The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“You are pleased to live on Sparta, then,” Boris Karantov said.

“Very. I don’t think anyone has ever appreciated us quite so much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your work,” Kathryn said. “You won’t be disturbed. Pleased to meet you, Captain Newell.”

Hal Slater led the visitors into his study. Karantov and Newell went into the room and stopped short at the sight of several others already there. Karantov bowed stiffly. “Your Highness. I expected to meet you, of course. But—Anatoly, Samuel, you I do not expect.”

“I’ll explain,” Hal Slater said. Russians never consider a meeting friendly if it doesn’t open with a drink. “But first, may I get you anything? I’ve let the servants go for the day, but we have just about anything you would like.”

“Cognac, perhaps,” Karantov said.

Hal opened a paneled cabinet and poured brandy from a crystal decanter into small glasses which he handed around to everyone. They all lifted them formally. “To Sparta,” Slater said.

Boris Karantov looked quizzically at Slater, but raised his glass and drained it. “Sparta, then.” After a moment Captain Newell did the same.

“Excellent cognac,” Karantov said. “Terran?”

“Yes, from the Crimea,” Hal said. To Russians, all brandy is cognac no matter where it comes from. “Do you care for more?”

“Not just at moment.”

“Please, be seated,” Slater said. “I believe everyone has met? We will have one more visitor—ah, I believe that’s him now.” Hal left, and came back a few moments later with Dr. Whitlock.

“Dr. Caldwell Whitlock. You’ll remember him as a political consultant to Colonel John Christian Falkenberg. Dr. Whitlock is now also in the employ of the Dual Monarchy. Dr. Whitlock, Colonel Boris Karantov, CoDominium Fleet Marines. Fleet Captain Clayton Newell, CoDominium Navy. Captain Anatoly Nosov, formerly of the CoDominium Navy, retired, now a Captain of the Royal Spartan Naval Reserve. Captain Samuel Forrest, also retired as a Captain of the CoDominium Navy, now Rear Admiral, Royal Spartan Naval Reserve. And of course you know Crown Prince Lysander. Caldwell, we just toasted Sparta’s health.”

“We’ll say I join you in the sentiment,” Whitlock said. “Highness.” Whitlock bowed slightly, and turned to the others. “Gentlemen, I’m proud to meet y’all.”

“Also in the employ of Sparta,” Karantov said. “May I ask, Doctor, to whom do you give primary loyalty?”

“There’s no cause to choose,” Whitlock said. “No conflicts.”

“None at all?” Karantov frowned. “Interesting.” The study was large and comfortable, lined with book cases. The furniture was leather, massive couches and chairs. Everyone found a seat. “Pleased you could all come,” Hal Slater said. “I hope no one will think I am rude if we plunge right in.”

“Please do,” Fleet Captain Newell said. “I confess I am intrigued to learn that two of my former shipmates are now officers of the Royal Spartan Navy. Matter of fact, I didn’t know Sparta had a navy.” If you listened closely you could still hear a bit of American New Englander accent in Newell’s careful speech. “Doubtless all will be explained.”

“I could have introduced them as Citizen Nosov and Citizen Sir Samuel Forrest,” Slater said carefully. “Citizenship was bestowed with their naval commissions, and His Majesty was pleased to confer the Order of the Golden Fleece on his new Admiral.”

“Ah,” Newell said. “And this offer—it is an offer, isn’t it?”

Lysander smiled slightly. “It is indeed, Fleet Captain. The Kings in Council have authorized extending Citizenship to CoDominium personnel willing to serve the Dual Monarchy. And honors, as deserved, of course.”

“I see,” Newell said.

“To be brief,” Dr. Whitlock said, “we can offer commissions, and generous pay to our Navy Reserve, leastwise to those who join up early, being as how we don’t have much Navy. Citizenship. Land. Damn good pensions, and a chance of honors, on retirement from the Spartan Navy.” He looked at Karantov. “We can use experienced Fleet Marines, too.”

“You have naval personnel but not ships,” Newell said carefully.

“Well, that’s right just at the moment,” Whitlock said. “But you know how things are back around Earth. That could change pretty fast. You never know what happens to ships when a fleet starts coming apart.”

“Or where Sergei Lermontov orders ships to go,” Karantov said. “I take it I am included in offer?”

