The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“Your comments are noted,” Karantov said. “Colonel Owensford, your request is reasonable and will be granted. Copies of the relevant portions of this hearing will be furnished to all registered military organizations.

“We now adjourn meeting until I and my officers can consider this matter. That will be all, gentlemen, ladies, Your Majesties. Stay for a moment if you would, Lieutenant Colonel Owensford.” The CD commander emphasized his role by using Owensford’s rank within Falkenberg’s Legion, a registered military organization. . . .

* * *

“Please be seated, Piotr Stefanovich.” Karantov touched a button to summon the steward. “Vodka and tonic, please. And you, Colonel?”

“Whiskey and water, thank you.” They raised their glasses.

“Spacebo, Colonel. And congratulations on your promotion.”

“Cheers, Colonel Karantov. May you not regret yours.” Owensford sighed. “You played that pretty hard-nosed, Boris,” he said. “On the Spartans, I mean.”

The older man shrugged. “No more than I must.” He looked to be certain that the recording cameras were turned off. “Of course, Piotr Stefanovich, it is clear that this is Armstrong’s Black Hand apparat, no connection to the Spartan government. But this I cannot say in public. No more can I say Grand Admiral wishes most earnestly that you put down this revolt quickly.” He paused, looking into his vodka and then snapping it back with a flick of his wrist. “No politics in the Fleet. Bah. Now is all politics.”

“Maybe it’s time for you to choose sides.”

“Sergei and I wish you victory; Grant too, but we Russians most of all,” the Russian CD officer continued softly. “This Croser, we Russians know his kind all too well; and the Thibodeau woman, yes. The True Believer, mad and brilliant, and the bandit killer follower . . . too many times has our suffering country seen the like of them.” He crossed himself in Orthodox fashion, right to left. “We must hope that sin does not lie so heavy on Sparta as it does on the poor rodina.”

“So why are you—”

“My friend, this is not the time. Some power remains, to the CoDominium, to the Senate. Enough to have me removed here if I give cause. Another time—”

“Another time may be too late.”

“I think not. Your war goes badly? Surely you do not lose.”

“Let’s say we’re not winning. Boris, the Fleet holds all the power out here.”

“Power? Power to destroy, perhaps. Not to build. Not yet.”

“Dammit, certainly enough power to intercept off-planet supplies to the rebels!”

“Yes, probably.”

“So why—”

“Commodore Guildford has Navy command here. He is typical of new Fleet officers,” Karantov said. “He chooses sides, not by principle, not by which is right side, but which side wins, which is how he is Commodore when sector like this would not rate more than Captain of Fleet.”

“And he thinks Bronson will win?”

“He thinks he does not know. He thinks that by doing nothing he will anger neither side, be able to deal with winner.” Boris Karantov shrugged. “Sometimes that tactic works.”

“It also ensures that whoever does win will have no use for you,” Peter said carefully.

“Agreed. Is this warning, Piotr Stefanovich? I tell you again, I do all I can. More and they will remove me.”

“More a warning to Guildford, I think. Dammit, Boris, a surveillance satellite would make a lot of difference!”

“I will speak with Captain of Fleet Newell. You will understand, Piotr Stefanovich, there is much sympathy for you in Fleet units here. Many have families here, many have retired here, many more think to retire here. Is not popular to watch this planet destroy itself.”

“We are not destroying ourselves. We are being destroyed. There is a difference.”

“We, Piotr?” the CD man asked ironically.

“Yes. It’s as much my fight as the Spartans. I’ve found something worth fighting for—dammit, it can be your fight too.”

“Da. I know.”

“Then for God’s sake help us.”

“I tell you again, it is not yet time.” Karantov reached into his attaché case, and pulled out a message cube. “The latest from our observers at New Washington; somewhat more recent than official channels.” A CD Fleet courier could take a direct route, through unsettled systems with no refueling stations, if there was need.

“In brief, Astoria has fallen to the Legion, and your Colonel is tearing up the Columbia Valley to meet the Friedlanders.” He smiled wanly. “A swift campaign, glory or defeat, and an honorable enemy. It seems like a vision of paradise, no?”

“So Falkenberg has won?”

“When this message was made, he was winning his war,” Karantov said. “He will hold the important parts of the planet. After that—” He shrugged. “Is politics, again.”

