The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“My people—the people of Sparta! Tonight we come here together to celebrate a great victory, a victory over oppression, over arrogant elitism. For half a year, we have campaigned together in the Constitutional referendum. Peacefully—”

—except for the riots and so forth—

“—we have gone from neighborhood to neighborhood, from town to town, explaining our just cause—the cause of democracy, of universal sufferage and human equality. Not once have we forbidden those who oppose us, those who have usurped the People’s power, from arguing against us. Tonight we see the results!”

It was a warm early-summer night, and the lights and crowd made it a hot one; he could feel the thin film of sweat on his face fighting with the makeup artist’s powder, and trickling down his flanks. Smell it as well. That did not bother him; it was a sign of honest labor, of the labor that had earned him this prize. He made a small motion with the fingers of his left hand, and behind him numbers sprang out across the simulacrum of his own face.

“Two thirds have voted yes to the great question of our day: Should all Spartans share equally in the sovereign franchise of citizenship as their inalienable right? The People have spoken! Let those who dare deny their voice and their right!”

Another roar, harder this time, with an undertone of guttural menace that bristled the hair along his spine.

“Fellow Spartans—fellow citizens—” another crashing bark of cheering “—our struggle has been long and difficult. I must confess,” and he lowered his eyes, “there was a time when I too, was heedless of the sufferings of the people—better than the corrupt clique around the self-appointed kings only because I was ignorant rather than callous.”

Another wash of sound, denial this time.

“Yes! But I went to the People, learned from the People—” he raised his face, letting humility slide into an expression of iron determination “—and together, we built the Movement. Only a few of us at first, but more and more as the years went by. The vanguard of the People, building their power brick by brick.”

He gripped the sides of the lectern, leaning forward and letting his voice go low and confidential. The sound-system here was excellent.

“The kings thought they could stop us with bribes and lies, by having the Milice and the RSMP break heads. Many of our brave comrades—” he shot one hand out towards the NCLF contingents, with their Party banners inscribed with the names of the martyrs “—have fallen. Yet not once have we answered their provocations in kind, despite the brutalities, the brutalities that have driven some poor souls into the hills. Helots in truth, ground down under the heel of militarism—and while we cannot condone their actions, we understand only too well their reasons.

“And that is how we’ll build the New Order—brick by brick, with discipline and patience. First, we’ll present the results of the people’s will to the kings. Then, whether they agree or not—because those same results show that ours is the rightful authority—we’ll hold elections for the Constitutional Convention, and there we, the People’s choice, will make a new Sparta, one that will produce something besides the endless taxes and war and poverty the kings and their flunkies have brought us. And then we’ll elect a government of the people!”

“DION THE LEADER! DION TO POWER! DION! DION! DION!”

This time he let it go on much longer, falling away raggedly into silence.

“But,” he said, then paused while the quiet built. “But. If the Royalist clique refuse to heed the people’s will then—if they try to turn the guns of the bandits and misguided youngsters they call the Royal Spartan Army on us—why, then—” His lean, slab-and-angle face contorted, and a fist crashed down on the podium. “They’ll feel the people’s anger!”

A chopping gesture cut short the answering howl. “I make not threats,” he continued blandly. “United, we’ll carry the people’s cause to victory. You have done a great deal, and there’s a great deal more to be done. Tonight, enjoy your well-earned victory.”

He drew himself up, and gave the Movement salute, fists clenched and wrists crossed over his head, then wheeled and walked briskly through the door beneath the huge overhead display screen.

“Congratulations, Leader!”

He waved to the crowd of NCLF functionaries; his bodyguards closed in around him, protecting from all but a few of the hands thrust forward. Croser walked slowly, grabbing the proferred hands and calling people by name, he made a point of knowing as many as could. Fragments reached him: best speech ever and, inspiring. It was that, he thought critically; a first-rate professional job of work, if he did say so himself. Oratory and organization were the basic skills of the revolutionist, and he had both.

