The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

Karins paused and chuckled. “Course some of them will head for Millington’s bunch, too.”

They all laughed. No one worried about Millington’s Liberation Party. His madmen caused riots and kept the taxpayers afraid, and made a number of security arrangements highly popular. The Liberation Party gave the police some heads to crack, nice riots for Tri-V to keep the Citizens amused and the taxpayers happy.

“I think we can safely leave the details to Mr. Grant.” Karins grinned broadly.

“What will you do, John?” the President asked.

“Do you really want to know, Mr. President?” Moriarty interrupted. “I don’t.”

“Nor do I, but if I can condone it, I can at least find out what it is. What will you do, John?”

“Frame-up, I suppose. Get a plot going, then uncover it.”

“That?” Moriarty shook his head. “It’s got to be good. The people are beginning to wonder about all these plots.”

Grant nodded. “There will be evidence. Hard-core evidence. A secret arsenal of nuclear weapons.”‘

There was a gasp. Then Karins grinned widely again. “Oh, man, that’s tore it. Hidden nukes. Real ones, I suppose?”

“Of course.” Grant looked with distaste at the fat youth. What would be the point of fake nuclear weapons? But Karins lived in a world of deception, so much so that fake weapons might be appropriate in it.

“Better have lots of cops when you break that story,” Karins said. “People hear that, they’ll tear Bertram apart.”

True enough, Grant thought. It was a point he’d have to remember. Protection of those kids wouldn’t be easy. Not since one militant group atom-bombed Bakersfield, California, and a criminal syndicate tried to hold Seattle for a hundred million ransom. People no longer thought of private stocks of atomic weapons as something to laugh at.

“We won’t involve Mr. Bertram personally,” the President said grimly. “Not under any circumstances. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” John answered quickly. He hadn’t liked the idea either. “Just some of his top aides.” Grant stubbed out the cigarette. It, or something, had left a foul taste in his mouth. “I’ll have them end up with the CD for final custody. Sentenced to transportation. My brother can arrange it so they don’t have hard sentences.”

“Sure. They can be independent planters on Tanith if they’ll cooperate,” Karins said. “You can see they don’t suffer.”

Like hell, Grant thought. Life on Tanith was no joy under the best conditions.

“There’s one more thing,” the President said. “I understand Grand Senator Bronson wants something from the CD. Some officer was a little too efficient at uncovering the Bronson family deals, and they want him removed.” The President looked as if he’d tasted sour milk. “I hate this, John. I hate it, but we need Bronson’s support. Can you speak to your brother?”

“I already have,” Grant said. “It will be arranged.”

* * *

Grant left the meeting a few minutes later. The others could continue in endless discussion, but Grant saw no point to it. The action needed was clear, and the longer they waited the more time Bertram would have to assemble his supporters and harden his support. If something were to be done, it should be now.

Grant had found all his life that the wrong action taken decisively and in time was better than the right action taken later. After he reached the Pentagon he summoned his deputies and issued orders. It took no more than an hour to set the machinery in motion.

Grant’s colleagues always said he was rash, too quick to take action without examining the consequences. They also conceded that he was lucky. To Grant it wasn’t luck, and he did consider the consequences; but he anticipated events rather than reacted to crisis. He had known that Bertram’s support was growing alarmingly for weeks and had made contingency plans long before going to the conference with the President.

Now it was clear that action must be taken immediately. Within days there would be leaks from the conference. Nothing about the actions to be taken, but there would be rumors about the alarm and concern. A secretary would notice that Grant had come back to the Pentagon after dismissing his driver. Another would see that Karins chuckled more than usual when he left the Oval Office, or that two political enemies came out together and went off to have a drink. Another would hear talk about Bertram, and soon it would be all over Washington: the President was worried about Bertram’s popularity.

Since the leaks were inevitable, he should act while this might work. Grant dismissed his aides with a sense of satisfaction. He had been ready, and the crisis would be over before it began. It was only after he was alone that he crossed the paneled room to the teak cabinet and poured a double Scotch.

* * *

The Maryland countryside slipped past far below as the Cadillac cruised on autopilot. A ribbon antenna ran almost to Grant’s house, and he watched the twilight scene with as much relaxation as he ever achieved lately. House lights blinked below, and a few surface cars ran along the roads. Behind him was the sprawling mass of Columbia Welfare Island where most of those displaced from Washington had gone. Now the inhabitants were third generation and had never known any other life.

He grimaced. Welfare Islands were lumps of concrete buildings and roof parks, containers for the seething resentment of useless lives kept placid by Government furnished supplies of Tanith hashpot and borloi and American cheap booze. A man born in one of those complexes could stay there all his life, and many did.

Grant tried to imagine what it would be like there, but he couldn’t. Reports from his agents gave an intellectual picture, but there was no way to identify with those people. He could not feel the hopelessness and dulled senses, burning hatreds, terrors, bitter pride of street gangs.

Karins knew, though. Karins had begun his life in a Welfare Island somewhere in the Midwest. Karins clawed his way through the schools to a scholarship and a ticket out forever. He’d resisted stimulants and dope and Tri-V. Was it worth it? Grant wondered. And of course there was another way out of Welfare, as a voluntary colonist; but so few took that route now. Once there had been a lot of them.

The speaker on the dash suddenly came to life cutting off Beethoven in mid bar.

“WARNING. YOU ARE APPROACHING A GUARDED AREA. UNAUTHORIZED CRAFT WILL BE DESTROYED WITHOUT FURTHER WARNING. IF YOU HAVE LEGITIMATE ERRANDS IN THIS RESTRICTED AREA, FOLLOW THE GUIDE BEAM TO THE POLICE CHECK STATION. THIS IS A FINAL WARNING.”

The Cadillac automatically turned off course to ride the beam down to State Police headquarters, and Grant cursed. He activated the mike and spoke softly. “This is John Grant of Peachem’s Bay. Something seems to be wrong with my transponder.”

There was a short pause, then a soft feminine voice came from the dash speaker. “We are very sorry, Mr. Grant. Your signal is correct. Our identification unit is out of order. Please proceed to your home.”

“Get that damned thing fixed before it shoots down a taxpayer,” Grant said. Ann Arundel County was a Unity stronghold. How long would that last after an accident like that? He took the manual controls and cut across country, ignoring regulations. They could only give him a ticket now that they knew who he was, and his banking computer would pay it without bothering to tell him of it.

It brought a grim smile to his face. Traffic regulations were broken, computers noted it and levied fines, other computers paid them, and no human ever became aware of them. It was only if there were enough tickets accumulated to bring a warning of license suspension that a taxpayer learned of the things—unless he liked checking his bank statements himself.

His home lay ahead, a big rambling early twentieth-century place on the cove. His yacht was anchored offshore, and it gave him a guilty twinge. She wasn’t neglected, but she was too much in the hands of paid crew, too long without attention from her owner.

Carver, the chauffeur, rushed out to help Grant down from the Cadillac. Hapwood was waiting in the big library with a glass of sherry. Prince Bismark, shivering in the presence of his god, put his Doberman head on Grant’s lap, ready to leap into the fire at command.

There was irony in the situation, Grant thought. At home he enjoyed the power of a feudal lord, but it was limited by how strongly the staff wanted to stay out of Welfare. But he only had to lift the Security phone in the corner, and his real power, completely invisible and limited only by what the President wanted to find out, would operate. Money gave him the visible power, heredity gave him the power over the dog; what gave him the real power of the Security phone?