The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

One trumpet, no more. A clear call, plaintive but triumphant, the final salute to the CoDominium banner above the Palace. The notes hung in Hadley’s air like something tangible, and slowly, deliberately, the crimson and blue banner floated down from the flagpole as Hadley’s blazing gold and green arose.

Across the city uniformed men saluted these flags, one rising, the other setting. The blue uniforms of Hadley saluted with smiles, the red-uniformed Marines with indifference. The CoDominium banner rose and fell across two hundred light years and seventy worlds in this year of Grace; what difference would one minor planet make?

Hamner glanced at John Falkenberg. The colonel had no eyes for the rising banners of Hadley. His rigid salute was given to the CD flag, and as the last note of the final trumpet salute died away Hamner thought he saw Falkenberg wipe his eyes.

The gesture was so startling that George looked again, but there was nothing more to see, and he decided that he had been mistaken.

“That’s it, then,” Falkenberg snapped. His voice was strained. “I suppose we ought to join the party. Can’t keep His Nibs waiting.”

Hamner nodded. The Presidential box connected directly to the Palace, and the officials would arrive at the reception quickly while Falkenberg and Hamner had the entire width of the crowded Stadium to traverse. People were already streaming out to join the festive crowds on the grass in the center of the bowl.

“Let’s go this way,” George said. He led Falkenberg to the top of the Stadium and into a small alcove where he used a key to open an inconspicuous door. “Tunnel system takes us right into the Palace, across and under the Stadium,” he told Falkenberg. “Not exactly secret, but we don’t want the people to know about it because they’d demand we open it to the public. Built for maintenance crews, mostly.” He locked the door behind them and waved expressively at the wide interior corridor. “Place was pretty well designed, actually.”

The grudging tone of admiration wasn’t natural to him. If a thing was well done, it was well done . . . but lately he found himself talking that way about CoDominium projects. He resented the whole CD administration and the men who’d dumped the job of governing after creating problems no one could solve.

They wound down stairways and through more passages, then up to another set of locked doors. Through those was the Palace courtyard. The celebrations were already under way, and it would be a long night.

George wondered what would come now. In the morning the last CD boat would rise, and the CoDominium would be gone. Tomorrow, Hadley would be alone with her problems.

* * *

“Tensh-Hut!” Sergeant Major Calvin’s crisp command cut through the babble.

“Please be seated, gentlemen.” Falkenberg took his place at the head of the long table in the command room of what had been the central headquarters for the CoDominium Marines.

Except for the uniforms and banners there were few changes from what people already called “the old days.” The officers were seated in the usual places for a regimental staff meeting. Maps hung along one wall, and a computer output screen dominated another. Stewards in white coats brought coffee and discreetly retired behind the armed sentries outside.

Falkenberg looked at the familiar scene and knew the constabulary had occupied the Marine barracks for two days; the Marines had been there twenty years.

A civilian lounged in the seat reserved for the regimental intelligence officer. His tunic was a riot of colors; he was dressed in current Earth fashions, with a brilliant cravat and baggy sleeves. A long sash took the place of a belt and concealed his pocket calculator. Hadley’s upper classes were only just beginning to wear such finery.

“You all know why we’re here,” Falkenberg told the assembled officers. “Those of you who’ve served with me before know I don’t hold many staff councils. They are customary among mercenary units, however. Sergeant Major Calvin will represent the enlisted personnel of the regiment.”

There were faint titters. Calvin had been associated with John Falkenberg for twenty standard years. Presumably they had differences of opinion, but no one ever saw them. The idea of the RSM opposing his colonel in the name of the troops was amusing. On the other hand, no colonel could afford to ignore the views of his sergeants’ mess.

Falkenberg’s frozen features relaxed slightly as if he appreciated his own joke. His eyes went from face to face. Everyone in the room was a former Marine, and all but a very few had served with him before. The Progressive officers were on duty elsewhere—and it had taken careful planning by the adjutant to accomplish that without suspicion.

Falkenberg turned to the civilian. “Dr. Whitlock, you’ve been on Hadley for sixty-seven days. That’s not very long to make a planetary study, but it’s about all the time we have. Have you reached any conclusions?”

“Yeah.” Whitlock spoke with an exaggerated drawl that most agreed was affected. “Not much different from Fleet’s evaluation, Colonel. Can’t think why you went to the expense of bringin’ me out here. Your Intelligence people know their jobs about as well as I know mine.”

Whitlock sprawled back in his seat and looked very relaxed and casual in the midst of the others’ military formality. There was no contempt in his manner. The military had one set of rules and he had another, and he worked well with soldiers.

“Your conclusions are similar to Fleet’s, then,” Falkenberg said.

“With the limits of analysis, yes, sir. Doubt any competent man could reach a different conclusion. This planet’s headed for barbarism within a generation.”

There was no sound from the other officers but several were startled. Good training kept them from showing it.

Whitlock produced a cigar from a sleeve pocket and inspected it carefully. “You want the analysis?” he asked.

“A summary, please.” Falkenberg looked at each face again. Major Savage and Captain Fast weren’t surprised; they’d known before they came to Hadley. Some of the junior officers and company commanders had obviously guessed.

“Simple enough,” Whitlock said. “There’s no self-sustaining technology for a population half this size. Without imports the standard of livin’s bound to fall. Some places they could take that, but not here.

“Here, when they can’t get their pretty gadgets, ‘stead of workin’ the people here in Refuge will demand the Government do something about it. Guv’mint’s in no position to refuse, either. Not strong enough.

“So they’ll have to divert investment capital into consumer goods. There’ll be a decrease in technological efficiency, and then fewer goods, leadin’ to more demands, and another cycle just like before. Hard to predict just what comes after that, but it can’t be good.

“Afore long, then, they won’t have the technological resources to cope even if they could get better organized. It’s not a new pattern, Colonel. Fleet saw it comin’ a while back. I’m surprised you didn’t take their word for it.”

Falkenberg nodded. “I did, but with something this important I thought I better get another opinion. You’ve met the Freedom Party leaders, Dr. Whitlock. Is there any chance they could keep civilization if they governed?”

Whitlock laughed. It was a long drawn-out laugh, relaxed, totally out of place in a military council. “‘Bout as much chance as for a ‘gator to turn loose of a hog, Colonel. Even assumin’ they know what to do, how can they do it? Suppose they get a vision and try to change their policies? Somebody’ll start a new party along the lines of the Freedom Party’s present thinkin’.

“Colonel, you will never convince all them people there’s things the Guv’mint just cain’t do. They don’t want to believe it, and there’s always goin’ to be slick talkers willin’ to say it’s all a plot. Now, if the Progressive Party, which has the right ideas already, was to set up to rule strong, they might be able to keep something goin’ a while longer.”

“Do you think they can?” Major Savage asked.

“Nope. They might have fun tryin’,” Whitlock answered. “Problem is that independent countryside. There’s not enough support for what they’d have to do in city or country. Eventually that’s all got to change, but the revolution that gives this country a real powerful government’s going to be one bloody mess, I can tell you. A long drawn-out bloody mess at that.”

“Haven’t they any hope at all?” The questioner was a junior officer newly promoted to company commander.

Whitlock sighed. “Every place you look, you see problems. City’s vulnerable to any sabotage that stops the food plants, for instance. And the fusion generators ain’t exactly eternal, either. They’re runnin’ ’em hard without enough time off for maintenance. Hadley’s operating on its capital, not its income, and pretty soon there’s not goin’ to be any capital to operate off of.”

“And that’s your conclusion,” Falkenberg said. “It doesn’t sound precisely like the perfect place for us to retire to.”