“Well, yes,” Hal Slater said. “You’ll need a place to retire in a few years anyway, Boris. Your family is already here. You can retire from the CD any time you like, and take service with the Royal Spartan Navy. And if the CD stops your pension, we’ll pay it. In addition to your Spartan pay, of course.”

“Is this the deal you have, Samuel?” Newell asked.

“Yes.” Samuel Forrest was a big man, large enough that he must have had difficulty getting around in CD warships without bashing his head. “They guaranteed our CoDominium pensions. Did quite a bit better than that, actually. Certainly better than I expected.”

“What do you want from us, Samuel?”

“We like it here,” Forrest said. “The only thing wrong with Sparta is the war. Dr. Whitlock—”

“Well, everybody knows the war would end like that—” Dr. Whitlock snapped his fingers “—if the CoDominium fleet did its proper job of intercepting arms smuggling into Sparta. That and protecting our observation satellites. Give us our satellites and stop the enemy bringing in weapons, and we’ll finish the war right enough.”

“I see,” Newell said. He looked significantly to Karantov, then back to Lysander. “You do understand, Your Highness, that we are not in command here? Commodore Guilford does not want to be committed, to either side. He turns a blind eye to the smugglers. To his credit, he has not given Bronson’s people direct assistance.”

“Merely stops the rest of y’all from doing your jobs,” Whitlock said. “Well, thank the Deity for small favors even so. But gentlemen, not to rush you, but where the hell did you think of running to when the CoDominium breaks up?”

Karantov inhaled sharply. “You use strong words.”

“Situation calls fo’ strong words,” Whitlock said. “You got to be hearing the same things I am. So many factions in the Grand Senate nobody can get a coalition together. Budget crisis in the United States. Political crisis in Russia. Already had one mutiny in the fleet, ship’s crew didn’t want to be transferred.” Whitlock shrugged. “That’s what we know about. Now, here we got a good planet, stable government that wants y’all, wants y’all enough they’re willing to give you some land, pay good money, and guarantee your CoDominium pension to boot—I don’t need to tell you, if there ain’t no CoDominium there ain’t likely to be no CoDominium pensions. So you got all this you can look forward to.”

“And all you want is—”

“All we want,” Prince Lysander said softly, “is for you to do your duty. You have the reputation of men of honor, and you have done your duty to the CoDominium. Now—now you have a duty to civilization. Make no mistake, gentlemen. We’re going to win this war, and once we have won it, we will take measures to see we are never again dependent on anyone else for our protection. We will have a Navy.”

“And y’all can be part of building it,” Whitlock said. “You could start in any time. And of course if you retire here, it makes sense to keep this place as healthy as possible. It’s goin’ to be your home, so the sooner this war is over, the better for everybody—including you.”

“Da,” Karantov said. “But Highness will excuse me if I say we do not see you wish to win this war.” He shrugged.

“That can be remedied,” Lysander said. He stood, and the others scrambled to their feet although there was no need to. “If that is your objection, I think it will be met soon enough. Dr. Whitlock, you have full authority to negotiate for me,” Lysander said. He bowed slightly. “I’ll leave the specifics to Dr. Whitlock. But rest assured, rest assured, gentlemen, we do intend to win this war, and we will do whatever we must do. Whatever we must do. Good afternoon.”

“Our Prince has grown a very great deal,” Dr. Whitlock said softly after Lysander left the room. Everyone nodded.

“Negotiate,” Boris Karantov said.

Caldwell Whitlock smiled broadly. “Negotiate indeed.” He nodded to Slater, and Hal went to the bar and poured their glasses full of cognac again. Whitlock passed them out. “Now, what y’all want is homes, good land, good positions for your families. Education for your children and grandchildren. Let me point out, gentlemen, that one, two, maybe five percent of the developed land on Sparta belongs to rebels. Worth a whole lot. All that will come to the government when we win. We have land, honors, titles, a decent place to live. We need a navy.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to you.”

Karantov looked to Newell, then back to Whitlock. “Falkenberg makes no mistake in choosing you as his representative,” he said. “I have always thought to retire to raise horses, perhaps sail small boats on a suitable lake. What say you, Captain Newell? Lord Admiral Newell has a pleasant sound. As does Baron Karantov. To Sparta.”