The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“I’ll try. Wish I had you here.”

“Use Andy. He’s better than me, almost as good as Jesus,” Catherine said. “OK, sir, I’ll get back to defense organization.”

“Yeah. How’s morale.”

“Not good, but how could it be?”

“Right. Tell them to hang on. Ciotti may want to carry out his orders, but he doesn’t want his bright and shiny regiment all bloodied either. I’m hoping that when he realizes he has a real fight he’ll reconsider.”

“Yes, sir. Well, I’d best get to work. Alana out.” Catherine didn’t sound as if she believed that Ciotti would reconsider, which was all right, because Owensford didn’t really believe it either.

* * *

The gates of the CoDominium compound swung open. Almost silently, two Suslov tanks flowed out, sensors scanning as their turrets swung the 135mm autocannon back and forth. The scouts had gone over the wall earlier; infantry followed the armor, deploying into open formations.

Lysander felt his palms sweat as he watched through the pickup from the lead tank. God I wish I was there. Like hell I do.

The plan was to keep the CD Marines in the urban areas, prevent their full deployment. Try to keep them from winning quickly. Every hour’s delay was another chance Lermontov would send countermanding orders. Or something. Hell, the horse may learn to sing.

The tanks moved forward. God, I’m glad I’m not there. Those were better machines than his men had, and crewed by soldiers everyone called the best in the human universe.

He had put the Spartan-made armor in the forward positions, holding the Legion’s handful of modern tanks and AFVs back to contain penetrations. The first of the Marine tanks was nosing down the avenue leading south, with a screening force of infantry fanned out ahead, shadowy figures darting from one piece of cover to the next.

“Now,” he said.

The pickup monitor shuddered, and buried blast charges dropped the fronts of the buildings on either side into the street. A barrier of rubble slid down across the pavement in a cloud of dust and brick that billowed out to obscure the nightvision scope’s view. Overhead the freight-train rumble of artillery passed, and seconds later the lead element of the 77th Marines fell under the hammer of airburst shells. Automatic weapons opened up, streams of tracer from well-covered positions further down the street killing or pinning the Marine foot soldiers. The first Suslov accelerated, rising up over the rubble that blocked the street.

The monitor shuddered again, this time as the 76mm gun of the Cataphract opened up, hammering five shells into the thinner belly armor of the medium tank. The flashes were bright; the heavier vehicle slewed around and halted. An instant later it exploded, a muffled whump sound and belches of yellow-orange flame through slits and hatches.

“Got him, got him!” the Cataphract’s commander was saying. “We got—” The pickup went blank.

“Switch to secondary,” Lysander said.

“Captain Porter here.”

“Collins here.”

“Highness, the rebels are making their move concurrently with the Marine attack. Power’s down except for buildings with auxiliaries.” That meant the whole city was dark, no streetlights, probably no water. “City com lines are completely garbled. Heavy jamming on the air. Firing in the streets, and fires, from what sensors I have left. Seems to be centered in Minetown.”

Lysander nodded grimly. Every Field Force soldier and militiaman was needed to contain the Marines; so were the Milice. The unorganized reserve of the Brotherhoods would have to contain the Minetowners. That might be difficult; there were sixty thousand new chums in there, many of them hungry, and there had been no time to root out all the rebels.

“The third line will have to handle it,” he said. That’s all there is, he thought. Ordinary people.

Another light flashed. “Sir! Major Donald here. The Marines are—”

* * *

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Thomas McTiernan sucked in his gut and managed to fasten the armor; a decade as a tavern and restaurant keeper had left him a good deal heftier than he had been when he last wore the Brotherhood militia equipment. Behind him an open window looked out over a street dark except for the light of a three-quarter Cytheria and the ruddy glow of burning buildings a little further north; the low-rent district was ablaze from end to end. No fire sirens sounded, not since the rebel snipers slaughtered the first response of the amateur fire companies. He could see the flashes from shells exploding near the CoDo enclave, as well, and the staccato echoes of small-arms fire. Both were increasing, and even as he watched Marine artillery opened up from inside the enclave, firing south against the Royal guns dug in near Government House Square.

