The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“This can’t last,” Peter said. “When Lermontov hears about this, he’ll rescind it.”

“And by then Sparta City may be a battlefield,” King David said. “I don’t even know how to send a message to Grand Admiral Lermontov. They seem to have blocked all our communications. Nothing acknowledges.”

“Is our satellite still working?” Peter asked.

“Interesting question,” Lysander said. He lifted the phone and spoke briefly, then set it down with a puzzled look “Yes. Which must mean something, but I’m damned if I can figure what.”

“Maybe Forrest will have a suggestion,” Peter Owensford said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to inform Commandant Campbell at Fort Plataia.”

“Interesting that you named it that,” Lysander said.

“Yes, sir.” Plataia was the site of a major Spartan victory over Persia, the place where Thermopylae was avenged, but it was also a city: an Athenian ally, under the protection of Athens. A faithful ally. And was destroyed when the Athenians refused to come to its aid. And how much of that story does Lysander know? “It seemed like a good idea at the time. If you’ll excuse me?”

* * *

“Sir, I have my orders,” Marco Ciotti said.

The colonel of the 77th CoDominium Marines was a weathered man in his forties, with a blue-jowled aquiline face and eyes black enough that the pupils disappeared in them. His skin was pale from time under a faint sun, and he looked comfortable enough under Spartan gravity. But not comfortable at all with this final conference in the Palace audience chamber overlooking Government House Square. He stood at the end of the Council Chamber, facing the kings and their advisors. “I’m not supposed to even talk to you while you’re employing CoDominium people in your armed services.” He indicated Admiral Forrest and Captain Nosov. “I’ll use my judgment on that, but I don’t have any choice about the Legion. Falkenberg’s Legion will disarm and surrender, and there aren’t any alternatives.”

David Freedman looked withering contempt at the CoDominium colonel. “You have no alternatives,” King David said. “When a stupid man is doing something he knows is wrong, he always claims it is his duty.”

“It may surprise you that I read Shaw too, King David,” Colonel Ciotti said. “But it doesn’t change my orders.”

“Highly irregular orders,” Alexander said.

Outside the window Sparta City lay at midsummer peace on a clear morning, a quiet humm of traffic no louder than the sound of birds in the parks below, drifting in with the scent of roses and warm dust. Unbelievable, Alexander thought. That all this can be shattered in a moment. As if to echo his thought, the double crack of a hypersonic transport coming in sounded. Not a commercial flight; all such had ended when the interdict was laid on. This would be the last of the transports bringing down the CoDominium’s troops. A full regiment, and the former CD people said a very good one.

Another transport snapped past, startlingly close. Two of the Brotherhood representatives, a banker and the owner of a chain of clothing stores, looked at each other with ashen faces. They stood with the other Phraetrie leaders, middle aged men, a few women. Serious people; it was a high honor on Sparta. Most of them had children up at the front, with the Royal Army or the mobilized Militia, and all of them had families and homes here in Sparta City.

“The orders are unusual. I grant you that,” Colonel Ciotti said, regretful firmness in his voice. “But I have no grounds for questioning their validity.”

“You don’t?” Lysander asked. “Sealed orders, in the name of the Vice Admiral but signed off by a Marine General, from a Sector Command HQ. All communications as well as commerce interdicted. Colonel, you know as well as we do that this is a political move by Grand Senator Bronson, and those orders will be rescinded the instant that Grand Admiral Lermontov hears of them.”

“I don’t know anything about politics,” Ciotti said.

“Don’t you, Marco?” Samuel Forrest asked gently. “Then you’ve forgotten a lot since the High Cathay campaign. You didn’t used to be anyone’s dupe.”

“My orders forbid me even to talk to you,” Ciotti said. “And I won’t.”

“This is a violation of the Treaty of Independence,” David said. “Interference in the Dual Monarch’s internal affairs.”