There were only a few of the inner circle in the room where he sat to let the specialists sponge off the makeup. One of them was Murasaki, he thought—it was difficult to tell, with the Meijian—but most were section-heads and the analytical staff, going over the effect of the referendum campaign and the meeting tonight on public opinion.

“That should throw about one percent of the Citizen body to us,” the senior statistician was saying. “About two percent to the SCA. Unfortunately, it’ll also firm up most of the rest with this new Crown Loyalist Party.”

Croser scowled slightly, holding out his fingers for a cigarette before he stripped off the tunic and began to towel down his torso; his neck and shoulders were beginning to ache slightly with the leftover tension of his performance. The Loyalist-Pragmatist merger was not unforseen, but it was still a negative development. So was the tightening loyalty of many non-Citizens to the Royalist cause; loyalty to their Citizen employers, in many cases. Particularly out in the long-settled parts of the countryside, where it was becoming a serious embarassment to the Helots. Bad enough that most of the Lower Valley had either given the referendum a “no” answer, or boycotted the whole operation. Too many boycotted the election, and the Royals know that, know we faked it, but they aren’t saying anything. Why? But it didn’t matter. Numbers didn’t count. What counted was strength. And we’re gaining, and they’re losing, because we know we’re going to win.

* * *

Croser’s image faded from the television screen. Dr. Caldwell Whitlock stared at the set for a moment. “Man could charm the scales off a snake,” he said. He turned off the set and looked up at his visitor. “Drink? You look like you could use one.”

“I suppose,” Lysander said absently. “But it doesn’t do any good.”

“No, reckon not, and good thing you know that,” Whitlock said. “But this time I think no harm done. Bourbon all right?”

“Sure. Dr. Whitlock, we’ve got to do something about that man.”

“Well, yeah, you surely do,” Whitlock said. One section of the book case behind his desk was hinged. It swung out, books and all, to reveal a small cabinet. Whitlock poured two drinks, added water, and handed one across his desk. “Cheers. Yes, sir, your Highness, you surely do. So why don’t you?”

“What should we do?” Lysander asked.

“Turn him over to Jesus and Catherine Alana,” Whitlock said. “I doubt he knows everything, but he’ll sure know enough you could put a big dent in their operations.”

“Just arrest him? Question him with drugs, or worse? We can’t do that.”

“Well, you can do that,” Whitlock said. “Least for now you can. Give him more time and maybe you won’t be able to. But right now you can, and you’d save lives by doin’ it.” Whitlock sipped at his drink and looked over the top of the glass at Lysander. “For instance, I expect he approved that attack on your lady.”

Lysander looked as if Whitlock had struck him. “You believe that.”

“Surely do. Can’t believe that wasn’t approved at their highest levels. Tell you another thing. I hope you got real good people watchin’ that hospital. Real good, and a lot of ’em, ’cause they’re likely to try again.”

“Why? What did Melissa do to them?”

“She did plenty,” Whitlock said. He ran his stubby fingers through his mane of white hair. “Plenty. Designed those tanks for one. Snubbed Mr. Croser and that Skilly woman at a night club for another.”

“I didn’t know they’d met.”

“Happened when you were off-planet,” Whitlock said. “People tell me things maybe they don’t tell you. Story got back here you were on Tanith all set up with that hotel girl, Lady Melissa took to being squired around by the youngest Harriman boy. I guess I’m not surprised no one told you.”

“No, no one did—”

“Don’t reckon it mattered a lot either,” Whitlock said. “Far as I can see she was pretty careful ’bout where they went, public places, avoid scandal. Sensible lady, even when she’s madder’n hell at you. With good reason, too. ‘Course her whole point was that you’d find out, bit of irony there you never did. Anyway, one night they went to a charity thing, and Croser was there with that Skilly. He got drunk, started talking to her about you and what you’d be doing on Tanith. I don’t know what all was said, but it ended up she slapped Croser hard across the face and walked out. Looked for a minute like Croser was going to do something about that, but nothing came of it. But he sure didn’t like it, and neither did that Skilly.”