The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” I said.

It was Sergeant Major Ogilvie. There were some others in the hall. “Yes, Sergeant Major?”

“If we could have a word with the lieutenant. We have a problem, sir.”

“Come in.”

Ogilvie came inside. When his huge shoulders were out of the doorway, I saw Monitor Lazar and Kathryn Malcolm behind him. They all came in, and Kathryn stood nervously, her hands twisted together. “It’s all my fault,” she said.

Ogilvie ignored her. “Sir, I have to report that Monitor Lazar has removed certain orders from the battalion files without authorization.”

“Why tell me?” I asked. “He’s Captain Falkenberg’s orderly.”

“Sir, if you’ll look at the papers. He showed them to this civilian. If you say we should report it to the captain, we’ll have to.” Ogilvie’s voice was carefully controlled. He handed me a bound stack of papers.

They were orders from Colonel Harrington to Falkenberg as commander of the 501st, and they were dated the first day we’d arrived on Arrarat. I’d never seen them myself. No reason I should, unless Falkenberg were killed and I had to take over as his deputy.

Lazar stood at rigid attention. He wasn’t looking at me, but seemed fascinated with a spot on the wall above me.

“You say Miss Malcolm has read these, Sergeant Major?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then it will do no harm if I read them, I suppose.” I opened the order book. The first pages were general orders commanding Falkenberg to organize the 501st. There was more, about procedures for liaison with Major Lorca and the Garrison supply depot. I’d seen copies of all those. “Why the devil did you think Miss Malcolm would be interested in this stuff, Lazar?” I asked.

“Not that, sir,” Ogilvie said. “Next page.”

I thumbed through the book again. There it was.

Captain John Christian Falkenberg, Commanding Officer,

501st Provisional Battalion of Line Marines:

These orders are written confirmation of verbal orders issued in conference with above-named officer.

2. The 501st Bn. is ordered to occupy Fort Beersheba at earliest possible moment consistent with safety of the command and at the discretion of Bn. C.O.

Immediate airborne assault on Fort Beersheba is authorized, provided that assault risks no more than 10% of effective strength of 501st Bn.

Any assault on Fort Beersheba in advance of main body of 501st Bn. shall be commanded by officer other than CO 501st Bn., and request of Captain Falkenberg to accompany assault and return to Bn. after Fort Beersheba is taken is expressly denied.

note: It is the considered judgment of undersigned that officers assigned to 501st would not be competent to organize Bn. and accomplish main objective of pacification of Jordan Valley without supervision of experienced officer. It is further considered judgment of undersigned that secondary objective of early capture of Fort Beersheba does not justify endangering main mission of occupation of Jordan Valley. Captain Falkenberg is therefore ordered to refrain from exposing himself to combat risks until such time as primary mission is assured.

By Order of Planetary Military Commander

Nicholas Harrington, Colonel

CoDominium Marines

“Lazar, I take it you were listening to our conversation earlier,” I said.

“No way to avoid it, sir. The lady was shouting.” Lazar’s expression didn’t change.

I turned the book over and over in my hands. “Sergeant Major.”

“Sir.”

“I’m finished with this order book. Would you please see that it’s returned to the battalion safe? Also, I think I forgot to log it out. You may do as you see fit about that.”

“Sir.”

“Thank you. You and Lazar may go now. I see no reason why the captain should be disturbed because I wanted a look at the order book.”

“Yes, sir. Let’s go, Monitor.” Ogilvie started to say something else, but he stopped himself. They left, closing the door behind them.

“That was nice of you,” Kathryn said.

“About all I could do,” I said. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you. I feel like a fool—”

“You’re not the only one. I was just thinking the same thing, and for about the same reasons, when Ogilvie knocked. Won’t you sit down? I suppose we should open the door.”

“Don’t be silly.” She pulled a chair up to the big table. She was wearing a long plaid skirt, like a very long kilt, with a shiny blouse of some local fabric, and a wool jacket that didn’t close at the front. Her hair was long, brown with red in it, but I thought it might be a wig. A damned pretty girl, I thought. But there was that haunted look in her eyes, and her hands were scarred, tiny scars that showed regeneration therapy by unskilled surgeons.

“I think Irina said you’re a farmer. You don’t look like a farmer.”

She didn’t smile. “I own a farm . . . or did. It’s been confiscated by the government—one of our governments.” Her voice was bitter. “The Mission Hills Protective Association. A gang of convicts. We used to fight them. My grandfather and my mother and my brother and my fiancé were all killed fighting them. Now we don’t do anything at all.”

“How many of these gangsters are there?”

She shrugged. “I guess the Protectionists have about four thousand. Something like that, anyway. Then there is the True Brotherhood. They have only a few hundred, maybe a thousand. No one really knows. They aren’t really very well organized.”

“Seems like they’d be no problem.”

“They wouldn’t be, if we could deal with them, but the Protective Association keeps our farmers disarmed and won’t let us go on commando against the Brotherhood. They’re afraid we’ll throw the Association out, as well. The Brotherhood isn’t anything real—they’re closer to savages than human beings—but we can’t do anything about them because the Association won’t let us.”

“And how many of you are there?”

“There are twenty thousand farmers in the Valley,” she said. “And don’t tell me we ought to be able to run both gangs off. I know we should be able to. But we tried it, and it didn’t work. Whenever they raided one of our places, we’d turn out to chase them down, but they’d run into the hills, where it would take weeks to find them. Then they’d wait until we came down to grow crops again, then come down and kill everyone who resisted them, families and all.”

“Is that what happened to your grandfather?”

“Yes. He’d been one of the Valley leaders. They weren’t really trying to loot his place; they just wanted to kill him. I tried to organize resistance after that, and then—” She looked at her hands. “They caught me. I guess I will have that drink, after all.”

“There’s only brandy, I’m afraid. Or coffee.”

“Brandy is all right.”

I got another glass and poured. Her hands didn’t shake as she lifted it.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” she said. “Everyone wants to know, but they’re afraid to ask.” She shuddered. “They don’t want to embarrass me. Embarrass!”

“Look, you don’t want to talk about—”

“I don’t want to, but I have to. Can you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Hal, there’s very little you can imagine that they didn’t do to me. The only reason I lived through it was that they wanted me to live. Afterward, they put me in a cage in the village square. As an example. A warning.”

“I’d have thought that would have the opposite effect.” I was trying to speak calmly, but inside I was boiling with hatred.

“No. I wish it had. It would have been worth it. Maybe—I don’t know. The second night I was there, two men who’d been neighbors killed one of their guards and got me out. The Protectionists shot thirty people the next day in reprisal.” She looked down at her hands. “My friends got me to a safe place. The doctor wasn’t very well trained, they tell me. He left scars. If they could see what I was like when I got to him, they wouldn’t say that.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t trust myself to say anything. I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her, not anything else, just hold her and protect her. And I wanted to get my hands on the people who’d done this, and on anyone who could have stopped it and didn’t. My God, what are soldiers for, if not to put a stop to things like that? But all I could do was pour her another drink. I tried to keep my voice calm. “What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. When Father Reedy finally let me leave his place, I went to Harmony. I guess I hoped I could get help. But . . . Hal, why won’t Governor Swale do something? Anything?”

“More a matter of why should he,” I said. “God, Kathryn, how can I say it? From his view, things are quiet. He can report that all’s well here. They don’t promote troublemakers in BuColonial, and Hugo Swale doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who wants to retire on Arrarat.” I drained my brandy glass. “Maybe I’m not being fair to him. Somehow I don’t even want to be.”