“That’s politics too,” Ciotti said. “And I won’t be involved in politics. Look, Your Majesties—Major Owensford—I didn’t ask to be sent here; my men and I were doing difficult work on Haven, and necessary work at that. I strongly suspect, hell, I know, we’re being used to pursue some Grand Senator’s private vendetta, and I’m pretty sure I could name the Senator. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to the Fleet. The way things are going, it may well be the last. But that’s all irrelevant. The 77th has a valid order, and as of 1800 hours, the troops of Falkenberg’s Legion will be in defiance of the CoDominium. If that happens, appropriate action will be taken. Please don’t make it worse than it has to be by trying to get in the 77th’s way, because anyone who does is going to die, and it’s as simple as that. Majesties, gentlemen, ladies, good day.” He rose, clicked heels and inclined his head to the monarchs, and left with his aides at his heels.

There was a moment of silence, then everyone tried to talk at once. Peter Owensford listened for a moment, then called, “Attention!” in a parade ground voice. The room fell silent for a moment.

“So. What does it mean?” Lysander demanded. He turned to Admiral Forrest. “What is happening?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense at all,” Forrest said. “They’ve cut off all communications with Karantov and Newell. I can’t even get through to Commodore Guildford! Some of this is pretty obvious. Nguyen’s motives are clear. He’s been in bed with the Bronson faction forever, and Bronson can be pretty generous. Immunity, pardon, or hell, a new identity and a lot of money on whatever planet he likes.”

“And what planet will want him after this?” King Alexander demanded.

“Majesty, there are places Bronson stands high,” Anatoly Nosov said. He shrugged. “And not so many places that would welcome Nguyen in any event, but this is not important. I agree with Admiral Forrest, problem is to understand why Ciotti does this. My guess is he thinks there will be no rescinding order from Lermontov.”

“But—” King Alexander’s eyes widened.

“I don’t think I’m going to like this, but please explain,” Lysander said.

“If Grand Admiral Lermontov is alive and still holds command, he will rescind that order. Ciotti knows this. Inference is obvious.”

“I agree,” Admiral Forrest said.

“You’re saying Lermontov is dead?” King David asked.

“Dead, or deposed, Majesty,” Nosov said. “I fear so.”

“Which raises other questions,” Forrest said. “Just what does Ciotti know, and how does he know it?” He shrugged. “But what’s important is, what will we do now?”

“What should we do?” David said simply. “Fight, or obey? Ordinarily the Kings are required to seek counsel on such matters. With the Ultimate Decree in effect I suppose we don’t have to, but perhaps it’s better.”

There were murmurs among the councilors and observers.

“Perhaps you have a choice,” Peter Owensford said. “We don’t. Once we’re disarmed we’re helpless, and while I doubt Ciotti would be party to our slaughter, he could sure as hell deliver us to someone who would be. If they can do something this raw, God knows there’s nothing they can’t do—or that Bronson won’t do.”

“So you’ll fight,” Alexander said. “The Legion will fight.”

“We’ll try. Our fighting strength is supporting Spartan operations at Base One and Stora. Ciotti knows that, and he’ll make it plenty tough for any of them to come home. What we’ve got left is retired troops, staff officers, some military police, the dependents, against a Line Marine regiment. Before we can get any strength transferred from the front, he’ll be at the gates of Fort Plataia demanding surrender. Once he has our base and our dependents, it’ll be easier to deal with the rest of us. He already has guards posted around the Fort. They’re not letting anyone leave, not without a fight anyway.” Owensford shrugged. “We can’t even run away. Not our people at the Fort, anyway. I suppose some of the field units could disband and hide out, but they’ll put a lot of pressure on you people to help them hunt us down, and nobody’s going to want to abandon our dependents to Ciotti anyway.”

“But what will happen?” someone asked.

For answer, Owensford pointed to the main screen. It showed Marine equipment rolling up from the shuttle docks to the CoDominium enclave; tank-transporters and personnel carriers, artillery, general cargo. The men marched behind, in battledress of synthileather over armor. The harsh male sound of their singing crashed back from the walls of the deserted streets: