The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“Sir?” Midshipman Rolnikov spoke quietly and urgently. “Lieutenant, sir, should you drink so much?”

“Yes. I should,” Hartmann replied. “I thank you for your concern, Mister Rolnikov. But as you see, I am, at present, a passenger. The Service has no regulation against drinking. None at all, Mister Falkenberg. There is a strong prohibition against being unfit for one’s duties, but none against drinking. And I have no duties at the moment.” He raised his glass. “Save one. To speak to you, Mister Falkenberg, and to tell you the truth, so that you will either run from us or be damned with us for the rest of your life, for we never lie to our own.”

He fell silent for a moment, and Falkenberg wondered just how drunk Hartmann was. The officer seemed to be considering his words more carefully than his father ever had when he was drinking.

“What do you know of the history of the CoDominium Navy, Mister Falkenberg?” Hartmann demanded.

Probably more than you, John thought. Father’s lecture on the growth of the CoDominium was famous. “It began with détente. That collapsed, but was revived, and soon there was a web of formal treaties between the United States and the Soviet Union. The treaties did not end the basic enmity between these great powers, but their common interest was greater than their differences; for it was obviously better that there be only two great powers, than for there to be . . .” No. Hartmann did not want to hear Professor Falkenberg’s lecture. “Very little, sir.”

“We were created out of the French Foreign Legion,” Hartmann said. “A legion of strangers, to fight for an artificial alliance of nations that hate each other. How can a man give his soul and life to that, Mister Falkenberg? What heart has an alliance? What power to inspire men’s loyalty?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Nor do they.” Hartmann waved at the other middies, who were carefully leaning back in their seats, acting as if they were listening, as if they were not listening—John couldn’t tell. Perhaps they thought Hartmann was crazy drunk. Yet it had been a good question.

“I don’t know,” John repeated.

“Ah. But no one knows, for there is no answer. Men cannot die for an alliance. Yet we do fight. And we do die.”

“At the Senate’s orders,” Midshipman Rolnikov said quietly.

“But we do not love the Senate,” Hartmann said. “Do you love the Grand Senate, Mister Rolnikov? Do you, Mister Bates? We know what the Grand Senate is. Corrupt politicians who lie to each other, and who use us to gather wealth for themselves, power for their own factions. If they can. They do not use us as much as they once did. Drink, gentlemen. Drink.”

The whiskey had taken its effect, and John’s head buzzed. He felt sweat break out at his temples and in his armpits, and his stomach rebelled, but he lifted the glass and drank again, in unison with Rolnikov and Bates, and it was more meaningful than the Communion cup had ever been. He tried to ask himself why, but there was only emotion, no thought. He belonged here, with this man, with these men, and he was a man with them.

As if he had read John’s thoughts, Lieutenant Hartmann put his arms out, across the shoulders of the three boys, two on his left, John alone on his right, and he lowered his voice to speak to all of them. “No. We are here because the Fleet is our only fatherland, and our brothers in the Service are our only family. And if the Fleet should ever demand our lives, we give them as men because we have no other place to go.”

PART ONE: THE CODOMINIUM YEARS

I

Princeton, New Jersey, United States of America

The student lounge was noisy as usual. Students in bright tunics sipped coffee paid for by their taxpayer parents, and spoke of the Rights of Man and the Citizen. Others pretended to read while looking to see if anyone interesting had come in. In one corner three young men and a girl—she detested being called a ‘young lady’—sat playing bridge. They were typical students, children of taxpayers, well dressed in the latest fashions of subdued colors. Their teeth were straight, their complexions were good. Two of the boys wore contact lenses. The girl, in keeping with fashion, wore large brightly colored glasses with small jewels at the hinges. The remains of their afternoon snack probably contained as many calories as the average Citizen would have for the day.

“Three No Trump, made four. That’s game and rubber,” Donald Etheridge said. He scribbled for a moment on the score sheet. “Let’s see, I owe twenty-two fifty. Moishe, you owe eleven and a quarter. Richie gets nine bucks, and Bonnie wins the rest.”

“You always win,” Richard Larkin said accusingly.

Bonnie Dalrymple smiled. “Comes of clean living.”

“You?” Donald smirked.

“Don’t you just wish,” Richie said. He glanced at his watch. “Getting on for class time. Visiting lecturer today.”

Moishe Ellison frowned. “Who?”

“Chap named Falkenberg,” Larkin said. “Professor at the CD University in Rome. Going to lecture on problems of the CoDominium. Today it’s military leadership.”

“Oh, I know him,” Bonnie Dalrymple said.

“Is he interesting?” Moishe asked. “I’ve got a lot to do this afternoon.”

“He’s dense,” Bonnie said. She grinned at the blank looks. “Packs a lot into what he says. Makes every paragraph count. I think you better come listen.”

“What did you take from him?” Richard Larkin asked.

“Oh, I wasn’t old enough to take his classes. Actually, I didn’t know Professor Falkenberg very well, I used to be friends with his son. John Christian Falkenberg the Third. It was when Daddy was stationed at the Embassy in Rome. Johnny Falkenberg and I wandered all over the city. He knew everything about it, it was really fun. The Capitoline Hill, with the statues, and up there is the Tarpeian Rock where they threw traitors off—it’s not so high, really. And we’d go to the Via Flaminia. We used to tramp down that and Johnny sang this old Roman marching song. ‘When you go by the Via Flaminia, by the Legion’s road from Rome—'”

“Fun date.”

“Wasn’t really dating. He was about fourteen and I was twelve, we were just kids out playing around. But we had fun, really. I guess I was studious, then.”

“Heh. You still are. You aced me in that last test,” Moishe Ellison said.

“Well, if you’d work more instead of running around with that girl—”

Ellison winked, and the others laughed. They got up and walked together toward the lecture hall. The smog was bad outside, but it always was, so they didn’t notice. “So how do you know about old man Falkenberg’s lectures?”

Bonnie laughed. “Johnny used to take me to his house. Usually there wasn’t anyone there but this old black housekeeper, but sometimes the Professor would come home early, and when he did, he’d ask where we’d been. Then he’d tell us all about it. All about it, wherever we’d been.”

“Oh.”

“Actually, it was interesting. Rome was nice then, there were a lot of old buildings I guess they’ve let fall down now, and the Professor knew about all of them. But he wasn’t as interesting as when Johnny told me—I guess I had quite a crush on him.” Bonnie laughed.

“That’s what’s wrong with her,” Richie said. “She’s never got over her youthful affair with—what was his name?”

“John Christian Falkenberg, the Fourth.” Moishe Ellison let the name roll off his tongue.

“Third,” Bonnie said. “And maybe you’re right.”

They reached Smith Hall and went up the marble stairs to the lecture theatre.

* * *

Professor Falkenberg was tall and thin, with a surprisingly deep voice that carried authority. Hasn’t changed a bit, Bonnie thought. He could read the phone book and make it sound important.

Falkenberg nodded to the students. “Good afternoon. I am pleased to see that there are still a few students in the United States who are interested in history.

“I wish to examine the origins of the CoDominium. To do that, we will have to look at just what happened to the United States and the Soviet Union whose uneasy alliance has produced our modern world. Friends in the Second World War, enemies in the Cold War—how did it happen that these two divided the world between them?

“There are many aspects to this problem. One is the decline of military power in both nations. That in itself has many facets.

“Today we will discuss military leadership, both as a general case and in the specifics of the powers at the time of interest. I begin with a few brief paragraphs by Joseph Maxwell Cameron, a writer of the last century, who said, in his Anatomy of Military Merit:”

Professor Falkenberg opened his pocket computer and touched a key, then began to read.