The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

Power Central. A peaceful, unmarked control booth, distance shots of humming machinery and workers attending it.

Perimeter. A light blinked on, and a militia major’s voice shouted: “Long live the Revolution!”

Karen Olafson recoiled as if it had bitten her.

“Turn it off,” Barton said. She looked at him blankly. “It’s in enemy hands, nothing but disinformation. Forget the damned thing.” He went to the Legion console and threw the big switch at the top. Lights winked. “I’m taking manual control of the defenses.” Of what Jenny’s crew managed to rig, anyway. God damn it, we needed another week. He pushed that thought aside. What he needed didn’t matter any more. It was what he had that counted.

First things first. Puzzle out just what did which. There was a crude map above the manual console. Right. Infiltrators attacking the power house. Activate the minefields, detonate on contact. North side first, that’s where the noise is. He threw the switch.

The response was instant. A dozen blasts, lights flared near the power house, along the whole north periphery. More explosions. Blasts all along the inner perimeter swath. Then more, in the park areas.

“What’s happening?” Karen Olafson demanded.

“Somebody was where he shouldn’t have been,” Ace said absently. “Some of those were secondary explosions. Think you can get that thing working again?”

“I can try. I’ll dump it and reboot from WORM.”

WORM. Write Once, Read Many, Barton remembered. Computers weren’t his specialty, but this was supposed to be a way to make sure nobody tampered with data because once it was burned into a glass disk it didn’t get written over.

“Security systems only. Now!” Her hands moved, with gathering speed. Blood trickled down her chin from a bitten lip. The screens went blank, flickered, came back up with nothing but a red = sign in a black circle, the Helot banner. Then they flickered again and stayed blank.

“Sir,” Klingstauffer said calmly. “I’m getting radio from all the militia units. They’re questioning withdrawal orders they’ve received, demanding confirmations. The Captain in charge of Perimeter 10 through 14 registers that he is withdrawing as ordered but under protest.”

“Give me a broadband override. In clear.”

“Sir.”

“Karen, turn that damn computer off. Never mind trying to restart it. Shut it down so it doesn’t send out anymore orders.”

“Right,” Karen said.

“Here’s your general channel, General. No problem with the direct wires, but they’re jamming hell out of radio.”

“Right. No harm trying.” Ace keyed the mike. “ALL UNITS, ALL UNITS, THIS IS GENERAL BARTON.” Calm, Ace, they won’t hear any better if you shout. Or will they—”Klingstauffer, send for some bull horns.” He keyed the mike again. “All units, you are on your own, I say again, all commanders, ignore any other instructions, take command of your units. Act as you think best under the circumstances. The central computer system is compromised, I say again the central computer is compromised. Look around you, react to what you see, and kill the sons of bitches. Relay these orders to any other units you can find.”

“Klingstauffer, get that message going on a continuous loop, general broadcast.”

“Sir.”

“And get runners going with bull horns to repeat it anywhere and anyhow they can.”

“Right.”

Barton went to the Legion direct line console. It was difficult to tell what he had there. Direct lines, but to where—He keyed one. Nothing. A second. “This is Barton, Command Central. What do I have?”

“Captain Trent, vehicle reserve. God damn, General, I’m glad to hear from you!”

“What’s your status?”

“We’re on foot, sir. Vehicles sabotaged, your man found out just in time, lost a truck and some troopers, it was real bad, real bad, but—”

“TRENT!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get hold of yourself. What’s your status?”

“Sir. Sir, I have two companies of dismounted infantry. Five percent casualties.”

“Right. Like it or not, Captain Trent, you have the only effective force I can communicate with. Captain, the mine’s under attack. The perimeter’s been penetrated at the north sector, possibly elsewhere. We have unreliable communications, and many of the militia have been given false orders by the central computer. Do you understand?”

“No, sir.”

“Good man. I’ll explain it. The central computer was briefly taken over by the enemy, Captain. God knows what it told your people to do. We have shut it down.”

“Oh—”

“Right. So the one thing we do know is, they’re inside the perimeter in the north sector, possibly stations 10 through 14 as well.”

“Yes, sir?”

