The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“No. But you’ll find a way. And forget Hamner. His whole group is rotten. They’re not real Progressives, that’s all.” His voice was emphatic, and his eyes seemed to shine. Bradford lowered his voice and leaned forward. “Hamner used to be in the Freedom Party, you know. He claims to have broken with them over technology policies, but you can never trust a man like that.”

“I see. Fortunately, I don’t have to trust him.”

Bradford beamed. “Precisely. Now let’s get you started. You have a lot of work, and don’t forget now, you’ve already agreed to train some party troops for me.”

VII

The estate was large, nearly five kilometers on a side, located in low hills a day’s march from the city of Refuge. There was a central house and barns, all made of local wood that resembled oak. The buildings nestled in a wooded bowl in the center of the estate.

“You’re sure you won’t need anything more?” Lieutenant Banners asked.

“No, thank you,” Falkenberg said. “The few men we have with us carry their own gear. We’ll have to arrange for food and fuel when the others come, but for now we’ll make do.”

“All right, sir,” Banners said. “I’ll go back with Mowrer and leave you the car, then. And you’ve the animals. . . .”

“Yes. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Banners saluted and got into the car. He started to say something else, but Falkenberg had turned away and Banners drove off the estate.

Calvin watched him leave. “That’s a curious one,” he said. “Reckon he’d like to know more about what we’re doing.”

Falkenberg’s lips twitched into a thin smile. “I expect he would at that. You will see to it that he learns no more than we want him to.”

“Aye aye, sir. Colonel, what was that Mr. Bradford was saying about Party troopers? We going to have many of them?”

“I think so.” Falkenberg walked up the wide lawn toward the big ranch house. Captain Fast and several of the others were waiting on the porch, and there was a bottle of whiskey on the table.

Falkenberg poured a drink and tossed it off. “I think we’ll have quite a few Progressive Party loyalists here once we start, Calvin. I’m not looking forward to it, but they were inevitable.”

“Sir?” Captain Fast had been listening quietly.

Falkenberg gave him a half-smile. “Do you really think the governing authorities are going to hand over a monopoly of military force to us?”

“You think they don’t trust us.”

“Amos, would you trust us?”

“No sir,” Captain Fast said. “But we could hope.”

“We will not accomplish our mission on hope, Captain. Sergeant Major.”

“Sir.”

“I have an errand for you later this evening. For the moment, find someone to take me to my quarters and then see about our dinner.”

“Sir.”

* * *

Falkenberg woke to a soft rapping on the door of his room. He opened his eyes and put his hand on the pistol under his pillow, but made no other movement.

The rap came again. “Yes,” Falkenberg called softly.

“I’m back, Colonel,” Calvin answered.

“Right. Come in.” Falkenberg swung his feet out of his bunk and pulled on his boots. He was fully dressed otherwise.

Sergeant Major Calvin came in. He was dressed in the light synthetic leather tunic and trousers of the CD Marine battledress. The total black of a night combat coverall protruded from the war bag slung over his shoulder. He wore a pistol on his belt and a heavy trench knife was slung in a holster on his left breast.

A short wiry man with a thin brown mustache came in with Calvin.

“Glad to see you,” Falkenberg said. “Have any trouble?”

“Gang of toughs tried to stir up something as we was coming through the city, Colonel,” Calvin replied. He grinned wolfishly. “Didn’t last long enough to set any records.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“None that couldn’t walk away.”

“Good. Any problem at the relocation barracks?”

“No, sir,” Calvin replied. “They don’t guard them places. Anybody wants to get away from BuRelock’s charity, they let ’em go. Without ration cards, of course. This was just involuntary colonists, not convicts.”

As he took Calvin’s report, Falkenberg was inspecting the man who had come in with him. Major Jeremy Savage looked tired and much older than his forty-five years. He was thinner than John remembered him.

“Bad as I’ve heard?” Falkenberg asked him.

“No picnic,” Savage replied in the clipped accents he’d learned when he grew up on Churchill. “Didn’t expect it to be. We’re here, John Christian.”

“Yes, and thank God. Nobody spotted you? The men behave all right?”

