The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

He read the status line. Page 249, Jane Jacobs. The Economy of Cities, first publication New York, 1970. Volume: Grolier’s Collection of Classics in Social Science, Catalog 236G-65t—

She looked up, startled, flinched away from him, and quickly switched the screen to bring a local news program. “I’m sorry—”

“Whatever for? You’re further in that book than I am.” He chuckled. “Actually, I haven’t started, but it’s on the list my tutor gave me. Were you reading my copy?”

“On, no, the whole Grolier’s collection is in the Hilton’s library.” She stood, and the tunic draped itself in interesting ways. She had good legs, with well-articulated calves. Her finger and toe nails were carefully painted in a light pink that contrasted sharply with the startling green of her eyes. “Ready?” she asked.

For what? Of course I’m ready, but— “Uh—I have an appointment with the governor. I’d better get dressed.”

“Oh. Well—”

“Will you be here when I get back?”

“I come with the suite. I’ll be here if you want me, and if I’m not here call 787.”

“Do you have a reader in your room?”

“Well, yes—it’s not as big as yours.”

“Then stay here. And I’ll be looking forward to that back rub.”

II

“We have some time before our appointment with Governor Blaine,” Lysander said. “Let’s walk.”

Harv nodded agreement. “Be good to stretch our legs, and the rain’s stopped. Shouldn’t go too far, Prince. Better early than late.”

“Right.” Not this early, Lysander thought. If he’d stayed in the suite he’d have had to do something about Ursula, and he wasn’t ready to decide what that should be. “Were you alone in your room?”

“Sure, Prince.”

Another data point. Maybe only the Governor’s Suite came automatically—equipped. Guests in other rooms call the desk. I’ll have to ask Ursula how many girls work for the hotel. Wonder if the Hilton heirs on Earth know what kind of services the Lederle Hilton provides? Or maybe the stories about Earth’s decadence are true. . . .

He knew he wasn’t ready for this mission, didn’t know enough about Earth or Tanith or anywhere else, but that didn’t really matter. There wasn’t anyone else to do it. If I just had a better idea of what I’m supposed to do!

They walked past the Lederle Building. A riot of color hung from the balcony. A woman in bright pink leaned over the veranda railing. Others moved behind her, obviously enjoying the fresh air after the tropical rain. The building had clearly been inspired by the legends of Babylon’s Hanging Gardens. “Maybe not the only thing this place has in common with Babylon.”

“Oh. OK,” Harv said.

Irrationally he wished that Ursula were walking with him. She’d have understood. Harv was competent and reliable and one of the Brotherhood, but sometimes it was a little trying to spend so much time with a man who—didn’t care much for intellectual matters.

Beyond the square were several blocks of the two-story homes with verandas. Generally the ground floor was windowless, with few doors, giving the houses a fortress-like appearance. Most were surrounded by gardens of the ubiquitous Tanith flowering shrubs. One had only Earth hibiscus. They looked dull and prosaic in this setting. A kilometer further north the houses changed to single-story dwellings of dull-colored stucco. A few people sat on porches or strolled through the streets, but nowhere near as many as there had been nearer Government Square.

They came to a broad concrete highway. There were few vehicles, but it was wider than anything yet built on Sparta. It reminded Lysander of the veedisk pictures of freeways that ran the whole length of the California coast on Earth. A monorail supported on massive concrete columns ran down the highway’s center.

In contrast, a horse and wagon trotted down the empty street past them. The bearded driver was dressed in black and wore a black hat. He gave them a cheery wave as he rode past.

They went under the highway through a pedestrian tunnel that smelled sourly of urine. The tunnel was deserted, and so was the area beyond.

The stucco houses went one more block beyond the highway, then gave way to a tangle of wooden shacks. Nothing was neat or well kept here. Discarded furniture rotted at the street corner. Litter and garbage were scattered through gardens that looked more like untended jungle than anything planned or deliberate.

“It’s like Minetown, only it’s wet,” Harv said.

