two hours.”

“No planes?” Lysander asked.

“Only have three,” Bennington said. “All down for maintenance. Try not to let it happen, but sometimes there’s no help for it. Sergeant, you’d best have them speed up the work on those ships—”

“Just did, sir. First plane operational in ninety minutes.”

“Right.”

“I can speed things up,” Lysander said. “Sergeant, have Lieutenant Hartunian load his men into my tiltrotor. You sending anything else?”

“Yes, I thought I’d send a troop of light armor,” Bennington said. “The exercise won’t do them any harm, and Hartunian may need help.”

“Whose?”

“‘B troop. Captain Reid.”

“Thank you. OK, mount them up and get them on the road. Mind if I tag along with Hartunian?”

“Is that wise, Highness?” Bennington asked.

“Given it’s the Hallecks, it might be,” Lysander said. “We won’t get in the way.” He went to the orderly room door. “Harv!”

“Prince!”

“Pick a squad of Life Guards and load up. Alert the pilot we’re moving out. We’re going hunting.”

Harv grinned wolfishly. “Yes, sir!”

* * *

Three Hills Ranch was typical of the Colchis Gap district, a fairly small operation. Not in area—the Hallecks had patented better than two thousand hectares—but in scale. Most of the rangeland the armored column passed through might never have known the hand of man. Except that the grass itself, the grazing herds of buffalo and impala, mustang and onanger and pronghorn, even the wild geese migrating north in sky-darkening flocks, were all of them a sign of man’s presence; Spartan evolution hadn’t produced much native life on land. Closer to the ranch headquarters they saw black-coated Angus cattle and shaggy brown beefalo under the guard of mounted vaqueros, and around the ranch house itself waving strips of contour-ploughed cropland. Not much, because there would be little market here; what cash-money this spread saw would be from herds driven down to the slaughterhouse in Colchis town on the coast, or wool hauled there by bullock wagons.

The Senator’s younger son, setting up on his own. And looking to make good as a farmer. There were new fields under cultivation, sprouts showing green against the raw-red soil. Beets and sunflowers and soyabeans, some cotton; powered vehicles on Sparta ran mostly on alcohol or vegetable oil, and the new road would provide a market. The ranch house was single-story and not particularly large, with whitewashed walls of rammed earth, roofed in home-made tile that supported a satellite dish. Half a dozen vaquero cottages nearby, and a bunkhouse; much like the rancher’s dwelling except for size. Outbuildings were scattered, sheds, barns, a set of windmill generators and a stock-dam fringed with willows. Modest but carefully cultivated flower beds and lawns and tall trees surrounded the houses to make an oasis in the huge rippling landscape.

Exactly what we’re trying to build here. Frontier people. The frontier of humanity, and the bastards won’t let us alone. It’s not Spartans who are destroying us.

A windsock marked a landing area near the house, an open pasture beyond a row of big gum-trees. Better than thirty people and two light armor vehicles awaited them there, which was quick work in a district as spread-out as this. Most were in militia cammo uniforms and body armor. A couple of the vaqueros were in their normal leathers, probably non-Citizens, but their rifles were as much a part of their working equipment as their clothes, and they looked just as determined as the rest. Off to one side a pack of hounds that looked to be more than slightly mixed with gray wolf lay in disciplined silence.

“Junior Lieutenant Cantor, 22nd Divine Twins Brotherhood Battalion,” a man introduced himself, as Lysander swung himself down from the tiltrotor. Nobody jumped distances like that in Sparta’s gravity. Except new chums, who wondered why they ripped tendons and sprained ankles. “Brother Halleck,” the militia officer went on, introducing the owner. Roger Halleck was a stocky rancher in his forties with gray in his shag-cut brown hair, a finger missing from one hand and a bulldog determination to his square face. A lot like the Senator, actually, Lysander thought.

“This is Lieutenant George Hartunian, Prince Royal’s Own,” Lysander said. “And Lieutenant Sanford Dunforth, Life Guards.”

“Highness—” Cantor began.

“And for the moment I’m Colonel Collins, First Royals Regimental Commander,” Lysander said. “No point in getting too formal, Citizens. Now what’s our situation?”

