The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

Owensford started to rise. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Heads of armed forces? Plural?”

“Yes, sir. The summons includes the Helots . . . and they’re under CoDominium safe conduct. Any action against them for the duration of the conference period or twenty-four hours thereafter will be treated as an attack on the CoDominium.”

Peter looked down the table at the shocked faces as he tried to control his own. “Gentlemen, ladies,” he said formally. “I’m afraid we’ll have to adjourn.”

* * *

“Skilly will be back in a minute.”

Geoffrey Niles raised himself on one elbow to watch her go. There was a relaxed pleasure in the way the muscle clenched and relaxed in her buttocks as her hips swayed, shadowed in the dim light. Not at all what you’d expect in some ways, he thought. She was fastidious as a cat, when there was opportunity. One of the most frequent punishment drills for Helot recruits was for not washing; the offender was scrubbed down by their entire squad, using floor-brushes. . . .

The cave air was still chill, but he ignored that now, not pulling up the coverlet despite his nakedness; he had learned the trick of that, these last few months, of being indifferent to how you felt physically. Learning a good deal from Skilly, he thought with a sour grin, running over the last hour in his mind. Even exhausted, it stirred him. God, what a lay!

“Lot of fun, all around,” he murmured to himself. Which was odd again, considering that he was still working like a slave; no harder than she, of course. Less if anything . . . “But it’s rarely boring.”

The thought of England and the eternal petty round, traveling in to Amalgamated’s offices in the City, vacationing in the Alps or the family’s private island in the Caymans. . . . Brainless debs and endless bloody boredom. Now there was something chilling. Not that there was anything wrong with inherited wealth, except that it tempted you to waste yourself. You couldn’t really enjoy nothing but enjoyment, and once there were a certain number of credits in the account adding more was just numbers. Not many of the people he had known on Earth had anything approaching Skilly’s diamond-hard concentration and single-mindedness; they scattered themselves instead, a little bit of this and that. No way to accomplish anything.

Adventure isn’t the thing, he mused. He’d learned that, floating down the river holding onto the corpse of one of his men, after the Dales battle last year. Adventure was like happiness, not something you could set out to find; that way lay safaris and pointless risks that were simply bigger amusement-park rides. What really mattered was accomplishing something. Something big and worthwhile, and putting everything you had into it, that was what people like Grand-Uncle Bronson or Murasaki or Skilly did. Starting off with nothing and aiming to win a war and rule and reshape a planet; that was something worth spending your time on.

He yawned again. Well, Grand Uncle, maybe I’ll surprise you and find my own career on this little junket, he thought. He stirred uneasily at the thought of going home now; his Sandhurst classmates wouldn’t understand. . . . I had no choice! Not really, and then it was too late—

There was a notebook on Skilly’s side of the bed, one of hundreds she kept neatly shelved, a 20cm x 10cm black-bound volume. That was another surprising thing, the way she hated to waste time. If there was nothing else to do she’d whip out one of these and start writing, thoughts and observations and plans. . . . Idly, he flipped open the front cover.

Postwar #7, he read. There were plastic markers on the side, dividing it into sections: pers., polit., miltry., econo.

Personal first, he thought.

Freehand pencil sketches. Of himself, nude or in fanciful uniforms, or with Skilly. Are we really that acrobatic? Notes for insignia, flags. Floor-plans and elevations of houses and gardens. One picture of a ragged, big-eyed urchin, and it was several moments before he recognized a younger Skilly. A last series, showing him and Skilly and a baby; in a cradle, at her breast, playing with Niles. . . . Touched, he closed the notebook and set it down again. Maybe she fancies the dynastic connection. Marriage into the Bronson clan. Cadet branch, but still quite a step up from Belize. And what would Grand Uncle think? But it’s something to think about.

“Definitely,” he murmured, closing his eyes for a moment. In fact, it was an exciting thought. A dynasty, he mused. Not that Skilly had ever said anything directly against Croser, but . . . Most dynasties start with ruthless pirates, he reminded himself. Or lucky soldiers, or barbarian invaders. No reason they can’t become enlightened in time. Civilizations have been founded by enlightened barbarians . . . Could Skilly think that way? With a Bronson connection, could she be a satrap in a real social order? Would she accept that?