“So you’ve got to do something about it. First thing, get the word to all unit commanders. Two items. Item one, the mine fields are active again. Chase the bastards into the mines. Item two, all unit commanders are on their own. Act as they think best. You got that?”

Captain Trent sounded scared, but he said, “Sir. Instruct all units, disregard previous orders, act on their own judgment. And the mine fields are active again.”

“That’s it, son. Now take a deep breath, think about what you’re going to do, and do it. You’ll be fine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are any Legion people there?”

“There’s a sergeant—”

“Get moving on your instructions, then put him on. And leave a communications squad to man this line at all times.”

“Sir.” Trent left the mike activated when he put it down. Ace Barton could hear him shouting orders in the background.

Scared as hell, but he’s making sense.

“Major Olafson, weak signal,” Klingstauffer said.

“Barton here. Olafson, the mine is under attack, the perimeter’s penetrated, north side for certain, possibly other areas. Your vehicles may have been sabotaged. Check for bombs. Then cancel your present mission and defend the mine. I say again, the mine’s under attack, your vehicles may have been sabotaged. Your instructions are to abandon your present position and return to defend the mine. Did you get all that?”

Hissing and buzzing. “— penetrated. —under attack—”

Nothing about checking vehicles. Damn. Ace repeated his instructions.

“Nothing,” Klingstauffer said.

“Did we get through?”

“God knows.”

“Repeat those orders, and pray.” Jesus, I could go broke buying candles and altar flowers.

The direct line squawked. “Sergeant Bielskis, sir.”

“What happened down there, Andy?”

“Turncoat, sabotaged the trucks. Blackbird smelled a rat. We’ve got him. Captain Trent’s scared but he’s steadying down.”

“What I needed to hear. Andy, about that traitor. Keep him. I want him alive, Andy. That’s really important.”

“Yes, sir. He’s scared, keeps talking about how they’ll kill his family, wife and little boy—”

“Name?”

“Edward L. Bishop. Wife is Mary Margaret Ryan Bishop. Son Patrick James Bishop, age 2 months.”

“Can you get his family into protective custody?”

“No, sir, they’re with the other noncombatants in the main bunker.”

“Best place for them. OK, Andy, you’re on your own. I got other problems.”

“Record this, sir. Bishop was recruited by one Leontin Sverdropov, a shop steward. I’d guess Sverdropov has biofeedback conditioning.”

“Got it. Have your MP’s pick him up if he can be found. Anything else, Andy?”

“No, sir. Blackbird and I’ll help get The Word out to the other units.”

“Do that. Command Central out.” Barton took a deep breath. “Olafson, any progress?”

“There’s some sort of viral bit floating around in the system RAM, every time I power down it drags in a trickle current and reboots from the infected config when we come back on line, instead of from the ROM backup.”

“Right. Turn it off. Just shut it down, then go through and fix it right. For now we’ll rely on manual and what the Legion installed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Klingstauffer, can you get Mace?”

“Stand by one. Here, sir.”

“Jamey, what’s your status?”

“I’ve just got to my command, sir. From what I can see, they didn’t expect the mine field to activate.” Mace’s words were punctuated by distant explosions. “They’ve got troops still out there in the mines, both rings.”

“Serve them bloody right,” Barton said. “Okay, Jamey, make me the best estimate of the situation you can and report back.”

“Roger.”

“Sir,” Klingstauffer said from the plotting table. “Incoming, multiples, bombardment rockets, heavy mortars too from the trajectories. Target zones follow.”

Lines swam over the plotting table, and red circles marked the impacts. Lot of those are empty space, he thought. Then: Of course. Air-sown mines. They’re trying to immobilize us. The sky howled outside, but the bop sounds of the bursting charges were not followed by the surf-roar of bomblets or the crunching detonations of HE warheads. Instead there was a multiple fluttering whirr, as the rockets split and scattered hundreds, thousands of butterfly mines. Over the blimp haven where the men of the Fifth were moving out, over the wrecked vehicles of the reaction force, around the perimeter garrisons, down the main streets.

“Incoming, bombardment rockets and mortars, multiple,” the sergeant said tonelessly.

“Rather a lot, isn’t it?” Barton said. He whistled softly. “Rather a lot indeed. Where’d they get it all? Like they’re going for broke. Klingstauffer, can you get me General Owensford?”