The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“Yes, sir.” Is it that he doesn’t know, or he doesn’t want to know? Six companies don’t report. We know two went over to the enemy! Could it be all six? Six companies of Line Marines gone over to the enemy! Nothing like that has happened in thirty years. Of course they haven’t exactly gone over, but they’re helping the Spartans put down the Minetown rebellion, and a damned good thing, too. Surely Ciotti knows?

“The assault on Fort Plataia has been repulsed,” Ciotti said.

“Yes sir.”

“Have them regroup and wait for assistance. Sergeant Kramer, get me Captain Donovic on the Patton.”

“Yes, sir. Have to relay through the space station, sir.”

“That’s all right.”

“Yes, sir. It’ll be a minute.”

Scott Farley watched the map display, but his attention was on the colonel. He had a very good idea what Ciotti had in mind, and he didn’t like it.

“Here’s Captain Donovic, sir.”

“Ciotti here. Captain, I’m losing far too many men in this operation. I need your help. Please set up to bombard designated targets in the Government House and Fort Plataia areas.”

“You really think that’s necessary?” Donovic asked. “Guildford isn’t going to like it.”

“I see no point in telling Commodore Guildford until the battle is over,” Ciotti said. “I also see no point in continuing to take casualties from these people. They were given every opportunity for honorable surrender, but it is clear they intend to fight long after the result is inevitable. Why should I let our Marines be slaughtered in this senseless action?”

Senseless. It’s senseless, all right, Lt. Col. Farley thought. But not the way you think! God damn, God damn, damn—

“Colonel, I’m not sure this is wise,” Captain Donovic said.

“What is unwise is holding off any longer,” Ciotti said. “You know what is at stake here, and time is not on our side. Now please make ready for kinetic energy weapon bombardments. I will designate targets. It will not take long, and we will finish the resistance, at Fort Plataia and in the city itself. We can then proceed with our plans.”

“All right,” Donovic said. “I don’t like it, but I like failure even less, and as you say, time isn’t exactly our friend here. Sound general quarters. Battle stations. Prepare for planetary bombardment.” Alarm klaxons hooted in the background.

“Captain Donovic.”

The voice was strange. Everyone in the map table room looked up, startled.

“Who the hell is that?” Donovic demanded.

“This is Fleet Captain Samuel Newell. I am apparently the senior CoDominium officer present. Captain Donovic, I forbid you to use your ship to take part in this battle. You will please secure from general quarters and report to me in person. You will find me aboard Vera Cruz.”

“How the hell—” Ciotti said.

“You’re not the system commander,” Donovic said.

“No, I understand that Commodore Guildford is a guest aboard your ship, Captain Donovic,” Newell said. “I trust he is better pleased with that status than I was in my own offices on the space station. I have not heard you order your ship secured from general quarters, Captain, and I am waiting.”

“Be damned if I’ll take orders from you.”

“Very well,” Newell said. “Commander Taylor, sound general quarters. Battle stations. Divisions report when cleared for action.”

“Vera Cruz. A cruiser,” Donovic said. “This is a battle cruiser. You’re bluffing.”

“Am I? Taylor, general signal to the squadron. Continue previous deployment. Battle stations, prepare for fleet action against the battlecruiser Patton. All units to report when ready for action.”

“Volga on station and ready for action, sir!”

“Kirov, cleared for action, will be on station in five minutes, sir!”

“Newell, you’ve lost your mind! Are you going to fire on me? We need unity in the Fleet, not this!”

“Exactly, Captain Donovic,” Newell said. “And you’re going to achieve unity by bombarding an independent planet against the direct orders of the system commanders? Ever think that our families are down there on Sparta where you’ve helped start a God damned war?”

“Aegir sounding general quarters now. On station in twenty minutes.”

“You’re not Commander Clarkson!” Donovic shouted.

“No, sir, this is Lieutenant Commander Nielsen.”

“Where’s Clarkson?”

“He’s not available, sir,” Nielsen said. “Proceeding with general quarters, Captain Newell.”