“Thank you for the message.”

“And is this. From Grand Admiral Sergei Mikaelovitch, news so secret that it cannot be sent except by word of mouth. The Grants have done all they can to make Bronson relinquish this feud. He will not.”

“What does he want?’

Karantov shook his head. “Some say he is mad. Me, I believe not. But whatever his plans, he is spending fortunes, and we dare not come to an open break with him. Not yet.”

“We can tie him to the murder. That was his Grand Nephew there with Thibodeau! I can’t think Adrian Bronson wants to be associated with atrocities.”

“Nor I. Your pictures will go to Sergei Mikaelovitch, and to Grand Senate. I can do no more than that.”

“It may be enough.”

“And it may not. My friend, Earth’s life hangs in this balance. Sergei Lermontov is no longer sure that we have one year, much less the ten we have all planned. Certainly we do not if things come to open fight with Bronson faction. My friend, we have done what we could!”

“It’s nice to know you tried,” Owensford said dryly.

Karantov snorted laughter. “Still ami, thinking the problem will yield to ‘can do,’ eh, my friend?”

“Boris, I’m beginning to doubt I can do bloody anything. This war . . .”

The other man nodded. “Some help I can be, perhaps. The Admiral sends you Fleet Intelligence report on Kenjiro Murasaki; we are certain now that he is mercenary Bronson has hired for Croser.”

“Bronson hired him directly?” Owensford said, balancing the message cube in his fingers and then slipping it into a pouch on his belt.

Karantov nodded. “Which may yet be cause of great regret to Croser. Be careful, Piotr Stefanovich, be very careful. The Meijians have some of best computer personnel in all settled worlds, and Special Tasks, Inc. hires only best of those. Murasaki is like ghost; rumored to be here, to be there, never proven. He commands highest fees, and his chosen field is the undermining of an opponent’s own weapons and personnel. I read from report. ‘Subtle to a fault. Treacherous as a snake, and bound by no soldier’s honor, not even as Meijians understand it. His only scruple is loyalty to his employer for the term of the contract.'” Karantov shrugged. “From this I suspect primary motivation is aesthetic—he is artist, artist of assassination and subversion and death.”

“That about describes the way things have been going,” Owensford said feelingly. “All right. It’s a war of attrition. The great thing is not to lose your nerve. But bloody Hell, I could still use an observation satellite.”

Karantov nodded, tapping his fingers against the table. “Request has been noted. Now. Grand Admiral also sends you help, twenty computer specialists recently retired from BuInt. Experts in counter viral work. This is, you understand, of most extreme secrecy.”

Owensford smiled. “Boris,” he said, “it’s also extremely welcome. We need them, our own people have enough to do with the Legion systems and a few here in the capital; it’s getting pretty bad out there.”

* * *

“Interesting,” the dark figure in the corner said. “Very interesting information. Not vital, of course.” Keys clicked as he scanned forward through the data. “Interesting. They have discovered our origins from Fleet Intelligence. Ah, they are sending technical specialists to help the Legion. Fascinating, and incriminating if my principal could use this before the Grand Senate, which of course he cannot. No access codes, I see.”

“Murasaki,” the Helot commander said. “Skilly did not appreciate that little surprise back with the CoDo.”

Geoffrey Niles took another drink from his canteen; water, unfortunately. I could use a drink right now, he thought. God, those pictures . . .

“Bloody right,” he rasped. “Our plausible deniability is running too sodding thin for comfort, Mr. Murasaki. If the Grand Senator has this pinned on him—and I’m pretty conspicuous—he’d lose half his influence in the Fleet, and every second merc on all the hundred planets would be taking potshots at his people and interests—”

“Jeffi,” Skilly said, without taking her eyes from the Meijian.

The meeting was taking place in a farmhouse northwest of Colchis; the Movement had financed the owner, decades ago. Land on the Eurotas was cheap, and mostly free once you were a day’s ride away from the river, but equipment was expensive. A few thousand Crowns had made the difference between peasant misery and modest comfort for the owner and his family, enough for ploughs, harrows, a satellite dish for the children’s education. In return couriers had a safe place to stop. . . . The sound and smell of cooking came up through the floorboards of the attic. It added an unreality to the meeting, Niles thought: death and conspiracy to the scent of fresh bread and a roast.