“Up again? Jeffi really be a mon of iron,” Skilly laughed, sliding back into the bed. Her feet were cold when she entangled them with his—they were nearly the same height—and so were her fingers as she trailed them down his chest and stomach.

“God, woman, you must be slipping something into my drinks,” he said in mock-horror.

“Lots of red meat and fresh air,” she said, kissing him and kneading. “But we spare you poor knees and elbows this time,” she went on, rising and straddling his hips. “SkiIly good to her Jeffi, hey?” she said, looking down at him heavy-lidded as she lowered onto him with taunting slowness. “Enjoy while you can, we in the field soon.”

“Soon? Ah!” He ran his hands up to her breasts.

“Hmmm. Mmmm, nice. We been spending de winter make life miserable for the kings, now they getting good and mad. We gots to make them spread out—” she grinned “—so they not get it together for a concentrated thrust.” Her hips gave a quick downward jerk. “Too many of us to stay pure guerrilla anymore, so.”

Niles laughed a little breathlessly. “You’re thinking strategy at a time like this?”

She leaned forward against his hands, locking her own on his shoulders. The mane of curled black hair fell over his face as they began to rock together, but he could see her teeth and eyes glint through.

“Skilly is always thinking, Jeffi,” she gasped. “Always.”

* * *

Skida Thibodeau slid herself a little to one side and picked up the notebook, sparing a fond glance for the man sleeping beside her and hooking up the coverlet to warm his feet. She pulled a pencil from the spine and licked the point as she flipped the book open.

Polit. The first section was a list of books on internal-security technique; she ran down them and added another note: secr pol.—own budget—labr cmps. profit—see R. Conquest, details.

Important to be thrifty. Also—Rival grps.—balance. But it would be easy to go too far. see Anat. der SS-Staat.

On to miltry. The first page of that carried an abbreviated star map centered on Sparta’s sun, with transit-times radiating out like the spokes of a wheel. Underneath it was a note: conscr. army—10/15 div., and a list of planets. She put a checkmark beside Thurstone, then stopped for a moment.

Them first, but who next? Haven? she asked herself; it was not nearly as close, but the shimmerstone trade was valuable. On the other hand, it was still CD, and pretty worthless otherwise. Not enough people to serve as a recruiting ground for further expansion. It did have a refueling point . . . The pencil moved: Haven poss. next.; CD goes; expl. beyond? Time enough to think about that when the Democratic Republic started building up its navy. Build or take. So much easier to take than build.

She slipped the pencil back into its holder and sank down on the bed, pulling up the blankets. Niles shifted closer in his sleep, and she smiled to herself as she yawned and prepared to drop off.

Life is good, she thought contentedly. A light began to flash beside the bedside communications unit; she frowned at it, then swung out of bed and belted on a robe. This better be important, she thought.

* * *

“Well, we know how it was done,” General Desjardins said. “Those fools in the SCA thought they could terrorize the CoDominium into stopping involuntary transportation. They smuggled a suicide bomber on the shuttle; through the Aegis station.” Most spaceships with cargo or passengers docked at the orbital transit-station, and boarded the surface shuttles there.

“Mingled with the transportees, and managed to get close enough to a coolant pump during reentry. They didn’t notice that there were CD officers on board the shuttle as well as eleven hundred convicts!”

Owensford nodded tautly. The Royalist party was sitting in one corner of what had once been the Officer’s Mess of the CoDominium Marine garrison; the dry, slightly musty air of the big dimly-lit room carried a faint ghost of banners, of raucous celebrations with bagpipers and Cossack dancers, a lingering sadness. The remaining staff of the enclave rattled around like peas in a very empty pod, and the junior officers who had brought the two parties here had been men in their forties . . . There, but for luck, go I, the mercenary thought with a shudder. Stranded here in a lost outpost of a dying empire. He glanced up at the group across the room, around a hastily-dusted table of their own; Dion Croser and his NCLF gang. Croser was talking with one of them, laughing and slapping the man on the shoulder.