“Thank you. Captain. Donovic, I am still waiting.”

There was a long pause. Then: “You know, there’s never been a fleet action like this, four smaller ships against a battle cruiser. I think we can take you, Newell.”

“Plus the space station. All units, prepare for general engagement.”

“But we’d be hurt pretty bad. And what the hell, we might not win. Robbie, secure from general quarters. Captain Newell, you’ll understand if I decline your invitation to join you aboard your ship, but I agree we’ll need to continue this conversation without so many eavesdroppers.

“Colonel Ciotti, I regret that your request for fire support has been overruled by the acting system commander. I fear you’re on your own. Good luck.”

The speakers went silent. Ciotti cursed quietly. “All right. We’ll have to do it on our own.” He looked at the map table. “Maybe we won’t have to take the Palace. It looks like the rebels are about to do that.”

* * *

“GO!” Group Leader Derex was screaming like a madman. “Go! Go! Go!”

The Helots streamed toward the palace steps. One unit dashed to the flagstaff to haul down the crowned mountain of the Dual Monarchy. Their leader had begun to unfasten the halyards when a group burst out of the palace.

An old man, and ten of the ceremonial Life Guards. They didn’t look ceremonial at all though, as they deployed on the huge steps, hiding behind Doric columns and the great lion statues.

Someone fired four times. The elderly leader of the Guards took another step forward, stumbled, and fell. For a moment there was a lull in the fighting. A woman burst out of the palace and ran to bend over him. She was still for a moment, then she stood.

“Spartans! They have killed the King! The Helots have killed the King!”

A moment of hushed silence; then a roar. From the palace, from the buildings around the square, from tunnels, seemingly from the sky itself, the cry was repeated. “Spartans! The Helots have killed the King!”

And another cry, wordless, an animal sound of rage. The Life Guards charged forward, firing coldly and efficiently and rapidly. They reached the party around the flagstaff, and the only Helots still standing were battered to the ground. One of the guards fell on the Helot soldier and beat him with his rifle butt.

And from the square came militia, wounded soldiers, old men and women, children barely old enough to seize weapons from the fallen. They came out and they came out to kill.

Derex watched his command dissolve, vanish, not so much beaten as destroyed. Men threw down their weapons to run, and that was no good either. The enemy was out now, out in the open, out where they could be killed, but they weren’t dying, it was his men who were being slaughtered, shot, stabbed, strangled, beaten to death with baseball bats. A woman sat on a Helot’s chest and pounded at his head with an iron frying pan.

Derex stood to rally the men, and a grenade landed nearby. He threw himself away from it, to the ground, but the world had turned to slow motion, he couldn’t fall fast enough, and the sound of the grenade was louder than anything he had ever heard in his life.

* * *

The screens panned down a street where outnumbered Spartan militia battled a Helot mob. The pickup was back far enough that it didn’t show all the details, but there were enough.

Farley looked at the others in the room, Colonel Ciotti, looking unhappier by the minute, like a man out on a limb with no way off it. Major Bannister, staring at the map table with tears in his eyes, unable to look at his colonel. Sergeant Major Immanual Kramer, who didn’t look much better. Lieutenant Beeson, who kept looking at the monitor screens as if he hoped they’d go away.

We’re on the wrong side, Farley thought. And I’m senior man except for the Colonel. I should do something. But— The cry came through the speaker system. “Spartans! They have killed the King!”

Ciotti looked up from the map. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Lt. Colonel Farley said. Something burst inside his head. “Sorry to hear that! Sorry to hear that!”

“Control yourself, Scott,” Ciotti said.

Scott Farley stood stiffly for a moment. He looked to the others in the room. They didn’t move. He put his hand to his pistol. Ciotti stared in disbelief, and still no one moved.

“Colonel,” Farley said. “We’re on the wrong side here.”

“How dare you—”

“I dare because I’m right,” Farley said. “And you know it, Colonel. I don’t know what was in those goddam coded messages, I don’t know what Bronson promised you, but Colonel, it couldn’t possibly be worth this!”