“Didn’t you hear the King?” he said, turning on her. Their bedroom was plain enough; there was a hologram of a serious-looking young man in Royal Army uniform. Another of a younger man; that one had the simple starburst of the Order of Thermopylae laid across it. “I’m going to help stop the rebels, the Marines, get the bastards who hurt Julio—”

Then he took in the hunting clothes on her stout body, the shotgun firmly clutched in her hands.

“Not without me, you aren’t, Thomas McTiernan,” she said. “And don’t say it. All the young, strong, fit ones are off with the Army, like Mike—” they both glanced toward the picture of their son in uniform “—and we’re what’s left.”

He stared at her in silence for a moment, then snorted. “Startin’ to remember why I married you, Maria,” he said.

The arms case was in the back of the bedroom closet. A Peltast rifle lay there, massive and ugly-handsome and shining with careful maintenance. He threw the bandoleer over his shoulder, then ducked his head through the carrying strap, grunting as he came erect. These mothers are heavy, he thought. One of his knees gave a warning twinge, legacy of an ancient soccer game. Hope I don’t have to sprint much.

His daughter was waiting at the head of the stairs, a gangling buck-toothed girl with a mop of carrot-colored hair, just turned thirteen and adding pimples to her mass of freckles. She was wearing the brown cotton-drill uniform of the Royal Spartan Scouts, complete with neckerchief, and carrying the scope-sighted .22 rifle they trained with. Her father opened his mouth, hesitated.

“Just keep your head down and don’t do anything damn-fool, understand?” he growled.

“Yes, Papa,” she said.

Damn sight more respectful than she usually is, he thought, working his mouth to moisten it. Christ, I wish was twenty again. A young man didn’t think he could die. A young man didn’t have responsibilities . . . A young man didn’t see his son after he’d thrown himself on a grenade in his own home.

They came out into the courtyard that was the patio of the family business, and a shadowy figure leaped back with a cry.

“Jesus, Thom!”

“Ah, Eddie,” McTiernan said, recognizing the neighbor who had the appliance-repair shop down at the corner. “Sorry.”

They walked out into the street. A crowd was gathering; he recognized most of them, but it was odd to see the same faces you passed the time of day with milling around with guns in their hands.

“Thom, we’re putting up a barricade at the end of the street. Mind if we use your van?”

He winced—that was three years scrimping and saving—then nodded and threw the man the keys.

“Hey, sprout, get your bike,” a younger voice said. “Mr. Kennedy says we gotta be couriers to the other parts of the neighborhood.”

His daughter gave him a brief kiss on the cheek and dashed away; Maria McTiernan came back out of the door, her shotgun slung muzzle-down along her back and two large hampers in her hand.

“Sandwiches,” she said, to his unspoken question. “They’ll need sandwiches at the barricade.”

“Eddie,” he said, struck with a thought. He hoisted the Peltast rifle up with the butt resting on one hip.

“Yeah?”

“Get me a couple of people, will you?” He pointed to the library at the end of the street with his free hand; it was a neo-Californian period piece, with a square four-story tower at one corner. “With someone to watch my back, I could do a lot of good from up there with this jackhammer.”

“Yeah! Hey, Forchsen, Mrs. Brust, c’mon over here!”

Somebody pedaled up, breathless, shouted in a voice just beginning to break.

“Hey, I’m from Jefferson Street! My Dad sent me to tell you the Minetowners are coming right up Paine Avenue, must be thousands of them, molotovs and guns and all, they’ve got some trucks covered with boilerplate, too. Coming through where the Marines blew down the buildings.”

A growl ran through the householders, mechanics, storekeepers, clerks. The crowd flowed toward the barricade, into firing positions in upper floors; McTiernan heard window-glass being hammered out with rifle butts as he lumbered wheezing toward the library, gasping thanks as Mrs. Brust the schoolteacher came up to take some of the weight off his shoulder. Her machinepistol clanked against him with every stride, to a mutter of “sorry, sorry.”