“Sort of,” Lysander agreed. Except that Minetown wasn’t walking distance from Government House Square, and the government of Sparta would never have permitted any place this unsanitary to exist anywhere on the planet. “We’d better—”

Three young men were coming toward them, and when Lysander turned to go back toward the pedestrian tunnel he saw two more had moved in behind them. All five walked arrogantly toward him.

“Trouble, Prince,” Harv said. He smiled.

Lysander examined them carefully for weapons. They weren’t wearing jackets, white or otherwise, and their jeans and shirts were formfitted over their muscled chests and hips leaving no room to conceal anything. They carried nothing except a length of chain and a couple of knives. Lysander’s Walther rested comfortable in its holster under his guayabera, but he didn’t reach for it. “Maybe they just want the time of day.”

“Sure, Prince.” The five came closer.

“Prince,” one of the men said. “What kind of prince?”

“Jimmy, maybe he is,” one of the others whined. “Maybe we—”

“Fuck off, Mario. Hey, Prince, you got any money? We’d sure like five credits.”

They were not much younger than Lysander and Harv. Drop them outside the capital city of Sparta and you might not notice them, Lysander thought. They dress a bit sloppily, but there’s little else different about them. “What will you do to earn the money?” Lysander asked.

Harv laughed.

One of the men giggled. Jimmy, their leader, said “Oh, well, like this is a bad place, you know? You’re lost, right? And we can show you how to get out of here, you know? Ten credits. That’s all we want. Ten.”

“Thank you, but I know the way out,” Lysander said.

“Have it your way—”

Harv had all the time in the world. He struck as the gang leader was still speaking. His upthrust palm took the leader under the nose and rocked him back on his heels as the stiffened fingers of the other hand stabbed at the boy’s abdomen. Harv’s foot darted out in a snap kick to the knee. Jimmy fell as if shot. Before he hit the ground, Harv was standing relaxed as if he had never moved.

“Jesus Christ!” One of the two who had come up behind reached toward Lysander. His hand drew back and dangled uselessly, and he stared in amazement at bright blood welling from elbow to wrist. Harv carefully shifted the knife to his left hand. He still hadn’t said a word, but his grin was broad.

“Who the fuck are you?” The one the leader had called Mario backed away. “Who?” He looked at his companions. “Fellows, maybe—”

“Maybe you made a mistake,” Lysander said. “Please leave us alone.”

The third one thought he had studied martial arts. He kicked at Harv, then pivoted to swing a three foot length of chain. Lysander swayed back to let the chain miss. Harv moved just behind the chain until he was close to the boy. His right hand moved upward as his left foot landed on the youth’s instep. The boy fell groaning.

“Please,” Lysander said.

“Yeah, sure, man. Sure,” Mario said. He helped the third boy to his feet.

Harv looked disappointed when they all turned and walked away, walking, carefully not running, but not looking back at their fallen leader.

* * *

Governor Carleton Blaine was just under forty standard years old. Lysander’s uncle had said Blaine was crazy: with his family connections he had enough political clout to get nearly any post he wanted, and he’d chosen Tanith. Every previous governor of Tanith had found himself on the prison planet because he had lost a power struggle.

He came out to meet them in the anteroom. The reception area was paneled in some exotic wood that might have been imported from Earth, although Lysander was sure it hadn’t been. Tanith didn’t merit that kind of expense. When Lysander unobtrusively touched one wall, the panels felt like wood, but the new plastics often did.

Blaine was noticeably taller than Lysander’s 180 centimeters, and thinner. His sandy brown hair looked to have been combed with his fingers. He wore the CoDominium seal on the left pocket of his light blue guayabera shirt. His handshake was firm. “Glad to see you, Prince Lysander. Taxpayer Middleton.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s Citizen,” Harv said proudly.

“Oh. Er, Your Highness, we were told this is an unofficial visit.”

“Yes. Quite.”

Blaine nodded. “I also have a message from the Chairman of Lederle A.G. requesting us to cooperate with you. Of course we will. What can we do for you?” Blaine ushered them toward his office door.