“Yes, sir. We were treated no differently from any other involuntary colonists. The men behaved splendidly, and a week or two of hard exercise should get us all back in shape. Sergeant Major tells me the battalion arrived intact.”

“Yes. They’re still at Marine barracks. That’s our weak link, Jeremy. I want them out here where we control who they talk to, and as soon as possible.”

“You’ve got the best ones. I think they’ll be all right.”

Falkenberg nodded. “But keep your eyes open, Jerry, and be careful with the men until the CD pulls out. I’ve hired Dr. Whitlock to check things for us. He hasn’t reported in yet, but I assume he’s on Hadley.”

Savage acknowledged Falkenberg’s wave and sat in the room’s single chair. He took a glass of whiskey from Calvin with a nod of thanks.

“Going all out hiring experts, eh? He’s said to be the best available. . . . My, that’s good. They don’t have anything to drink on those BuRelock ships.”

“When Whitlock reports in we’ll have a full staff meeting,” Falkenberg said. “Until then, stay with the plan. Bradford is supposed to send the battalion out tomorrow, and soon after that he’ll begin collecting volunteers from his party. We’re supposed to train them. Of course, they’ll all be loyal to Bradford. Not to the Party and certainly not to us.”

Savage nodded and held out the glass to Calvin for a refill.

“Now tell me a bit about those toughs you fought on the way here, Sergeant Major,” Falkenberg said.

“Street gang, Colonel. Not bad at individual fightin’, but no organization. Hardly no match for near a hundred of us.”

“Street gang.” John pulled his lower lip speculatively, then grinned. “How many of our battalion used to be punks just like them, Sergeant Major?”

“Half anyway, sir. Includin’ me.”

Falkenberg nodded. “I think it might be a good thing if the Marines got to meet some of those kids, Sergeant Major. Informally, you know.”

“Sir!” Calvin’s square face beamed with anticipation.

“Now,” Falkenberg continued. “Recruits will be our real problem. You can bet some of them will try to get chummy with the troops. They’ll want to pump the men about their backgrounds and outfits. And the men will drink, and when they drink they talk. How will you handle that, Top Soldier?”

Calvin looked thoughtful. “Won’t be no trick for a while. We’ll keep the recruits away from the men except drill instructors, and DIs don’t talk to recruits. Once they’ve passed basic it’ll get a bit stickier, but hell, Colonel, troops like to lie about their campaigns. We’ll just encourage ’em to fluff it up a bit. The stories’ll be so tall nobody’ll believe ’em.”

“Right. I don’t have to tell both of you we’re skating on pretty thin ice for a while.”

“We’ll manage, Colonel.” Calvin was positive. He’d been with Falkenberg a long time, and although any man can make mistakes, it was Calvin’s experience that Falkenberg would find a way out of any hole they dropped into.

And if they didn’t—well, over every CD orderly room door was a sign. It said, “You are Marines in order to die, and the Fleet will send you where you can die.” Calvin had walked under that sign to enlist, and thousands of times since.

“That’s it, then, Jeremy,” Falkenberg said.

“Yes, sir,” Savage said crisply. He stood and saluted. “Damned if it doesn’t feel good to be doing this again, sir.” Years fell away from his face.

“Good to have you back aboard,” Falkenberg replied. He stood to return the salute. “And thanks, Jerry. For everything. . . .”

* * *

The Marine battalion arrived the next day. They were marched to the camp by regular CD Marine officers, who turned them over to Falkenberg. The captain in charge of the detail wanted to stay around and watch, but Falkenberg found an errand for him and sent Major Savage along to keep him company. An hour later there was no one in the camp but Falkenberg’s people.

Two hours later the troops were at work constructing their own base camp.

Falkenberg watched from the porch of the ranch house. “Any problems, Sergeant Major?” he asked.

Calvin fingered the stubble on his square jaw. He shaved twice a day on garrison duty, and at the moment he was wondering if he needed his second. “Nothing a trooper’s blast won’t cure, Colonel. With your permission I’ll draw a few barrels of whiskey tonight and let ’em tie one on before the recruits come in.”