“My boy Demetrios was up north about six klicks, scoutin’ for a new watering dam. Had a handset, reported all well at sundown yesterday. Nothing this morning, so I sent my top hand out. Miguel?”

“Don Roger,” the vaquero said, nodding with dignified formality. “My Prince, I took young Saunders with me”—a big-boned blond youth, another of the vaqueros, shuffled his feet in acknowledgment—”to the stream where the camp was. We found a campfire still warm with unburied embers; this Don Halleck’s son would never do, he was well taught. Also we found this.”

He handed a small object to Lysander. A spent cartridge case, standard 10mm magnum caliber. He brought it to his nose. Recent. Sparta City Armory marks on the base, which meant little . . .

“See,” the vaquero said. “The firing pin imprint is a very little low and to the right of center? The young Don Demitrios’s gun, veridad. Also we find this, a thousand meters north.” A ring. Lysander’s brows rose.

“It’s his,” Halleck said “His grandmother left it to him.”

“Twenty horses, maybe more, came during the night from the south,” Miguel continued. “Before the rain, because the marks were almost washed out. Only in the mud by the stream we see them, you understand.” Lysander nodded. The grasses which had claimed this countryside so quickly after the terraforming package made a deep tough sod. “They paused, then went on with the young Don’s horses as well.”

Lysander started to speak, then stopped and turned to Lieutenant Hartunian.

George Hartunian straightened. “Not much doubt about what happened,” he said. “Lieutenant Cantor, what do we know of enemy activity in the area?”

“Sporadic. Largest group we’ve seen was a dozen, on horseback. This group may be twice that size, but they shouldn’t be any problem, no heavy weapons. Except—”

Except they’ve got the squire’s son as hostage, Lysander thought.

“Anyway,” Cantor said, “we had instructions to call on the regulars, and since I don’t have any experience with hostage situations—”

“Neither do I,” Hartunian said. He hesitated, clearly looking to Lysander for orders he wasn’t going to get. “A troop of scouts will be here in an hour,” Hartunian said. “Send them after us. I guess it’s time for the rest of us to move out.” He looked to the dogs. “Is that pack well trained?”

“They can follow a scent,” Halleck said. He looked at Hartunian and shrugged, a gesture that clearly said he didn’t believe that waiting for the regular troops had been worth the delay. “Colonel, the best thing will be for us to get on the trail, and you look with that tiltrotor. That way we just might find something.”

Lysander glanced up at the sky. “Three hours of daylight, maybe a bit more.” He projected a map onto the ground. “Dunforth, you’ll take the tiltrotor. Cover this area, but stay away from the canyons. I don’t have to tell you the whole purpose of this just could be to lure that plane into range of a missile.”

“Sir. Shouldn’t I stay with you?”

“No. Now get looking, and be careful. Keep Regiment up to date on your location.” Lysander looked to the available transportation. Two Cataphracts, and three von Alderheim 6×6 trucks. Little enough. “There’ll be a light armor cavalry column coming up before dark. Send it after us. And I’m ordering Regiment to send another cavalry troop.”

“Fuel,” Hartunian said.

“I’ll authorize air resupply,” Lysander said. Expensive. Damned expensive, but Senator Halleck’s always been one of the team, and by God we can take care of our own. “Now load up.”

“I’ll be going,” Halleck said quietly.

“And me.” A girl not more than twenty. Freckles, strawberry blond hair and furious blue eyes, in militia gear. “I trained those dogs, as much as Demetrios did, Dad. I ride and shoot as well as he does, and he’s my brother.”

Lysander raised his brows at the rancher. Unwillingly, he nodded. “Lydia is the best hunter on the place, next her brother. My family,” he added, nodding to two mutinous looking boys of about fourteen, “runs to twins. And no, Isagoras and Alexias, you’re not going.”

“Load up, then,” Lysander said. He waited until the Hallecks were in the trucks. “You go with her,” he told Middleton. “Hartunian will take the lead Cataphract. I’ll be in the other one until Reid’s troop catches up.”

Harv started to protest and thought better of it. “Yes, Prince.”